Tag Archive: mental health



The boy sat at his desk, staring at it’s fake plastic wood, the hard curved panels of plywood behind him and under his butt.  Beneath him was a square cube; he sat on it, sitting on his books.  Before him were two walls, joined in a corner.  He smiled, playing with his hands and muttering to himself . . .

That was ‘me’ as a child in first grade.  I was the one who wouldn’t stop talking – not for anything, anyone, or despite the punishment they gave me.  Place me with other children and I would start talking with them, making friends.  Put me in the corner and I’d talk to myself.  Put me with grownups, and not yet unafraid, I would start talking to them – asking questions and getting into things.  I was a very inquisitive child driven by insatiable curiosity, a talented ‘artist’ for my age, with a wide ranging imagination, and . . . I had been highly abused according to what the professionals (and my wife) had told me.

The thing was: I was always talking to myself – inside, if not out.  But everyone does that: talk to yourself.  You even have ‘sides’ that argue.  So do I.  But as a child . . . a creative child blessed (and therefore cursed) with a wide ranging imagination.  This was not a “wild” imagination.  Imagination had to be based upon truth, or an extension of that.  There had to be what WE thought was a bit of scientific ‘truth’, even at play . . .

And so I suppose it started with those stuffed animals he ‘owned’ (knowing in his secret life that they were not his.  Everything belonged to the parents, even him.  How could HE own anything when he was not allowed to even own his mind?  Much less his body.  His parents and the Army owned those things.  He just ‘inhabited’ them.

The boy sits in his room.  There is a desk – a huge monstrosity his mother had special built for him, it holds everything – and a dresser, and a single bed.  That’s all – him and the stuffed animals he has gathered in a ring.  They are talking . . . constantly holding forth a conversation – him and his bear, him and his ‘friend’ . . . he’s been sent to his room again for ‘being bad’ – perhaps he’s gotten whipped, but he doesn’t remember that thing, not too well . . . he talks and whispers to his friends, his Leo the Lion hand puppet on one hand . . .  whispering in its ear, tears running down sometimes . . .

I don’t know what all he said.  I can’t recall a single word – I just can almost hear them – whispers in the back of my head. . .

“He won’t stop talking!” the teacher complained, frustrated.  My mom told me this – and I remember.  “I put him in the corner and it does no good!  Instead of talking to others, he starts talking to himself!  I don’t know what to do with him!”

She was a mean teacher.  She called me a Nazi and German and said I was no good.  Even at art though she gave me an award.  It wasn’t until I got the award that I found I had done bad.  But I wouldn’t cry.  Not for her.

Who was I talking to?

I know.

I was talking to myself.  All of the time.  My imaginary friends; the ones inside.  And my hands were for them talking to me.  I could make both my hands be my friends.  The dots on the board were my friends.  Even the flies became my friends when I was a teenager.  Sometimes they were the only thing to do . . .

Isolation.  Imagine a child and you keep ‘him’ in isolation.  Not constant isolation, mind you – but social isolation (sometimes) and isolated from family.  As far as he knows, there are only three members in his family – four if you count the dog.

(gee . . . this was right about the time the teenager made me have sex with ‘him’ . . .)

Not a good thing.  Especially to a highly creative, imaginative child who has been abused – badly abused – and is being abused still.  Hell, the situation is even worsening . . . but it does no good to tell . . .

“Doesn’t everybody go through something like this?”, I remember him thinking/saying to himself, looking at the neighbor kids.  Some of them ‘went through it’.  Some of them ‘went through it’ with HIM.  How could he not know?  And yet – how could he know anything different?  There was no one to teach him what goes on in back rooms . . . except for the occupants of that room themselves . . .

He goes on talking to his children.  The ones upon the floor.  The bear has become very alive to him.  They all have.  Along with some ‘others’ inside . . . inside his heart and his head.

He doesn’t even know who they are at this moment.  Sometimes . . . sometimes ‘he’ has difficulty recalling his own name . . .

The child who talked too much.  Talking to himself in the corner of the room.  Whispering while he watches his hands writhe in his lap sometimes, playing with themselves.  Listening to his own mind; his own echoes . . .  he personifies everything . . .

A lamp falls, its glass base breaking.  I had accidently pulled it down by the cord crawling around under the end table and it had gotten broken.  I wasn’t sad because I was about to be beaten.  I was sad because the lamp could no longer complete its function.  I had ended its ‘life’ . . .

I feel that way about a lot of things.  So does my daughter.  She is about to move and she worries her old apartment will suffer feelings of abandonment . . . even though her boyfriend says it’s not so . . .

Like daughter like son like father.

They say madness runs genetic.  It runs on one side of my family.

And I guess it runs in mine.

 

 

 

Advertisements

(This is from our Tokoni Posting, 7/31/2009 . . .)

Buried In The Hood

There was an incident in the ‘hood – I don’t remember exactly when, though I could easily point out its physical location. I think it was in the fall. It was months after I’d attempted to pay the teenager back for what he’d done to me; embarrassing and using me in that way, months after we’d returned from North Carolina.

It started simply enough – as a game, a dangerous activity. Across the road in the neighbor’s backyard the teenager had dug a small trench. I have dim memories of the friends he had hanging around. It seems to me they were the ‘older kids’, the teenagers he was hanging around.

He had dug a hole about five feet deep, maybe a little more. Six feet long or so, it was just wide enough for us little kids to slip in. Encouraging three or four of them to get into it, he began filling it up with the loose dirt.

When the dirt had risen up to their chins, he gave each one a short piece of garden hose. “Here,” he’d say. “Put this end in your mouth. Breath through it while I finish burying you.”

And so the kids did – the picture is in my mind – while dirt showered little heads. All in a row, green lengths of garden hose protruding from there mouths. Lips clenched tight around the rubber to keep the dirt from getting in. And then he continued burying them, showering the dirt over their heads until only their head stuck above the dirt, like a row of tow headed cabbages in a garden Occasionally he would stop to adjust a hose, making sure it stayed above ground level. Eventually all of the kids were buried; there was nothing to see except this row of short hoses, sticking up out of the rumpled ground.

“I could kill them, you know,” he casually commented, walking around his creation. It looked to me like some sort of bizarre flower garden, those hoses sticking up out of the sand. “All I have to do is put my thumb over the hose – and they’re dead.” He grabbed one of the hoses with his hand, illustrating how easy this would be, his thumb hovering over the end. I remember walking as he stood to the side, observing his bizarre creation. You could hear the air whistling out of the hoses; putting my palm near one I could feel warm moisture being exhaled out. It seemed strange and odd and wonderful to me, knowing that just below my feet were these little kids, standing as if at attention, in the coarse darkness of the sand, the coolness of the earth.

After about five or ten minutes he got his shovel and began digging them back up. It was a slow process – it probably took a half hour, maybe even more. They climbed out, some staggering. They act pleased, but in some of their faces is a look of terror. Then he motions to me, my best friend, and another kid. All of us have ‘been’ with him; we have all been ‘victims’ of his sexual appetite at one time or another – or in some cases, many times.

“Get in,” he says. I look at the trench with doubt. The walls are dark and crumbly, the bottom nearly black. “Go ahead. You chicken?”

My best friend (his little brother) nudges my elbow. “Come on!” he says, climbing in and standing in the trench. The slit in the earth is so narrow it almost embraces his front and back. “I dare ya!”

Well, I pondered. If my best friend will get in – be there right beside me – and after all, the teenager hadn’t hurt the first group of kids – how neat it would be to be buried there, how cool to breath through a hose. Enticed by the idea of a new adventure, I eased myself down into the hole.

It was tight. The scent of fresh earth filling my nose. The crumbling wall – right there, before my very eyes. The cool uneven bottom, pressing against the pads of my bare feet. I could feel my heart racing. This was a new thing, a new experience. The sense of danger – that was part of the draw. But at the same time I had a child’s undefined sense of worry, knowing I would be subject to the whims of the teenager; seeing that thumb in my mind, poised over the end of the hose, I felt a sense of apprehension.

But it was too late – the teenager was already shoveling dirt in. Before I knew it I was up to my knees; up to my chest. The dirt pressed in, immobilizing me in its soft, yet firm grip. Showers of dirt rained over us, tossing my head and blinking the crumbs away, I remember looking up at the narrow ribbon of sky beyond the towering pines. It was a bright blue sky; paler than the ocean, but not much different. White clouds hung there, suspended, until finally I had to close my eyes. The dirt was getting too deep.

“Here, take this.” The hard end of a hose butted against my lips. Opening my mouth and taking it in; clenching my lips firmly sealed around it. It was wet from the previous kid, and had a foul, plastic-rubber taste. And drawing air through that tube was harder than I thought. You really had to suck hard, pushing against the dirt pressing against your chest, pulling the air in through that narrow constriction. I began wondering if I had made a mistake.

Finally. The dirt is over my head, bowing my head under its weight. I am desperate about the hose; afraid to lose it, knowing that if I do, I shall die. I can’t feel my friend next to me; all I can feel is the weight of the dirt closing in. And it is silent – the quietest quiet I’ve ever known. I can’t open my eyes – don’t dare to, for they will get full of sand – and dark. Even beyond my eyelids I know it’s dark – a strange darkness, because even if I did open my eyes, there would be no light – no chance of light, finding its way under the dirt. And it feels very alone, separated – from the my friends, from the sky, from the world.  In some ways it is a good feeling; a feeling of total isolation from the world. The dirt is soft – but firm. It is cool, much cooler than “up there”. The air, foul tasting , draws through the hose reluctantly, as though it resists traveling beneath the earth.

