therealtexasguy

Today was one of those days where my soul just forced me to stop and sit and listen. Funny how he does that to me sometimes.

So I slept in, missed school again (am going to just drop that fucking class), made a few important phone calls, went shopping (twice; once early, once late), went by the bank to deposit six thousand dollars of money that isn't mine (well, ten percent of it is), did some paperwork, played videogames for ever, got uber stoned on painkillers and sake - all in an attempt to avoid this little "discussion" my soul wanted to have with me....hmmm....how utterly strange that, without trying, I have just described my "being", my "conciousness" if you will, as being a different entity then my "soul". Well, that's a perfect example of a Freudianesque statement.

Either way, here's what my soul had to say;

- Forget the past. The vast majority of it wasn't my fault and I was just an innocent victim, a kid, stuck in the middle (how I loathe that word; "victim").

- Never forget the love I've had and held in my hand, even though I lost it both times. Jen's death wasn't my fault and the fact that we never got to see each other in the end wasn't my fault either; fate was against us. X, well, I let that go for what I thought was a good reason at the time. And, let's face it, she's happier with her husband then she'd ever be with me (it literally hurts me to say this, but I know it's true...deep in the pit of my stomach this thought causes me physical pain, like the burning from a couple shots of whiskey into an empty stomach).

- You need to start dating again. If you don't get a girlfriend soon, you're going to go crazy. Sex is insignificant, you just need to crawl out of your cave and be with people again, or you'll risk ending up in a bad way.

This I would like to address. In my defense, it's been a tough fucking year. The toughest of my life. Tougher then the year my parent's divorced and I ended up with a mother who took her aggressions and anger out on me (I grew up that year).

Fuck it, I'll just fucking say it.

So I went to Seattle for Christmas, like many of you may remember, and many of you may have noticed I came back a changed person.

See, my old man has five kids. Two boys and a girl from his first marriage, and a boy and a girl from his second. I am the son of the second marriage. My Dad, well, he was a son-of-a-bitch up until probably seven years ago just before he remarried. He was everything I will never be (and I swear to Christ if one day I find out I became that man, I will put a bullet in my head so god damn fast...). He never beat or cheated on his wives, but he was a fucker. He was tough, physically, on us boys, but never molested us or anything. He was handy with a belt. I don't fault him for it - I was a tough kid, and that belt taught me a lot about life. Especially that when you mouth off you sure as shit better be willing to take a fucking beating for it.

Anyways, the children of his first marriage he kind of abandoned. He was young and scared and didn't know what to do, so we went away after the marriage ended. His first wife remarried a child molestor. Yep. She didn't know it, at first, but this is what he was. He was more abusive physically and mentally then sexually, but it was there. My oldest brother took the brunt of it. Because of his mother's religion (they were Jehovah's Witness', as I was early in my life), she turned her cheek on it. Looked the other way.

Well, eventually he got kicked out of this house when he was brave enough to fight back and came and stayed with us. I have it on his admission that he molested my sister a couple times. I never asked if I was too, because I was too young to remember and, frankly, it wouldn't matter because I don't remember much of anything before I moved to Texas.

Still, I do remember that when I lived with my mother and my sister after the divorce, I would antagonize my mother into beating me when she came home angry. I didn't want her to hit my sister, so I made her get it out on me. I take no pride in this, I feel good about it in that I kept my sister from being beat on, but I'm harldy a hero or any fucking shit like that. Anyone else would have done the same. Not just with my mother, but with everyone, I was very protective of my sister. Overly so, maybe. I remember a kid punched her in the mouth once for god know's what (she probably deserved it), but I remember chasing this kid down after a mile or so of running and breaking a bottle of his face and then trying to stab him with the shads before my step brothers (they're no longer related now; that was third marriage relationship) wrestled me down and the kid ran off to the hospital. I also remember that my sister was a pretty girl and in school a lot of the young boys had eyes for her. Well, I did not like this at all, so when, in the mornings, they would hassle her, I, like clockwork, would come along and just pummeling the shit out of these kids. EVERY DAY. This boggles my mind that the same three guys came back every day when they knew I was going to beat the snot out of them (seriously, one of the four of us got at least a bloody nose, if not a busted lip and a black eye). Why did they always come back? I wasn't a bully, I was just looking after my sister. I wasn't overly big, I just knew how to fight.

