Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Since I can remember remembering, there has been a terror of a scream welling up inside of me. It didn't release itself when I was fucking my boyfriend in the dark and orgasming so hard I thought my heart would burst.
Since I can remember remembering, there has been a terror of a scream welling up inside of me. It didn't release itself when I put pencil to paper, though I drew everything I could possibly think to draw.
Since I can remember remembering, there has been a terror of a scream welling up inside of me. It didn't release itself when I lay down on the grass on my father's grave and cried until my eyes swelled shut.
Since I can remember remembering, there has been a terror of a scream welling up inside of me. It didn't release itself when I gave birth to my children though it was the most painful thing I have ever done.
The love for my children did not release the scream.
The loss of my sister did not release the scream.
All the art I have ever made has never released the scream.
It broils. It burns. It simmers. It festers.
So what is it? Where is it?
Since I can remember remembering, I have always been keenly aware of a sense of loss. Before my father died. Before that by a year and a half.
So tonight, I finally got a confession from my mother, after much fighting and an ocean full of tears.
What is wrong with me, I asked? Why don't you love me? I begged.
So I dug into it. I started to ask questions.
I was born prematurely by one month, this I knew.
I was sent to a hospital in a city far away, this I also knew.
The same city where I now live.
The irony is, my mother will not come visit me here.
The reason why that is ironic is because, as the big confession goes, she did not visit me when I was born, either.
So, I spent the first month of my life alone in a city far from my family.
I spent the first month of my life alone in an incubator.
Or some other type of box.
Surrounded by total strangers.
How many times did they secretly wish for me to die? Once, twice? More?
This is beyond self-pity. This is a revelation.
I remember this.
I remember yearning for my mother as an infant.
I remember feeling alone and afraid and rejected.
She made all kinds of excuses.
She laughed at it even.
My mother and my father.
A couple of fucking losers, unable to drive three hours away to be with their newborn baby.
Unable to make a fuss over my life, over me. Bad roads, she said. No money, she said. So many excuses and all of them utterly pathetic.
I am not worth a drive in the snow. I am not worth the cost of a tank of gas.
So spoiled. What a brat.
How many times did they hope I would die? Once, twice? More?
So the scream finally released itself. And I realized I don't love in the way that normal people love. I don't care about things in the way that normal people care.
Pain and pleasure, they are both the same to me.
They numb me out, they make me cry, but my heart can't really tell the difference.
And this cloud of sadness has followed me since my birth.
But the truth will finally burn it out, once and for all.
Once and for all I will set down the burden of trying to behave as though I am one who was loved from the start.
I will stop playing along with the little make-believe game and I will stop begging for my parents to care about me.
One is dead and gone anyway.
He left us years ago.
So tonight, the scream finally released itself
in an uproarious