I don’t know what happened, there beneath the ground, nor do I know what happened above. I “went away” after awhile, for lack of better words. There is a black spot in my memory there, as dark as the hole I was buried in. It “feels” like a hole in my memory. But around the hole there are impressions; ghostly sensations, like the marks left by a shovel.

I seem – and I’m not sure – to remember . . . what? I struggle here, searching my mind, attempting to penetrate that darkness. All I can see (feel?) is a growing sensation of struggling to breath. The teenager’s thumb?  The dirt compressing my lungs?  Who knows? Deep in my mind is the sensation that my chest hurt badly, struggling to pull air in past a plug that would not give; able to blow air out, but take none in.  You know the feeling.  Just duct tape your nose and mouth shut while holding a half breath of air – desperately (burningly!) trying to draw in another lungful of moist precious air – belly buckling; diaphragm hurting – and you can’t.

I don’t know what happened. All I can sense is a time of terror; of hard excruciating pain – then blackness. What does that mean?

The next thing I remember is the dirt is down to my chest; the hose has been take away. There is a weakness, a sense of confusion – then being were hauled from the dirt by my hands like a bag full of clay and set to the side of the hole. Standing up, I stumbled around; clearing the dirt from my eyes, I begin to go around the house, confused I begin heading home. I can hear the teenager laughing; his friends are snickering – my best friend, too, is confused, but I think he is confused at my confusion or perhaps … I don’t know.  He joins me was we head for my yard; the back yard, a place of safety. The sky is still blue, as blue as can be, and the white clouds are in motion again.

And the air – the fresh and open air! – tastes so much better than before, sweeter than it has ever been.

That much I remember.

Looking back upon that day – for it started out fun and ended in confusion – it’s hard to know what exactly what happened. That “part”, that “child” – keeps the worst of “his” memories from me. The shrinks say it was – or is – a form of self-protection – protecting me from knowing what happened. (I smile softly and laugh: imagine – a child protecting me, a “grown man”. Though I know that >I< am only a part of me. There is no “whole”. There is just a collage of me; a blending of others, their thought, opinions, and memories to lead me on. But even still I – and some of “them” – wonder what happened that day.

Did the teenager, pissed off at my petty revenge, decide to put his thumb over the hose? Was I “knocked out” – or did I just retreat in my mind? Why no memory of him starting to dig me out? Why the confusion, the weakness upon being lifted from the hole?

These are things I know I can never know, or perhaps might, but the one who knows isn’t talking and won’t show me all the ‘pictures’ of what happened. I mentally embrace him; and yet he turns away, just as a sad and shame filled child might do within your arms. You monominds – do you have to put up with this? This ‘sensation’ of having another, one you can mentally embrace? A part of you that is separate – but resides within you? A small child, usually sad, sometimes ashamed, but in some ways wondrous and brave?

I don’t know. As I grow older, and deal more with my ‘condition’, the more I learn – and the more I realize I don’t know about some of these “parts” of me, these things that the shrinks call “alters”. It’s a strange world that I live in – both inside and out, filled with glimmers of the past; brandings, open eyed wonders, and mysteries to me.


It’s hard to describe the roundhouse effects of Child Rejected One, Child Rejected Two, and Child Betrayed.  A ‘one-two-three’ punch to the child he’d loved and the child who had loved him (meaning our pedophile friend and our little one, Mikie).

Some of it I suppose was due to age.  Little Mikie had taken on some years; quite in the same way a hungry person will put on weight.  Not physically: Mikie was a trim and fit kid; able to run fast, play hard, tanned and muscular beneath a Southern humid sun.  But he’d already changed . . . big for his age; his shoulders broadened; by the time he was ten or so the other kids wouldn’t take him on – even the teenagers pretty much left him alone.

But in that ‘getting bigger’ perhaps was another clue: he’d ‘outgrown’ that teenager friend of his – or perhaps the teenager had outgrown him.  Who knows?  We haven’t got a clue.

But on the other hand . . . the teenager was covertly scheming to have us coerce and coax that little kid over … the one from another next door.  That sand blond kid; thin and with freckles – a giggly tough but kind hearted kind of kid – was only five years old.  About the same age I was when the teenager started doing me.  (Only I was about a little bit older; maybe six or seven years old.  But so innocent in all so many other ways … but not unfamiliar with terror and pain.)

So maybe it was the innocence that ‘caught him’.

All I know is what he did to me.

That first betrayal: that shoving aside … all had taken place (I think) in the period of about one year (amazing, come to think of it now: how those three events can stand out so strongly like that; they were affecting me and mine so much both then as well as now).

But examining it from the child’s side:

Mikie’s father was gone.  The closest thing he had to a father . . . who knows?  There were several men: the one next door (a massive man, good humored besides) and his side-kick (a gruff old man chewing a cigar and reclining on his sofa out in the heat of the yard).  The one across the street?  (His wife was a ‘momma’ of sorts to all of us) . . .

It takes a village to raise a kid, and we certainly did: that neighborhood was like a village all unto itself – safe from the law and violence (for the most part; what happened in stayed in; what happened out – stayed out, but came in sometimes nevertheless…)  Everyone’s ‘momma’ was the momma (with the notable exception of a few) – and everyone’s daddy to be obeyed (even the drunk ones; or the ones that made no sense).

It was the rule of the law; the lay of the land . . .

and the teenager was included within.

Only he was some kind of ‘demi-god’ – middle management, if you prefer.  Falling under control of the grownups; only slightly less in the eyes of some kids – he was the ‘demi-god’ – one of several, to be sure – but he was MY demi-god and I loved him – strong and clear and clear.

And then he threw me away; threw me aside; favoring someone ‘better’ – or at least unknown – younger looking; younger acting – more naive in his innocence; more round eyed; doe eyed . . . than me.  Perhaps that was it.  I don’t know.  All I know is he rejected me … then abused me some more.  (The twisting emotion; a sickening pain .. the one of some love betrayed.  Bitterness; anger in this thing; the betraying of emotions.)

And then love died (I’m thinking to myself; wondering what all had gone on).

We can feel that in ourselves; that love softly dying…

only it wasn’t softly at all; it was off of that first moment; when the teenager betrayed him; announcing to the crowd:

“Mikie really loves sucking some dick.”  and then the neighbors laughed.

Cruelly, mockingly; just as the teenager did that night in the tent (and some … I don’t know what, but we wanted to say “some more”.  Perhaps he mocked us again later on; I don’t know – but I feel a real deep hurt; a screaming that it did and I see my friend and he – Mikie my own kid….I think we both got insulted some of the time which is why we were so tightly bound together – B., my best friend back then.  With the handsome eyes (wide spread); curling sand brown locks on his head … he was a cute kid looking back in time; here and he and I.)

(sighing again … this pain is so hard; Mikie loved B., the teenager’s younger brother – Mikie’s own age – as such a friend…)

Both of there at the beginning; but not so much the teenager at the end.

This is going to be a long post I see.  We’re already over 800 words (the ‘proper amount’ for a ‘commercial blog’ – but this is not some commercial we’re producing.  It is I and my friends … and there’s a lot going on … a lifetime we’re trying to recover…so be patient with me dear Reader and friend … while we ramble on.)

A hatred of love … I think that’s where it began.  The seed was planted in little Mikie’s heart.  It would take more, of course – uprooted, rejected again.  Losses overseas.  But eventually it became such a thing – a source of all his pain.  Love, then lost; love and lost again.  Giving it another try – and violently yanked from its source.  Again and again this sort of thing happened – loving and losing again.

By the time we were 13, I (Matthew) was done with it.  And so (I reckon) was Mikie.   Or at least he ‘retreated’ – went inside – leaving me alone to run the farm.  Hoeing those long rows of pain; trying to undo what had been done (that’s M3 talking right there) – but for ME??  Matthew??

I couldn’t do it again.  Not for him; and not for Mikie.

Not even for myself.

And that’s when the wall began.  The inner ‘walls’ sealing ‘him’ (Mikie) inside – the ‘outer walls’ against the world.

We had been betrayed by love – for we HAD loved; DID love – and got a kick in the face (a dick in the face); and something rammed up our ass.  It resembled a bootprint for sure – but it hurt much more; going deep within . . .

just like that teenager friend.

I wish I could go ‘aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!!’ with a cry of anguish; but I can’t; I hold it in.  It wouldn’t do no good.  I know; we’ve tried it before..

When the pain gets so bad the cutting begins … we’re drinkin’ a beer, numbing my friend; and my being Mikie (so we can’t hear his whimpering … tho’ in my mind I AM trying to hold him close … but it’s like hugging a cactus; each spike brings us pain – those spikes of loves lost, betrayed – over and over again.

I wish I could get over this thing (we wish we all could heal.)  On this one thing if no other . . .
one day maybe we will….

(sighing)

We cannot even begin to scrape the surface of the damage that he’s had; Mikie and our friend (Matthew is in mind).

Those two; most precious to our hearts.
perhaps that’s where the pain began…
deep in our hearts with parents who … while taking care of us … beat us and hurt us all.

Screwing us up forever in relationships ….
driving us to these things
looking for love in the wrong places
darkening our angel’s wings…


*Warning: Potential ‘triggers’ for Fellow Survivors & Friends* 😦

I can’t blame a single adult in our childhood community for any of the sexual abuse that went on.  It was all (to the best of our knowledge) committed by the children . . . and the children’s ‘father’, if you want to label the one who ‘started’ the abuse that went on.

