"Once upon a time, a long time ago, before I lost my mind, I was good, I was fine, I was faithful. Now I'm crazy, and I'm lost, and I hate you."
I had a knock-down, drag-out, cat fight with my writing last night. I threw insults, she threw them back, I slapped her, she pulled my hair, I stepped on her toes, and she bit both of my index fingers. I stormed out of the room, slammed the door behind my stunted rear, and yelled one last "fuck you!" I blew off some of my sobriety induced rage pacing the front porch, watching my neighbors drive into the cul-de-sac, returning from their 9-5 careers to re-visit the familiar pull into the driveway, and greet their snot faced kids. I was scared, and I needed her to comfort. I returned to the bedroom twenty minutes later with a Fat Tire, frosted beer mug, and apologetic face. I said "I'm sorry baby." She responded with an exhausted "I forgive you," let me rest my head in her lap, stroked the ends of my hair, and rubbed the tips of my fingers. I even let her have the first sweet sip of my beer, with just a taste of the head – the perfect sip – and I gave it to her.
I have tried to take my leave from my romance with writing several times, and always returned with head hung low, eyes misty, to accept more of her abuse, and reply with a meek "thank you, may I have another?" Most people, and especially us sensitive pansies, know self-abuse, and our cowardly return to its prick.
Self-abuse: reproach or blame of oneself (I thought I would add that self-abuse is also a woman).
I will write Freud tonight as to why I attach a female gender to so many things in my life, or perhaps a séance (I will buy the cigars) -- but I digress. I often say that individuals do not need self-abuse, that it will only make for a miserable life riddled with alcohol, prescription drugs, and insanity, as Hunter Thompson so eloquently put it, but alas, we do. After a night of repeated abuse, the sensitive side of us emerges wearing a canary yellow t-shirt that reads "I love my mommy," and we are once again able to produce. Is that only me? Most of my writing follows a night of self-abuse, spent curled in the fetal position, listening to Portishead, and whispering "I hate myself" in between tearful animal moans. Actually, this is not true. I do not moan.
I must distinguish between the self-abuse to which I refer, and the kind to which my Psychology text books refer. The self-abuse I so candidly discuss, and for which I will accept all forms of ridicule, is of a mental quality. There is no actual physical abuse, that is unless you count the alcohol, and then we can call them equals. But if we remove the added substance abuse, then self-abuse becomes a mental jumping, with five men/women throwing their best at you. I think it is time to change the subject. I fully plan on being the wife of a future American president, and I do not wish for my mental health to become political gossip. I foresee a divorce if my husband should lose the presidency because of his wife's unstable blogs, and just think of the other side's political commercials.
"Who wants a candidate with a self-abuser for a wife?"
(Paid for by my conservative business friends)
(Paid for by my conservative business friends)
If I had Photoshop I would supply interesting and revealing photos to supplement my words, but I own an outdated Dell, and so mental images will have to do. Most look better naked in our imaginations anyway.
How about religion? On the bus this morning I read an article in National Geographic about Abraham, you know the patriach of Judiasm, Islam, and Christianity. I just did what I like to call an "intelligence bomb." This is when someone wants to make it known that they are smart, and that they do, read, and say smart things. In all truth, I usually sit in my imagination and play in the sand box with a red plastic shovel.
As I read through the article I found myself with tears in the corners of my eyes. I quickly wiped them before they could ruin my flawless eyeliner job. There is something about religion I wish I would have grabbed onto. During my childhood, I went to Mass on Sundays (unbaptized as I was), said my prayers at night, and listened to my superstitious grandmother explain the Saints, but I never grabbed it by the leg and held on. I don't have the faith for it. But on the bus this morning I found myself fighting the tap of the world to cry (see link), and the urge to fall to my knees and beg for mercy. Instead, I continued the article with sheer determination, and blamed my whimpers on the monthly cycle. I will name my first-born son Isaac, find religion when I am close to death, and call it even.
Dear Father, forgive me for I have sinned.
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