Anyways, I digress. Case in point, I am, always have been, and always will be, incredibly protective of my sister. We haven't talked in a long time, but I'd do anything for her.

So, when I found out that, despite all the beatings I took, and the fights I got into, the pain I suffered, trying to look after her - I wasn't able to protect her when she needed me to...well, it killed something inside of me. Worse yet, it was my brother. He was just a kid then too, not even a teenager, and didn't really know it was wrong (this is how he grew up). But, still, it gnaws at my heart like a fucking termite the size of my fist. If it had been anyone else besides my own blood, I would kill the sonofabitch. Let's not be mistaken here, because I do not exagerrate or jest - I would murder anyone who molested or raped any member of my family. Without hesitation. Life in prison is nothing if it's for the right thing.

So I get back from Seattle and I have this to deal with. I shut off. Completely. I started taking those narcotics I was so fond of in high school, and I just fucking zonked out. I stopped working out, stopped running, stopped lifting weights, stopped reading books, barely went to school, stopped having sex, stopped doing anything but sitting at home doing drugs and going to school just enough to get a passing grade. Somehow the only two things in my life that held priority were school and those pills.

I sure a lot of you read that little bit about the pills being the only thing in my life that held priority, but it was really a good thing. A great thing. I would have killed myself had it not been for those. I was suicidal. I just couldn't cope with that. Life has thrown me every curve ball imagineable except for that one, and when it was pitched to me, I wasn't even holding a bat. My whole life, every woman I've known has been raped or molested as a child, and I always felt proud that I'd protected my little sister from that. And I hadn't. So many dark nights of my life I clinged to this. I'd also broken up with a girl I really liked right before I went up, so I was in bad spirits when I got there. Yeah, but, like I was saying, I'd get these feelings of just ending it - these profoundly powerful desires to die and I'd pop a handful of those pills, wash them down with a beer, and ten minutes later I'd be so high I couldn't think straight. And when they wore off I'd be so tired, so drained, all I could do was pass out wherever I happened to be; on the couch, on the floor (more often then not), on my bed, on my keyboard, wherever.

Anyways, so it took me a long time to square myself with all this. The drugs, while saving my life, only prolonged everything. I became dependent on them to keep me stable, until it was impossible to maintain and I was just wildly emotional. Then I stopped taking them. I've never been mentally addicted to anything but pot, but I was incredibly physically addicted to these fuckers. It took me over a week to detox, and it was a hellish week. Hallucinations, cold sweats, hot sweats, lethargy, and, worst of all, the inability to formulate a thought. During this time I couldn't have written a coherent sentence longer then five words.

So I finally square it all away, make my peace with my brother, and life fucks me over again. Lots of little things all at once. Hardly worth mentioning, but it was not good. I almost left town to just start over again, but decided not to at the last minute (I hate unpacking). Finally, I square that shit, and now my grandmother dies.

I have yet to weep over her death. This bothers me, but only to a small extent. I know in good time they will come, when I'm ready for them. Still, deep down, it bothers me that I sobbed for weeks when I learned of my sister's abuse (which she very likely wouldn't remember if it weren't for the fact that I KNOW my cunt of a mother is reminding her just to keep her angry at my father and my whole side of the family), yet when my grandmother dies I cannot cry. Perhaps it's because I fear that should I let it all out, at once, it will consume me. Whereas if I let it out slowly, it'll fuck with my program, but the show will still go on.

i dunno. i've been writing and rewriting and erasing and deleting and rewriting this shit for hours now. most likely the first thing i'll do in the morning is delete it all before anyone can read it. why post it then? why indeed...