It was a Children’s Conspiracy; and One of Silence as well.

None of us children told.  Not one of us; not to the best of my knowledge.  Sure – the signs must have been there (remembering limping in; piss running down my leg from where the teenager had “peed in there”.  Why didn’t mamma suspect something was going on?)

No; we all knew it was ‘something bad’ and something ‘dark’ to be hidden and done in secret corners; this ‘secret’ thing we had.  Fucking each other in the ass; sucking one another dink-um.

And the teenager was at the beginning of the herd.

So was he innocent or guilty (as I am thinking some of the times)?

This guy had a hard life ahead; hell, he had a hard one at the time.  Thirteen years old and here he is working with his father – a mason – busting his ass all of the time.  Doing a “man’s” job and a man’s day’s labor for his dad – helping to support his own family … fucking his brother in the ass … doing his own little sister (she was several years younger than I) . . .

and so was it HIS fault in doing this sort of thing?

We aren’t really knowing; not really – and yet knowing THIS sort of sick and twisted thing: he was a part and product of his own environment;  just as WE are.  And WE could have been HIM – quite easily – for he was leading ALL of us children down that merry path – having sex with him and having it with some others . . .

I remember the times …

warm summer’s day … up in the treehouse … forty feet up in the air … just me and ‘him’ (the teenager’s little brother – and my best friend) … looking at porno magazines (they were just simple black and white sort of things; catalogues I’m thinking; but enough – moving on) … and then I ask him (bored with my own pictures) to pull his pants on down …

Him and me staring at the house.  (this is why we didn’t get caught for so long; meaning NEVER).  He’s in the barn; so are we and we’re staring over the door at the house (his own one) further on …. and I’m fucking him in the ass …

so anyone who is looking will just see two little boys (dirty brown faces) peering at them over the shed’s half-door….

Staring at the house again (only this is a different one).  He (Someone else; another friend) …. is behind me on his knees … doing ‘things’ … I’m leaning on the rough concrete; elbows down; face staring; watching the windows of the house (his momma’s in there) … while he ‘has his fun’ …. waiting for my turn to come.

The grownups never KNEW ANYTHING . . .

The closest I ever got caught was in a doghouse during a great storm…my dad came out and caught us two (me and another friend) … engaged in some intimate action.  But we had saw him coming and ducked and pulled and getting our clothes on as those feet came on closer …. hearts panicking and pulsing and mouth numb from sucking … quitting and getting our clothes on ..

“What are you doing in there?!”  is all he said.
“Nothing,” was the cure.
He never asked again.

Why mom never caught on to those drawings we did … the ones of little kids fucking one another in the ass …. it was right THERE for her to see!  And yet what did she do with it?  She folded it up and put it in with our toys ….

Don’t you think a parent should think something is ‘wrong with it’ when her 8 year old kid tells the neighbor kid’s oldest daughter that he knows what her ‘thing’ looks like – and then ‘shows her’ with his hands?

Instead we got the ‘sex education talk’.  At 8 years old.  We were very much interested in all the mechanics of this thing.  Brother was not so much interested as he was into being disgusted.

He didn’t make very much as a sexually molested kid.  He wasn’t ‘into it’ like I was – really into this thing.

How GOOD it felt … not the “lovin’ ” so much as the other … feeling warm hands on my back; stroking my head; soft murmurs and things; ENCOURAGEMENT … not warning words; not them hateful glances my momma was giving me and things ….

It’s no wonder we kids kept things so silent.

It was the only way we hid.

Me and Little Mikie

Boots


Boots
(Tokoni 05/28/2009)

It’s funny sometimes how a single word or phrase can conjure up an image from the past. Sometimes, of course, it can be a smell or something you see. But with some things – well some things are strange, just like memories. And talking with my brother about our shared past is one of them.

My brother was talking one day – we were just talking in general about the old man’s behaviors when we were kids – comparing notes, I guess – and he really hates the old man a lot more than I do. Being as he was the older brother (still is by my count), he should remember more of what went on than I do – but (amazingly to me!) – he doesn’t. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember some, and he often remembers things I have forgotten (or just didn’t want to remember.) The mind is funny that way – it likes to play the old “cup and ball” game with memories sometimes – quick! What cup is THAT memory under? And sometimes you never know. Then along comes brother, taps a cup with his finger – and wallah! There it is!

My brother did this, oh, about a year ago. It’s not the first time he’s done it. (It’s like a magic trick to me, it really is! Poor, strange, mucked up magician.) He tossed out a cup just a couple weeks ago – and wallah! There it is: the old man holding me up by one ankle and whaling the bejeezus-come-and-save me coin. Another tap and – yes! There it is: you were RIGHT big brother, he DID take me into my room by myself and whip me until you heard me scream, scream, scream. Gee, whut fun this game is. (NOT!) But it’s good to know – and I’ve finally figured out why:

It explains why I don’t love the old fart. Why I secretly detest him. Why he sets me on edge. Why . . . I guess why I hate him in so many ways, and at least part of the reason I don’t trust him with kids. Because I know: he’s a secret ‘closet sadist’. And not just with animals, but with kids. Funny thing is: he’s such a wimp with pain. You’d think with him being so sensitive to any poke or prod, he’d of had more compassion for his kids. But . . . he don’t. Or doesn’t. Or didn’t. I don’t know: you pick the word.

But getting back to the word: Boots. My brother and I are talking about some of the stuff that went on – I’m trying to edge him towards what went on ‘over there’ – meaning between the teenager and us – but being careful. I mean – it’s easy talking about the physical and mental abuse, but the ‘other’ stuff – well, that’s a whole different ballgame. And with my brother you have to be careful. He hasn’t ‘healed’ I guess as much as I, or if so, he’s healed mad.

My brother won’t admit – or hasn’t admitted – what went on with the kid next door, the teenager. And I – well, I just don’t have the guts to directly approach him about it. Oh, I’ve beaten around the bush a bit, but I’m pretty careful about that sort of thing – if you beat around the bush too much, you’ve defined what’s hiding in it. And my brother is a staunch homo-hater. Not a homophobe, because homophobia means a ‘fear of homosexuals”. He just hates ’em. Violently so. And . . . well, I suspect he would go off in a violent rage if I said “hey, Bro, don’t you remember THIS and THIS and THIS?” Either that, or he would deny it. Or he’s thoroughly blocked it. I don’t know.

Odd that we can discuss the physical abuse so much easier. Why is that? Personally I think it’s because of society’s views towards sexuality as a whole: the Americans are such prudes! Which may be part of the reason we have so much of it on TV; why they snicker at nude art, and why we are so continuously fascinated with it. It is the ‘forbidden fruit’ syndrome, I reckon. We really like sex – everyone I know does – but we hate to admit it. Blame it on our Puritan ancestors, I guess. At any rate, I think its messed up the way we tend to hide it – and then put it in plain site; gossip about OTHER’s sexual activities – but refuse to divulge our own in shame and embarrassment. I guess that’s part of being human – being weird. (Of course I have to bear in the back of my mind I wasn’t ‘raised right’ anyway. That might have something to do with it. But what IS right? – aside from what society and your own heart (influenced by society) says it is?)

But anyway – focusing back on the title of this story – to help focus my mind, I guess, because I tend to wander (shy?) away from some memories. We are talking and Bro says:

“I hated the way he would come home and start kicking us with his boots.”

Bingo. Cup is lifted. There it is: the memory coming home to roost. An image flies through my mind: us two little kids, cowering underneath the dining room table – and these big ol’ combat boots lashing out at our faces, arms, hands – anything they could connect with. Chairs scuffling away from the table, removing our last bit of protection. The old man circling around, trying to get in another kick. Bammo whammo – secrets untold, revealed with one word.

Boots.

A word that brings back some memories (like magic!, a part of my mind says, using one of those TV announcer’s voices).

Boots.

And ow. They hurt.

(And remembering still – here on May 27, 2011 . . . this shit went on until we were in our middle teens – cowering under the dining room table while he kicked and thrashed at us – circling the table like a vulture – just big enough that you could hide on one side while he kicked on the other – but woo unto the child who was too slow moving under those table legs and the chairs!  Ow, they hurt almost as bad as those boots sure did.  Getting knocks on the head from bumping the table . . . and then HIM calming down and going away somewhere – usually to his bedroom to take them boots off (his uniform, too).  Laying down on the bed for a mid-afternoon nap – probably dreaming he was in ‘Nam.  Us straightening out things around the table so mom wouldn’t get mad when she got home (she was as bad as he was in her own way – and we’d have to clean THAT mess on up, too, don’t cha’ know!)

anyhoo . . . made things sort of fun and interesting, in a dry detached sort of way.  As long as you don’t look at it too closely  . . . and see those two 8 year olds and 9 year olds (and probably even younger; we don’t remember it ALL – but brother has slowly (albeit unknowingly and oft-times accidentally) filling us in.)

Until later.

Your friend and yours.
Cruzzer & Co (meaning Elvis and Friends, LOL’ing, meaning …

see ya!


