Without the whispers, without the guidance of a peer, a
father, a godfather or any male relative I didn’t take the reins of manhood at
all. I usurped the natural progress of
growing into a man. Listen, it is
important, critical for a boy to develop these skills the right way. Bypassing the normal growth progress and you
end up with a mess. A tragedy, unaware
of the damage out the gate and for miles down the track. You grab anything, anybody and hold on with a
death grip thinking you’ve found the piece to complete the puzzle. Relationships are choked into submission,
dreams are just mini-dramas that bleed out to fatal incomplete deaths. They stay alive in a zombie state to keep
chomping on your incomplete sense of ideals for your so called life. It doesn’t stop. “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow
up. I don’t know what major to
take. I don’t know if she’s the right
one”, etc., etc., etc.
Four things need to be developed here; family,
relationships, peace of mind, inner self security. Probably many more but without these you are
bound to the dark side of the mountains for too long a time to find any peace. My family was a joke. It was held together by decibels far too loud
to listen to, too violent to find comfort or security, too many secrets to
develop any sense of belonging. Each member
a country with inconsistent borders and punishments for crossing too far into
either purposefully or unintentionally.
In a word, it was fucked. We
hacked, hated, loved like jealous gods, whined, lied, stole from, cheated on
and that was just during Christmas time.
Controls were set in place to determine the ruling powers and of course
they made no sense and there was no conference to settle any questions as to
why shit was the way it was.
My dad was too far gone into his career as he should have
been. To a degree. He came from a loving family so where the
fuck was that and when was it going to be introduced? My feeling is that despite being on the front
of the battlefield, nothing prepared him for the shriek and freak of the
warhorse. I think he suffered more PTSD
from the home front than he did the war front.
He was out of his comfort zone and had no clue how to get in with the
time he had available. So he did what
was done best, yell and scream. I give
him credit though, he only laid hands on me once. Hand spanking on the ass. I laughed when I realized what was going to
happen. Didn’t he know the cord was the
weapon of choice and nothing less would hurt?
Ha ha ha! The joke was on me as
that ass spanking was sensitive, ouchily so.
Yikes. I still had lessons to
learn. I think he just expected to come
home and have the nightly martini, “I Dream Of Genie” on TV and the kids tucked
quietly in bed. He should have hedged
his bets on the insane side of reality, he might have found some happiness in
those payoffs.
The warhorse. Forget
it. She was completely batshit when it
came to discipline. She would attack
with a crazed ferocity in her eyes and the same night cook you your favorite
dinner because you were her favorite one.
She was demented, intelligent, cruel, funny, acidic, had a laser beam in
her left eye which she would use to burn a hole in the back of my head trying
to find out what shit I’d been doing wrong during my “off” housing hours. I would fuck shit up just to piss her off I
hated her that much. I didn’t give a
shit about the beatings after a while. That’s
just fucked up when you include the term, “The Beatings” as a family
value. So without going into my brother’s
relationships, the family side of mental health balance was a long shot. Technically I had a family but so did Tyrannosaurus
Rex and all they did was eat everything living they could snatch and tear
apart with their little Ken doll arms.
In some kind of psychology mythical training, 4 is a harmonious
number for balance. I had mom, dad,
siblings but no other family that I knew on any consistent basis. That equals 3 and in that same training, 3 is
a fucked up transportation system to mental goodness, mental health, mental
parity whatever you want to call that studied misfortune. When I got in trouble, it came in 3’s. Screamed at, chased down, and whipped with
calculating frenzy. 3 things. You can see quite clearly in this example
that 3 is not a good number. Perhaps if
I got away as number 3 and her calamitous meltdown at not releasing her juju on
my white ass, thighs, arms, neck as number 4 then you begin is see how it is
wise to strive for one more if you feel you’re going to be stuck at 3. Shoot for 4, one more, always.
1. I'm grateful that I found an old friend yesterday and got to talk to her on the phone.
2. I'm grateful that I know I only have one kid.
3. I'm grateful that I am still inspired to write and hope that I see some comments soon@!@! At least 4, not 3.
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