The Tools They Were Given
(Tokoni 05/13/2009)

“They had to work with the tools they were given,” the shrinks said, but they never really explained it to me. I wonder if they really understood it themselves. It was a phrase handed out in college, like their diplomas – something to hang on the wall for us to see. A handy cliché, something to say when they couldn’t think of anything else. They have a lot of those phrases, dispensing them like candy pills – and in many cases, just as effective – which means it sounds sweet, but doesn’t do any good. It still doesn’t cure the sickness in your heart and in your soul. It isn’t the superglue that makes the mind whole. Trust me – I know.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking here lately. Part of that goes back to the story I wrote, “The Drum Beats Slowly”. The drum is thrumming, the mind is rolling, peeling back away the years – looking for experiences and motives, times and conditions. Onion peel – hell yes. I’m peeling back those layers, one by one. I wonder if onions cry when they are being peeled? I know it must hurt them; it hurts me. Just look how hard it is to peel an onion as you dig deeper through the layers. They don’t “peel”, you have to tear the skin off, ripping it with your fingernails and fighting your own tears are you dig deeper towards the core. And I – for now – am that core. And yes, as an onion, I can tell you: it hurts sometimes. Hurts really bad.

But I’m not going to go there right now – my skin is still fresh and bruised. Instead, I’m going to consider something else.

The tools they were given.

What do I know about my parents? What do I know about their family skills?

I’ll take the easy one first.

My dad. His mother was killed when he was young by a drunken driver. That drunken driver was his father, piloting the vehicle they were in. I didn’t discover this story until I was in my early forties – dad won’t talk about it, won’t mention it, and gets madder than hell if we do and simply storms off to go sulk in his room. What I do know about it I’ve gleaned from my mom, who had long been into genealogical research. She has talked to members of his own family, discovered the ‘family secret’ that he kept hidden so well – so well in part because he changed his name as soon as he was able. That’s how much he hated his drunken dad for taking his mother from him. (soft smile. Nothing stays hidden from mom, not for very long – nothing except my own secrets, and the secrets of my own madness – though she has long suspected something is ‘wrong’ with me. But then again, she has often said I am crazy – just like her, only in a similar, if somewhat different way. At least I sought help for my own particular type of insanity – after experiencing her’s for so long.)

I’m not certain, but I think my dad was in the car when his momma died. Again, not sure, but family rumor has it that his dad pulled out into an intersection against the light, getting rammed in the process. Of course into the passenger side, where his own bride sat. My dad was eight years old.

I know this (and because I’m from a military family, over a thousand miles from my extended family – always have been – information is sketchy at best). His aunt(s?) and uncle on his mother’s side took in all the children. I didn’t really realize he had two sisters until my forties, again. I thought they just lived with someone else; were a different set of children. I never knew they belonged with him.

His mother – or shall I say aunt? – was a doting old bitch. I know this from having met her several times. She even insisted my mother press and iron his underwear when my mother married him. (It was a frowned upon marriage by his extended family.) I don’t know where he got his mean streak from – he’s quite a sadist at times, has always been that way. I know the man who raised him – a great hunter with a natural eye for shooting – was gruff, but friendly to me and my brother. Me and my daughter have inherited that eye – we seem to be able to pick up a rifle or a shotgun and always put that round just where we want it. Amazing thing to me, to see my five year old daughter shooting my .357 with an unflinching eye, putting those rounds right where she wanted. Same with the .22. Dead shot every time. I guess it’s something we inherited. (some stories in that, needless to say!)

He grew up out west, in Wyoming, the lonely state. His ‘father’ (or uncle, if you’d rather), was a business owner and a businessman, who, I gather, also had a few Mafia connections. He owned a bottling plant – I won’t say which one (trademark issues), but my father worked for him for some time before joining the Army. It wasn’t long after that that he first met my mother.

I also know that my father changed his name as soon as he was legally able. That much he has managed to admit. He wouldn’t tell us what his ‘real’ last name was – that was something for my mother to find out. I rather wish he hadn’t changed it. I like his former last name much better; my daughter, too. His ‘new’ last name is just too hard to pronounce, and even then, he didn’t get it quite right. He changed it from his uncle’s last name to one of his own making – shortening it somewhat, and throwing off the “ie”. As a result I’ve always had to give my last name by spelling it. And of course, it’s often mispronounced. I feel like I have two last names – three, now, if you include the one my dad gave up when he was eighteen – because when asked, I say my last, then spell it right after. I’ve learned most folks won’t get it right the first time around. But I’m okay with that. I just wish my wife would let me use the name “Smith” or “Johnson” or “Jackass” (my favorite) when we go to a restaurant and have to leave our name to stand in line to wait. It would make life so much easier – for both the poor restaurant girls and me.

I also know that my dad suffered PTSD from his experiences in Korea – ones that left him so violent and enraged the Army (and this is the Army, mind you!) – determined that the best thing to do was put him in a hospital for a year – and then isolated him (along with others of his kind) on a small military outpost on a smaller Japanese island for another year – leaving them without treatment (the Army itself didn’t understand PTSD) to ‘heal’ on their own. It didn’t work.

My mother’s life I know much better. She was a lonely girl, despite being born into a large family. And they had it hard (unlike my dad, whose family had a bit of money – the bottling plant and Mafia thing, you know.) Her first mom and dad split up when she was young – but not so young that she couldn’t take care of the kids – her siblings. And when her mother married the second man – things went south. Quite literally.

They moved away from her family home in Iowa, where she had all her relatives and friends. Her new dad was a WWII vet, given to bouts of alcoholism and extreme violence. He had PTSD in every way imaginable. Apparently he was a front line infantryman during the Great War – or the second of the Great Wars – and saw a lot of truly, seriously bad s**t. We’re talking the ‘guy next to you head blown off’ face gone limbs mangled blown up bits of body type of stuff. The really bad stuff that if you think of being there, sends shudders down your soul. And I guess it kinda broke him – and not in a gentle way. From what I remember of him, he was a violent man with a bad temper, though he always treated us grandchildren okay. Not so much his own wife and kids. Apparently there were beatings and starvings. Things we’d call torture today. And they were poor poor. Hard core poverty. And my poor mom – she had to raise the children, though she was a child herself. Her mother was too involved in trying to keep her marriage together (which sounds familiar, given my mom and her marriage to my dad! ← new realization!). Her sister still leans on her like my mother is her mom – which is what my mom had to be to her then. I remember my grandmother on that side. She was . . . weak. Beautiful and frail. An artist and a writer (which is perhaps where I got those skills, eh?) Her letters to us always contained the most beautiful pictures and drawings in the margins and envelopes. But she was weak. Too weak to leave him, despite what he was doing to their family.

Screwed up relationships. That is what my mother and father were given. Those were the tools they had to use. For my mother: a hatred of a violent, PTSD, half-drunken father who couldn’t give a good G-D about their feelings or needs. One who, apparently, never told them that he loved them – because he couldn’t. He was a hard man. I know. I met him.

I was walking in the woods with my mom a few weeks ago. She has always bitterly complained how much she hates her (now dead) stepdad; how badly he would beat her, how she was put in charge of everything regarding her siblings, ‘the kids’. “The only thing he didn’t do was sexually molest me,” she said, her voice so bitter that I could almost hear the leaves dropping. “That came . . .” and she trailed off. I didn’t press the issue – god knows! – I know how hard it is to address that sort of stuff within one’s own self, much less admit it to someone else – much less admit it to her own (now adult) son.

But it left me wondering, and with little doubt.

It must of happened to her, too.

I’ll add this, before I close on this one.

My mom was desperate to escape from her ‘family’, if you want to call it that. Horribly, desperately wanting to escape an emotionally, mentally, and physically abusive stepdad, and the mother who was too weak to either control him, or leave him, and the children who depended upon her for their care. And she met my father at a USO dance one night. A few days later he proposed to her. Sher refused. He asked again. Again she said no. The third time was the charm. A week or two they were married. Within a year, my brother was born; a year and a half later, overseas, I was too.

She was trapped.

Just like her mother was.

So . . . these were the tools they were given. And now, in retrospect, I’ve discovered the secret of the phrase that the shrinks were given – and they gave to me. Even if they didn’t explain it at the time.

My parents couldn’t do any better because, I guess, they didn’t know any better. Or did they?

I found out. Why couldn’t they? Or perhaps – they viewed the treatment they gave me and my brother as so much ‘better’ than that they were given . . . that they thought what they gave us was good. What a normal family should be.

I’m going to have to do some more thinking about this one. It’s got me sorta confused – but I can see a point. A dim point of light there, at the long end of a tunnel. They were treated bad; I was treated better? Is that it? Even if better was “bad”? Does that excuse what they did? I don’t know.

And yeah – feel free to enlighten me on this one. Like I said: it’s sorta confusing. Kinda like my life sometimes.

I gotta quit for awhile. This onion is feeling . . . bruised and tender skinned. Let me dry awhile. Let that shell harden a bit Then we’ll dig deeper again.

(Note: Now it is 2011 – and I do feel much better!  Specifically, I started “feeling much better” on April Fool’s day for one of two reasons; then two of two reasons (one leading me – and us – to another, better reason) – and now many more (including love, Faith, and Forgiveness (some)).  You’d better read the rest of my blog (especially around that period) to even get a clue.  Until then – have faith, have hope, and carry on as best YOU can …. with the Tools YOU’VE been given.  Good luck, good faith, and have a lotta hope . . . and may the Peace of Love fill your Souls as well.

Sincerely,
Jeff and Friends
May 2011

Vicks


Vicks
(Tokoni 06/05/2009)


When I was a kid and would get a cold my mom would apply Vick’s Vapo-Rub on my chest, plus a little dab under my nose to help ease the congestion. I’d been born (and nearly died) of bronchitis, so I guess it would get pretty bad sometimes. And I – I loved the smell of menthol; how it would clear my nose and warm my chest at night when I’d get all stuffed up and couldn’t breath worth a darn.

One night I was having an exceptionally hard time, and couldn’t hardly breath at all. The flu, a cold – I don’t know which, but as a child I knew what to do. Call mom, who’d come in bearing that little blue bottle, rub some on my chest, put that dab under my nose, tuck me in and and I’d be better – or at least for awhile.

This particular night was different, though. Instead of my mom, my dad came in, the little blue bottle in his hand. And instead of pulling the blanket down and my pajama top up, he took one hand and squeezed my face like you would a dog, forcing my jaws wide open. Then taking a big old double fingered dip from the jar, he forced a huge wad of Vick’s down my throat; smeared it all inside of my mouth – shoving another dab and another dab, forcing his fingers down my throat, choking me with the now thick stench of menthol and the foul taste of petroleum jelly. He kept saying something; not growling so much as snarling, packing that damned stuff in, holding me down and pinning me with the covers so that I could not escape. I remember thrashing my head – and the taste! Burnt like fire, greasy, thick – have you ever ate petroleum jelly? Try a sample. Its sorta tasteless, sorta not – and coats your mouth like cold bacon grease, only worse. Now try a bit of Vicks. Burns like fire, you can’t swallow it – it sticks to your tongue and teeth and gums – and . . . well, trust me. You’d have to try it to know. Just a dab. Now imagine a couple huge wads – a half jar full – crammed down your throat. Not good, huh?

After that – when I’d get congested – I’d still have my mom put some of that stuff on my chest; that little dab under my nose. But once I got to bed, I’d be quiet – real quiet – no matter how bad it got. I’d learned my lesson.

I still love the smell of menthol; it’s ‘good stuff’ for congestion. But petroleum jelly – to this day I can’t see a jar without remembering what he did, and to this day I still don’t know why. Maybe he was ignorant, didn’t know the stuff wasn’t meant to be eaten. Maybe I’d just whined one time too many. Maybe this, maybe that – I will never know. But I know I’ll never forget the sensation of him jabbing his fingers down my throat, choking me with that stuff, or how careful I was to be quiet after that night.

And yet – when he calls and invites me to lunch – and I turn him down (always, it seems) – I feel guilty.

Why is that?

Child abuse.

It really sucks.

Its the gift that just keeps giving (sigh).

But hope!  For we have healed and are healing . . . more in each and every day. 8^)

Me and Little Mikie in His New Home: An Island paradise


(we post this simply due to it follows logical succession.  First “Marrying the Girl Next Door“, then then this.  It makes sense.  One follows another follows another.  I would recommend reading them in proper order – and DO NOT START WITH THIS ONE.  Read them in order or else you will miss this – and the point of all this.  You can skip over “Sex In the Hood” – but it will give you some background information. )

This Was Mikie's Home for Many Years

My Child Bride
(Tokoni 05/25/2009)

The fate of my child bride has been weighing a tad heavily on my mind here lately – the girl I was “married” to when I was six in an impromptu wedding held in her back yard, conducted by her teenage brother, and attended by a lot of the kids in the ‘hood. (See “Marrying The Girl Next Door”.) What happened here happened some years after my introduction into the darker side of some of the “games”, so you gotta kinda bear that in mind. (I do.) But even still, this took place when I was about eight and she maybe seven, perhaps a little earlier for her. And to this day it still bothers me. And I imagine what I’ll say here will cause some folks to condemn me; others to exonerate me, but it really makes no difference. The only thing that ever helped was what a shrink once told me. I’ll get to that later.

It was a fine summer Georgia afternoon – hot and humid, but us kids didn’t mind. Odd how kids back then (and even now) don’t seem to feel the temperature discomforts the way us grownups do. I reckon it’s because they have other things on their mind than us stuffy old adults.

Now this is in the sand hill area of Georgia, slightly south of Augusta, where the pines grow straight and thin, and the scrawny oak trees beg comparison to mere shrubs. Ferns grew in some parts of the woods; in others those pan-shaped cactus with their long spiny leaves; also weedy growth – it comes in all shades and colors when the summer grows long and dry. “Sage” I heard one old timer call it; in some other places it’s just more dried grass, all of it surrounded by this white sand – the remnants of primordial beaches that dried up millions of years ago. Dig down far enough and you hit the ancient sea bottom – red clay and white kaolin, naturally grown and harvested. Georgia is known for it’s kaolin deposits; it’s a favorite artist’s clay worldwide. It is also, I understand, used for making paper, comes in Kaopectate, and some of the women even further down south eat it to fill some strange dietary need (see “the clay eaters”).

This particular afternoon my best friend and I are somewhere beyond his back yard – out in the scrub pines (pine barrens to some folks), along with his little sister – my little bride. I don’t know if she just came rolling up on her bicycle, or walked up there with us, and for the purposes of this story it really makes no difference. She was there; that’s all I know.

Now she and I were friends, but not much more than that despite our “marriage”, which had happened a year or so before. She was a quiet girl – very quiet – and I recall her face was usually bland and devoid of emotion. So were her eyes. She was a little bit shorter than me, with shoulder length hair; a tawny brown, with sand colored highlights, and she was wearing her eternal cotton print dress, one that stopped at her knees. My friend and I were of course dressed in our normal wear – cutoff shorts and nothing else. Bare feet were the norm; everyone wore them everywhere, even most of the grownups. After all, you didn’t want to wear out your shoes for church or school; those things were precious – plus they hurt our feet, especially when you’d get sand in them, which was a constant thing. My mom still mentions the sand – how it seemed to have an affinity for house floors, especially the cheap linoleum tile that everybody had – making ‘keeping things clean’ an almost impossible task, especially when the wind would get to blowing, or us boys would come traipsing in at the end of the day, called by the clanging of the triangular dinner bell suspended on the house.

I see I am dawdling here. Time to move on, get to the meat of the matter. (If you will excuse the pun. And no, it’s not punny.) But you’ll have to forgive me if I ramble a little bit, remembering the other things. Because this one is not good.

Me and my buddy – here we are out in the woods, when my friend turns to me (his sister is tailing behind – right behind – my ‘child bride’) – and says:

“Hey! You wanna fuck my sister?”

Now I’m kinda rocked by this. I know what ‘fucking’ is – it’s been shown to me, hell, even done to me, though among us boys it’s usually called “corn-holing”. Fuck and suck — that’s all of us, and the teenager has been leading the way. “Training” us, I reckon you’d say, or ‘teaching us’, and we do it amongst ourselves all the time. It’s just a way of life, something to ‘do’, just like some kids go and play ball. But for us – no, it’s different in some ways. I know it’s ‘bad’, not something you want the grownups to find out about – but ALL us kids seem to be doing it in some way or another. And yes – there are darker sides to that, sides when the teenage boy was involved. But we’ll save those for another story. I can only handle one hard thing at a time.

But this “fucking” thing – it’s new to me, or at least with a girl. I know how to ‘do’ boys – but girls? This is something new, something different. So . . .

“Sure!,” I say, not really knowing what to expect.

“Come here,” he says, and then he talks to her – not a long talk, mostly about, “Hey, why don’t you fuck Mike? You haven’t fucked him. Why don’t you fuck him? Come on . . .”

So he wheedles away and talks to her, and soon enough – it doesn’t take but a minute – she is laying down there in the sand between the weeds. I can still see her laying there; the sun is shining down on us; the bicycle just a few feet away – and she pulls her dress up over her chest, exposing herself to me. And waits. There are no panties; are no shoes – like I said, clothes were precious, and not something for daily wear.

I look at this thing, thinking “Hey! What do I DO?” I mean I don’t know where things go, I only know she’s built a bit different than the boys I mess with – she’s “bare”, got nothing down there – except this thin slit surrounded by swelling lips. My friend, sensing my confusion I guess, turns to me and tells me (and all the while she’s watching, her eyes growing more distant by the second), “You put your dick in there. Right there. We do it all the time. So does (teenager’s name).” He smiles broadly like a used car salesman trying to sell me a ride. I look down at her – and she’s got this sorta glazed look, but still looking at me – so I drop my shorts, pull down my underwear, and step in front of her, pecker in hand.

“Do you really want to do it?” I ask her, looking down at her face. She’s . . . blank? Devoid of emotion? I don’t know, but it’s a look I know – but don’t know – and I guess I sort of knew it because I guess sometimes I must’ve had that look, or others of my kind.

“No,” she barely whispers, hiking up her dress some more. I look over at my friend. He’s scowling down at her. .

So I pull up my underwear and shorts. All I can think is he’s been doing it with her, this thing called “fuck” – and so has his older brother. The teenage one. I know because he just told me so. And . . . they do it all the time. My friend begins to berate her, asking her why she said no. It doesn’t matter to me anymore – she said no, and I’m not going to do it. No way. Not if she doesn’t want to – because if she doesn’t want to, neither do I. (Something that holds true to this day, which is why I could never be a rapist.)

She sits up; I help her; she pulls down her dress, I help her to her feet. My friend keeps on fussing at her – and now me, too, for not “doing it”. “It’s the best thing you can ever feel,” he promises – but I’m not interested. Not anymore. She doesn’t want to do it with me – and I’m fine with that. She gets on her bike and pedals away, leaving my friend and I to go play in the woods.

I really don’t remember much more than that.

For a long time, even into my adulthood — I used to wonder: should I of done it? She wouldn’t of minded; not really. She would of just lain there. She was my friend; all us friends were ‘doing it’ – and apparently she was deep into it too, courtesy of her teenage brother and my best friend. Apparently they’d been doing it for a long time. Would it of made that much of a difference in my life – or hers – if we had? I didn’t know.

Then one day I brought this up to my psychologist, who has been fighting to save me from cutting, fighting to keep me ‘happy’ – or at least ‘stable’ – without a whole lot of success. Mostly we just sit there staring at each other – she doesn’t realize she MUST ask the questions; MUST press – otherwise she won’t get any answers, any details. That’s one of the things about DID when it goes wild: other hands are holding you, restraining your voice and throat – even when you feel you must shout out the words twisting in your guts, you can’t. You just can’t get there. And it mucks with you. This is something my wife has discovered: she must ASK for me to tell; at best all I can do is say: “you should ask me about such-and-such.” But she’s gotten reluctant to ask; I am so way out of her league, and she has problems of her own in dealing with my problems – so I keep them hidden for the most part. All to myself. Just like so many of the ‘others’ want it to be.

But anyway, this shrink, she feeds me a bit of wisdom. She says:

“You were the one who said no. You were the one who didn’t. And for that little girl – it was a blessing. An empowerment. Something she probably never had.”

I suppose that is supposed to make me feel good, but it only makes me feel somewhat better. After all, I’ve carried the burden of knowing what was being done to her for all these years – her brothers screwing her, and perhaps some others, too – and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too late, now, and it was too late then – something which saddens me.

I just hope that shrink was right, and that by me NOT doing it – allowing her to say “no” – I helped her, if only in some small way. And that’s something I’ll never know for sure.

NOTE: WE had a piece of artwork for this: it shows the little girl, dress thrown up, pussy showing – and the empty vacous look on her face …. I’ll never forget that look.  When I saw a picture of her with all of us kids in “the Hood” – all of us standing there, frozen in black and white – staring back at US – she looked just as empty and vacant.  As if all of this – all of the above and more – had broken her mind.  Poor girl, poor child.  Oh, how I WISH I could go back in time and rescue her – though she would need more help I think than we could ever give.  A victim of incest, ya know.)


CAUTION: TRIGGERS!!

Preamble:  Day 2 of “this stuff”.  LO bitter L’ing.  Got interrupted during processing; just like the old psychologist’s office.  The Shrink’s office.  The counseler’s office.  And a few other ones.  You know the deal:  One hour session – get you ‘ramped up’ – and then ‘ding!’ (alarm goes off) – “It’s time to go!  I have another client coming in!”  And there you are all F’d up within yourself (and out, too) – stumbling out the door in a haze, zoned to the max, and switching all over the place while the attendant says, “Same time tomorrow?” meaning “This same time next week or so?” and here you are needing immediate treatment and finding none (really, really could use that old bottle – used to keep one of Everclear in my own car – for use after those afternoon sessions, LO bitter L’ing again by me and my own alters.  Note how many times I didn’t use “I” up above; that’s because we are preferring it that way; easier to ‘hide’ them alters of mine and their and ours … lying not through admission; but omission instead.)

Here’s another thing that grieves me before we go into this thing: The Rape of A Child; my own, my inner child, the one we are calling Mikie (which, BTW, IS his real name in many senses of the word!)

Can’t tell no one.  Not about what happened yesterday, Confronting Father.  Not that I don’t WANT to – this is something we’ve been burning to tell the wifie thing ever since we first met her tomorrow (meaning yesterday?) afternoon.  Yeah; things are a kinda bit crazy; time-slipping a little bit here and there between us old alters; crazy ain’t the word??

WE didn’t intend on telling “no one”; that is, we never intended on confronting the Father one yesterday; that was totally unplanned!  He just came over at a bad time for us (when we were trying to processing and make peace within ourselves about this thing called Mikie and the things that happened to him

Damn.  Suddenly very sad; we called him a “thing”, and that’s hurting the little one called Mikie: WE ARE SORRY SON!  (crap crap crap; things going wild.  LO soft but not so bitter L’ing again.  We are sorry little one; we didn’t mean to hurt you with them words; really son.)

BUT what this means is that we are not done processing the events below.  That said, we are done ‘for the day’ (not meaning for the day; just putting aside this particular issue for a tad in time.)

And the reason we can’t tell the wifie thing is this plain and simple: she doesn’t have time for us.  Not right now.  And by the time she does …. crap.  We’re hoping we don’t cut ourself; that something doesn’t go wrong.  And get this: it’s gonna be maybe Tuesday?  Perhaps sooner?  Depending upon her schedule . . . maybe she’ll have some time for us.  I don’t know.

F’ing wifie thing.  It ain’t her fault; she doesn’t know what’s going on and she’s unwilling to make time to find out.  You know: life and things.  Husband falls to the way behind; trailing along behind her like some kinda dog that needs to take a crap on the floor – and she won’t let him.  (LO somewhat bitter L’ing; that is like SOOO freakin’ appropriate an expression; the dog and kind of thing.)

Okay, lets get going; what you’ve been waiting for.

The Rape of Mikie, my Inner Child and Most Precious One (okay, maybe not most precious?  For in and of ourselves, all of us are precious?  But he is a Special One, if you are getting my meaning here ….)

_________________________________________________________________________________

He is my best friend

He is in my house

He has come over to do some watching for me

He is supposed to be watching over us

He is doing something wrong with the dog

and my brother is crying (in me? Near me.)

Here’s the deal; we are not in a good place right now okay and so don’t expect no fucking forgiveness.

He came over at the insistence of my mother and my father

He has come over while them are going to the movie

It is dark in the house but not some; it is light; there is a light in there some of the lights are on

We begin running around

okay, here’s the deal

He’s come over he’s not my best friend but hes’ my best friends only brother. He is older than him; we are thinking I am 6 and he is 13

My parents said “Watch over them he (mikie) is the bad one you gotta watch over him closely” now they are turning to me and my brother and they are saying

“You’d better do the things he does (tells me?) to do.” We aren’t given the opportunity to say yes mum no mum just be doing what we are told; you are supposed to be doing what you are told no matter what happens do as you are told no matter if he’s killin him do as you’re fucking told now ou damned little kid.

And we were never never NEVER fucking allowed no; no to anything at all ever again in our lives; we gotta do as we’ve been told.

Not doing what you are told is a BAD thing; doing what you are told keeps them outta trouble

No “no’s” allowed in here; in this thing; not never not to no one

Especially and authority figure who has been placed over us this being this teenaged kid

this friend of ours

and he is in there babysitting

and we are funning around (I wanted to type running ardound but it keesp on coming ‘funning’ LL not such a funning thing)

We are running around and around iin the household when he starts doing this thing

and it starts with Charlie our friend and this dog.

Charlies our firend and he’s my/our doggie sometimes tho’ he belongs to momma most times and we aer sad for him cuz he went and died without us bein around

how hard is that to die somewhere becauz you family hasn’t been around

He got died running after some truck someone else was taking care of him and he was our dog and my dog.

He was a big dog and too he was black and furry with this kinda long and short curly hair he was a nice dog and a good dog and he follered us around sometime and he played football with us kds and he would steal the ball and then go running and we love our poor and lost lonely dog

But thats not what happened then and this time.

This time he got it for real

The teenager is bending over him and they are doing something to him this teenager friend and my dog; he is doiong it TO him, doing something to my own dog

and it is in the hall way and (pause …. long pause …. Mikie is reluctant to go on go on Mikie you can do this things we are all here and we are feeling sorry for you all but the religious man even Matthew is feeling sick and sorry for you not sick at you but what at this teenagers done)

okay

so I go on?

(yes mikied my friend my son my dear and loving son go on we are standing right here behind you recording this as this goes on; go on my friend talk to me.)

fucking shit (little mikie is saying he has the own words in and outta my head. This is making Matthew angry that Mikie can do this sort of thing; get into his own head: perhaps that is why Matthew sealed him off so long time ago? Back in the 84’s? Yup I reckon so he is saying turning to me and the crowd and things and he is firm but hard and sorry he’s done this sort of thing but he had to to seal off this kind of pain and embarrassment)

Okay mikie go on. The dog. The teenager is doing something outta(?) him?

Okay (mikie goes on; he and I and us are taking in a deep breath on this ugly fucking thing)

Go on.

Mikie go on. (he is standing head down staring at the thing we know and we could tell but HE must tell this thing otherwise its gonna be no good.)

“He is fucking the dog.” he is saying but that’s not quite right; the teenager is masturbating on the dog meaning he is jacking the fucking dog off; there, I said it for you Mikie, you can go on now can’t you?

Yeah sure (he says hard and firm; he’s a tough kid looking up at me with firm and angry sorta eyes but they are tearfilled in his own way instead)

He has us go down on the dog; meaning this:

my brother is in the corner crying. He is crying real bad. And then this thing he has happens

The doggies laying on his back and the teenager is sorta jacking him; doing something with his penis; he is stroking it back and forth and this big pink thing comes outta him with two red balls attached to him and then he has me go donw on him

and it tastes yuck yuck kinda nasty firm but yielding and there’s some shit shooting out of him into my mouth and things and it tastes yuckfuckingyuckyuckand I”m doing this thing I’m sucking off the dog and thigns and I kinda like it because I’m doing it for him this teenager friend of mine and he asked and I cannot say no cannot bend the rules; gotta do this thing for him and it tastes kinda nasty and Im’ using my teeth the way he showed me not to (later on sometimes) and scraping the dogs dick and the penis and the dog is knda crying and I am too sorta but not; crying cuz it tastes kinda bad and this thing is hiiting in the back of my throat and things and it hurts real bad but I wanna pleas him this teeanger and things.

And I look up and the teengare is fuking smiling at me saying go on go on go on and do it and it’s like he’s kinda mad but he’s not he’s kinda smiling and my brother is in the corner and he’s screaming ‘you’re hurting him your hurting him over and over again while he’s crying all balled up and things and how does he know his fuckin eyes and midn are closed a lot like min is right now

and I think I’m gonna be sick; we can feel this thing ;a deep down fucking nausea at whats going on; physcial sensations include just like when I was fucking cutting; burning sharp skin pains on waist and belly its like the dog is fucking clawing me (this is NOW realtimeing and folks; it’s for real feels like I’ve taken a razor knife to my own skin and is cutting it RIGHT f’ing NOW)

moving on. Mikie

Tell me some more. Tell the nice audience some more; they aren’t gonna be hurting you or nothing; they are friendly and people and they’re gonna be okay (okay people out there? Hang this up hang on the phone and fucking hang it up if it’s bother you nothing triggers someone more than this kinda shit I’m knowing; don’t want you out there getting hurt or nuthing)

Okay mikie, move on. You are sucking this dog thing and then what happens; comeon you can tell us (he is crying inside but we are … zoned – can’t cry a single tear for him; this is his ownprocess and we’re gonna have to go through it sometime again; I can realize that kinda thing but move on.)

Okay.

The teenager he is saying stopping me and we look up and he’s got a big grin on his face and we’re wearing one too; we are happy we have served him; done him proud, make him kinda like us or something (he is my brother’s best friend) and my brother is not done crying he is kinda like laying there in the corner in the hallway moaning and some kinda shit; WE are the one hurting him we realize; WE have done this thing and it has hurt our own brother in this way somefuckinghow we don’t know when or how this has happened he didn’t suck the dog’s dick WE did and we’re not happy with him or it anyhow

but this friend of ours is saying something he’s saying ‘come on come on, do (this thing) to me!” and we are still on our knees (we were on our knees before bent over this dog thing and it SMELLS real fucking BAD kinda nauseous again)

and he’s saying ‘come on come one do it do it” and he has his dick hanging out and its an enormous thing it appears to us that way and were crawling over a few handsteps on our knees to him and he’s putting it in our moth and things and then he starts rocking back and forth real hard and then he’s saying something about teeth again making us curl our lips under and THAT hurts kinda bad and then we can taste something it’s blood in our mouth from doing this thing he’s pressing even harder and hurting our nose and shit and down pressing and our teeth are cutting lips and tongue our lip our tongue

and he says stopping

‘come on lets go to your room’

and then we’re going I”m standing up to him and we’re going down the hallway and into the dark room leaving my crying brother far behind him is with the dog and things and we are feelin g kinda sick again

and we go into my room and he doesn’t even turn the light on I though we were gonna try playing some games and things; doing something fun but no he is having me get on the bed right there beside him no he isn’t on the bed; it’s next to him and its our bed as well.

And we’re getting on the thing and laying down he has us laying down on our belly and things and then he kinda takes our pants off only its not pants its those shorts momma makes me where – the cutoffs and things we are so poor we haven’t hardly go any clothing so we must wear this thing all the time all of the kids in the hood do; the fuckin hood is a poor kinda place really fucking poor

and he’s saying something about how he kinda loves me??? and then hes’ sticking a finger in my ass and it kinda hurts and something then he’s fucking on top of me squashing me so HARD breath runs outta me like kinda like the air from the dryer vent and THEN he’s doing something else to me way down there and hes sticking it in and it hurts like fuckin HELL and then its over but no its not over yet because hes starting to do this kinda thing kinda like him and the dog; yeah to me and it kinda feels kinda good and then he sticks his dick in and then THAT hurts real fucking bad and he’s goin in and out and bouncing on me but it feels kinda good after awhile no not the butt kinda thing but him kinda pressing up against me I kinda like this thing of feeling his skin on my back kinda thing kinda feels nice sometimes but it HURTS so fuckin bad down in there even my belly is hurting so bad he’s got in in so fuckin deep or something and it hurts and I’m cryin but not tryin to show him

and then hes’ done and he’s rolling off the top of me and saying

“You wanna play?”

and we go and run

having fun again

and my bottom is hurting real kinda bad

and I’m not gonna be telling my parents and things because ITS REAL BAD and it kinda hurts down there and THEY might wanna come take a look at thing and THEN i’d have to tell them about the dog and THATS a BAD FUCKING THING we know that now we know that then we knew it all kinds of times.

Blackmail, that’s what I’m thinking (Putting Mikie away; poor kid; he’s had a hard time of it today and in the past 24 hours or so: the system pressuring him. But not “completely away”. We’re going to be needing him for the psychoanalysis type of thing. You know what I mean. Right now Aoela is taking care of him (old friend of mine; an ‘interior being’ which we discovered some time ago – about a month or so – and with whom we are involved in healing.)

So here’s the deal in a nutshell:

Mikies parents are going to the movies, and leave him and his brother with his teenage friend. The teenage friend is supposed to be ‘watching them’, with an emphasis on how ‘bad’ Mikie’s been.

They’ve also instructed their children to never say NO to ANYTHING anyone tells them (meaning someone older) – and certainly not to someone who has been appointed an authority figure over them

They have just appointed their teenage friend over “him”. He has now become the ‘authority figure’ – kind of like some kind of god.

And the teenager tells him to do this thing.

You see, they were running around playing – running around and around the house, happy and squealing like little kids do when playing a game of chase – and the teenager was the one chasing them.

Then the teenager does something (catches Mikie’s brother in the hallway? We don’t know about him; why he was crying so bad – BUT we do know he didn’t start crying until or during when the teenager started on the dog (damn, we KEEP on misspelling “dog’” as f’ing “god’ – Freudian slip or something? We dunno. LO softy and somewhat bitter L’ing.)

So… teenager rolls the dog on his back, and begins masturbating the dog; making the ‘pinky thing’ come out of him. While he’s doing that, Mikies brother comes walking up (we’re thinking; this event has almost a sense of unreality – zoned out I know; that’s why; its US and not him doing that thing: zoning) – sees what the teenager is doing, and perhaps misinterprets the thing coming out of that dog of his; slumps down in the corner of the hallway wall and floor and starts crying;

meanwhile Mikie is walking up and the teenager is saying “Watch this!” while jacking off the dog. Then (I reckon) something occurs to this teenager friend of ours, and he has Mikie start doing it – the jacking off kinda thing, and then the words come:

“Put your mouth on him” meaning on his (the dog’s) penis.

Mikie doesn’t know what to do (he’s never done this sort of thing before) and so he bends over – but really doesn’t know what to do.

The teenager shows him by pushing his head down, and inserting the dogs penis in his mouth.

And the dog begins ‘humping’ him (as if he wasn’t already) – right in the mouth.

Now I don’t know what you know about canine biology, but there’s a bone in there; so it kinda hurts him; the dogs penis is deeper than the boy’s mouth can go – so he ‘forces it in’ – so much so that it’s kind of gagging him (hence the vomiting reflex) – not to mention the awful fucking taste (yes, here years later, and I can still taste that damned thing in my mouth – fucking body memories – GO AWAY! LOL’ing, doubting that they ever will; they never will; we’re kinda knowing that sort of thing.)

Can I say this kind of thing is “awful” right now? Can you folks put up with me saying that (asking you readers; we are having a hard time going with the one word “awful” – it seems so much more than that to us.)

So here is little Mikie pumping away; the dog is ‘doing’ him while his teenager friend is standing there watching on and Mikie’s big brother (who is littler than him; therefore, you’ll often hear Mikie referring to him as his “little brother” sometims) – his brother is slumped down, curled into a fetal position (kinda – we can SEE and REMEMBER this thing like it is YESTERFUCKINGDAY! – never did ‘forget’ this one; just the dog thing kinda for a few years on back – recovered memory kinda process; the dog thing – but the REST of it we have remembered forever!)

And while this is going on his brother (Mikie’s own) is screaming and crying over and over again: “You’re hurting him!” Now whether he meant Mikie or the dog – we’re not knowing, and we’re not going to ask – for brother denies this thing; denies any kind of sexual thing ever went on between us – but it DID: we know it did, many a time: it’s our now grown brother’s way of protecting himself from his own emotions (he’s a lot like we were about 20 some odd years ago, only worse off.)

And then the teenager (getting bored I reckon, or wanting some of that kinda action for himself), looks at our little friend Mikie and says:

“Come on. Do me.”

And Mikie is fucking HAPPY to be doing it (kinda) cuz’ it means he ain’t doing the dog no more; he’s doing his friend – and his friend ‘kinda loves him’ (or at least he’s hoping so) – and by doing this thing he’s hoping to make his friend love him stronger – and so he does it anyway

and he’s just not doing it right at first (he’s never done this one before: giving blow jobs before) – and so the teenager instructs him to ‘curl his lips in’ (over his teeth, ya know) – “and kinda stick your tongue out” (padding the bottom of his penis) – while he ‘rubs it in” (meaning – well, you know these kinda things)

And the thing is the teenager starts pressing so hard that it’s cutting Mikie’s lips and gums; tearing at his tongue (he’ll wake up in the next morning with a cut completely across the bottom of his tongue and stuff)- and the teenager is just stroking it in, ya know what I mean? Just rockin’ back and forth with him in Mikie’s mouth – and Mikie’s kinda kneeling on the floor . . .

Goddamn. You should’ve seen Mikies face when the teenager looked down at him the FIRST time and told him to stop doing the thing with the dog and do him.

Mikie looked up at him with a fucking ANGEL’S face and this sick, weird kinda twisted smile on his young face -sooo fucking relieved that this dog thing was over and more than fuckin relieved to be ‘making love’ with his friend and not the dog anymore. (and yup; that’s kinda how he looks at this thing: the human on human sex kinda thing: as “makin’ love” – though he picked those own words outta OUR head (he has access to a lot of information) – However, back then it wasn’t called making love; it was called “sucking our cock” or “sucking his dick” and things. You know: normal kinda kid talking. (Later on it would be “corn holing” and “fucking”, meaning the anal kinda thing.)

Then his teenage friend gets tired (I reckon) of this going on, and abandoning Mikie’s brother in the hallway, takes Mikie on down to his room, has him lay in his bed – and kinda “rapes” him – right in the ass; the ol’ “boogerhole” (Mikie speaking, quite bitterly by now!)

And then the friend gets done, gets off of him, and goes away to play – inviting him along.

Mikie is so relieved that he does this thing: pulls his ‘pants’ (they are cut off blue jean shorts; all the kids had to wear back then; that and a thin set of underwear that his dad kept pulling off of him (shuddering) for different reasons in our livelihoods; but mostly just to beat him (belt on meat seems to satisfy the old man – beating and beating and beating and beating him until his asscheeks were bloody and bruised.) No wonder Mikie prefers this kind of abuse (the sexual thing). It hurts so much less (on the outside) – and he thinks it’s a kind of love (something his parents aren’t giving him) – and he’s not getting ‘beaten’ for doing it – unless he tells his mother (and then parents, for what he tells mom goes directly to dad for beating distributions, LO bitter L’ing going on.)

So then the kid was scared to tell anyone about the ‘dog thing’ – a form of blackmail in our mind; done by the teenager to ensure this kid’s silence in time – and for ALL time – which he very nearly did.

We told a psychiatrist this one once. And you know what she did?? She fucking LAUGHED – laughed in our faces while this went on … permanently damaging us again (we’re thinking). She thought it was FUNNY – but then again, she had some ‘cult’ thing going on; probing into our own past, looking for evidence of ‘cult kind of behaviors’ in our past – being was our mom is a witch, and the neighborhood we were growing up in … well, weird, but in a wonderful kinda way – not at all the way the psychiatrist was thinking – though we have some dark suspicions about the ‘cult kind of thing’ due to some other issues we had going on. If so, it wasn’t overtly obvious or nothing; perhaps we were being drugged, but I kinda doubt it. I’m thinking it was ‘just bad dreams’.

And so: Now begins the hard part: absolution. One by fucking alter by one.

Religious Man: sad, sore, but torn between forgiving him and condemning him.

F’ing religious Man: you are a CHRISTIAN (tho we are NOT) – you are supposed to be FORGIVING HIM.

RM: Hell no; he belongs in hell for what he did I”m not going to have anything to do with that little bastard of mine (this guy is my ‘dad’ figure in a lot of way).

ME: why NOT?

RM: cusz what he did.

Jeff: did he have any fuking choice in the matter, my friend? LOOK at him: just a little kid; doing what he did; because it was TAUGHT to him (you religious freak! Comeon, get WITH it – come ON guys; he’s just a GHOST in your mind; NOT the real thing; he’s a figment of your combined imaginations; get RID of him; he’s NOT one of your own souls; you ain’t gotta take him in.)

(sighing)

Okay, we’ll try; he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us hes’ not one of us he’s not one of us.. can’t get rid of him? Shutting him up and ignoring him will do just fine, though! (satisfied smile somewhat grimly as we shut the door on this ‘man’, this so-called ‘religious man’ who’s quite a freak himself – and an f’ing hypocrite! We don’t NEED him anymore; we’ve got our OWN kinda religion, and it IS NOT HIS: his only value is in remembering religious FACTS; not fictions; and in his own fictions – he cannot forgive the kid – just like my own dad done. Never forgiving us for ANYTHING.

There: got to the core root of THAT thing: religious man IS a representation of my own father figure who was never forgiving; just like that ‘momma figure’ we got rid of some time ago (converting her over to Aoela; a separate (yet somewhat troubled) woman being who we let take care of our inner child last night when things were going wrong; we are kind of trusting her with him now more and more these days: it’s not my momma; its some kind of other woman in my head; a ‘real one’ for all extants and purposes, tied into the core being.

Okay, next in line: Matthew.

How do YOU feel about him – Mikie, your own friend, and the child you were supposed to take care of (not THEN, but NOW, my friend – you weren’t even AROUND back then! You didn’t appear until 1971 or ’72 or so.)

Can you see it my friend (we are asking him; Jeffery is asking; love and compassion radiating out from him for all of my own survivor friends on the inside?)

See what Matthew is harshly demanding

See that what you did to him wasn’t fair – you’ve been mistreating him. He’s YOUR kid, goddamnit! (Jeffery can be quite a bit hard when he has to be: a fair thing and a good thing IOO (in our opinion; you folks better catch onto that one; we’re gonna use it next time without all this g-d explaining to do!)

YOU have been abusing him as well (Jeffery is saying;) all of them years you were together – you kept shoving him aside and burying him – all the while being lonely as hell and denying the love he felt for YOU inside YOU

(Matthew is crying a bit now; we aren’t’ just watchin; but ..hmm yeah, wet eyes; not tears; just soggy)

You see Matthew: you always had the love of him; this Mikie friend inside. In ways he was your own son – AND your own father, if you are thinking about this one: HE created you; YOU didn’t create yourself; and that MACHINE thing was your own doing and WE understand!! We ((okay going over to him: time to cry?? we are hoping hoping hoping!! stop typing give it a shot.)

stop to go on deck and do some REAL working with Matthew now okay going…time:1248hrs

1300hrs:

Jeff: Matthew is thinking about what we told him, which was THIS and in a way Matthew can understand:

“Mikie was a prisoner of WAR; just like a fuckin’ prisoner of WAR – and if YOU (matthew) was a prisoner of WAR (which is something Matthew trained for) – and your ‘captives’ (meaning wardens; meaning enemy) was to tell YOU to fucking go down on a fucking dog WOULDN’T YOU??” (and yes he shamefully admits he would rather than lose his own life and here’s the thing matthew my fine fucking friend no harm intended we love you too!)

MIKIE WASN’T GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO SAY NO! He was told and he’d been taught that to SAY that thing (the word “NO” to any of his parent or ANY of the authority figures in his lifetime) – “HE WOULD BE BEATEN!! and beaten and beaten and beaten again!!!! We KNOW that fucking thing because he was beaten BEFORE and as a small child (younger than 10 or 7 or 8 again; even further behind; back when he was a small child experimenting with the word “no” again and again like any fine young toddler will be doing sometimes –

and he was BEATEN with a fucking WARBELT you SOB (thinking of father; religious man again); yeah, YOU know that thing; we ALL know of that fucking thing; the belt with the HOOKS and things that hurt you some kinda bad

and that’s where one of the ‘breaking points’ came in, being BEATEN by that belt and seeing his own brother BEATEN in that bag of his (the old man’s laundry fucking bag rubberized thing smelling of army and men)

And to say NO this time would have gotten him BEATEN again; he knows in his own mind this kinda shit goes on; goes on all the TIME and on and on and on IN HIS OWN LIFETIME JUST A FUCKIN SERIES OF BEATINGS almost every day sometimes twice and 3X at a time during the day; beaten and beaten until he was fucking animal inside and fucking bloody without.

THAT’s the reason he didn’t tell: he was afraid of being BEATEN again; beaten into a young animal again; fracturing his young mind how DARE he tell how COULD he tell? He knew this was a bad fuckin thing; not just him and the dog but him and his friend and how DARE can you not LOVE him he needs your love and things MATTHEW my own man can’t you find it in your heart to forgive HIM???

You fucking understand; quit shaking your head in there; I can SEE you doing this thing you KNNOW I fucking can; come ON man; can’t you SEE it: you made him made you made HIM???/ Goddamn I’m almost crying now in goddmanfcking frustration can’t you SEE it, man???

Loving him; that’s what you are supposed to be doing; he was SAVING you by being him and hiding some of the time; hiding himself AWAY from you after him; creating you for his own peace of mind; trying to put some distance between us and his own pain and hiding then for such a long fucking time; poor kid my god can’t you fucking see this poor kid of mine?? he’s standing there crying awaiting you to come HOLD him Matthew; WE’re not going to be doing this thing YOU gotta do it this time (hardening the heart; don’t WANT to see my own f’ing kid crying like this so pitiful and sooo fucking sad sometimes can’t you HELP HIM OUT with this thing, Matthew?

Going on deck to resolve this thing. Time Out: 1310

____________________________________________________________________________

And it was at this point (about 1318) that the phone call came, and my dad said he was coming over. (sad sad sigh sigh and so f’ing mad in some ways that this process was interrupted and a ‘new one’ started – the confronting of the dad thing-a-fucking-jing)  IMPORTANT TO NOTE:  WE did NOT read the thing up above before posting; though I suppose we should.  It will tell us something in how much progress we’ve been making I am guessing wondering if I wrote something about that one (use of blog entries for ???)  Damn.  Like I said: Time slipping: other alters are doing things of which I am just barely, barely aware: like looking at someone’s actions through a fog.  (scratching my head wondering if it’s my arse racking my brains and someone else is hiding in their chuckling and things.  LO L’ing going on; soft or sad and perhaps the bitter one is my own?)

We’ll see in time.  It’s 0600 and we are (sick?  tired?  upsetting?) and switching all over all the time.

Promises to be another in “NOT a Good Day!”