Monday, September 24, 2012

A Finite Resource

Kept a child
Forever stunted
She’ll be her mother’s mirror
She’ll speak her words
Mime her every everything
Though this girl is different
A soul however fractured
For her mother to destroy,
To crush, consume
She’s miserable now
Beguiled by material collectables
She’s but a finite resource
For the insatiable beast
Her dim light slowly fades
Into her misery
Ever-present sorrow
But she knows no different
And will be a puppet
For as long as she can hold on.

The Most I Can Do

Were I to reach out at all to my sibling, it would look like this.  There is nothing else I can do for her, another casualty in her war on healthy family dynamics.

Dear [Sister],

I know what you’re looking for.  You won’t find it with purses, or in boxes, or from stores.  It doesn’t come with a price tag.  I know because, I was looking for it too, and to a degree, still am.

Find a therapist.  Find someone who will listen to you, who will actively listen to what you have to say.  And say it all.  Everything.  Don’t leave anything out. 

And get away from our mother.  Even if it’s across town, just get away.  It gets harder, but it gets better.  Breaking away, I mean.  If you do nothing else, trust me on this.

I have things, including parts of my life, which I very much want to share with you, but until you realize how much better off you will be without our mother and begin to act accordingly, I can only reach out like this.

Find help.  Find it sooner, not later. 

With Love,

Friday, September 21, 2012


A short time ago, my wife and I went through the 18 months of my sister's life on Twitter.   

It was disturbing.  Not because my wife and I were combing through her life, but because of the content of what she had to say.  And from the way she looked.  Her smile was a farce.  Her eyes, though brown, were black with a crushing emptiness. 

This is not a happy girl.  She’s a deeply depressed, emotionally ravaged child, beaten into submission.

While disturbing, it was also incredibly sad.  My wife and I have talked about my mother’s treatment of my sister, but I suppose talking about it was different for me than actually seeing it.  Analyzing my sister's tweets of the last 18 months with my wife turned those conversations into crystal clear pictures.  My mother aimed for complete annihilation and she was successful, through and through.  My sister is now a walking, talking mass of chemical reactions.  Much like I was turning into.

It was pretty obvious that my sister was either on or had access to prescription drugs.  I was only mildly surprised at this, but that’s due in part to the image of my sister I have in my head: she’s still my “little sister”, and that idea was jammed into my head for a hell of a long time.  Right away, I theorized that she may attempt an OD on something like prescriptions sleeping pills.  Probably not to sucessfully commit suicide, that's too final.  But it would be a cry for help. A desparate, piercing, gutteral cry for help.

It’s the way I would have done it.
Just close your eyes and never open them again.  Life, just an afterthought.

Then again, she may be too enmeshed with our mother to attempt something like that but either way, I won’t be surprised if I got some form of communication with the message that my sister is either dead, or close to being dead, or tried to be dead.  She wants to emulate Marilyn Monroe anyway.

I knew I was distant from her, knew it when we lived in the same house, and it would have been around this time that we would have been able to connect on something more than just goofing around as siblings – nine years difference is significant. 

She never reached out to me, always expected me to take that first step.  Even if I had contacted her once a week, or tried to, she wouldn’t have reciprocated.  As the “father figure” I have certain responsibilities, she thinks!  What she needs is to get away from our mother which as it looks now, won’t happen.  Whatever minimal laurels she rested on in high school just wasn’t enough in college.  College is not (entirely) one big extended high school party.  She’s back again, attached to an abandoning mother’s hip.

Unfortunately, I still worry some for my sister.  I know she needs help but I can’t be the one to provide it for her.  She needs professional help, and that’s the advice I would offer, callous as that may sound.  Find a therapist, a good one, I’d say.  Lay yourself out there.  I can’t be your therapist, but I can be your brother.  She’s been spoon-fed exactly how she should feel about “what happened” when “I walked out” and “ruined the family”.  Perhaps there’s a chance for her to come into herself and notice that the way she’s been living has been killing her, but that’s unlikely.

I think she’ll turn deeper into alcohol and drugs.  I think she’ll have a baby, either intentionally or not.  I think she’ll live with her mother or as close as possible for the rest of her life, unless my mother decides she really doesn’t want to be around her loathsome kids anymore, and leaves for a different state.  Which may happen.

Final thought:
I hope my mother dies getting eye-fucked by the demon she sold her soul to.

Friday, September 7, 2012

On Friends

On friends: I would call anyone I knew for an extended period of time a "friend" because a lot of me thought they were.  I knew these people, interacted with them, had some laughs intermittently, so they must be friends right?  Also, these people tended to be females, and very few males.  This though, stems back to my mother issues, and how she impressed upon me that females existed to do my bidding, to be used like a resource - after all, that's how she saw people, and so she mined them, like a human quarry.

I've always called myself the social chameleon, because I could fit or blend into nearly any group at any time.  I didn’t have a set group of friends, not really, or I didn’t feel like it anyway.  Other people would say that I tended to hang out with or be around a certain group of people, but I found myself floating, drifting from one social caste to another.  Indeed, I had one or two “best friends” at a time, but they came and went too.  One friend I had for over 20 years if you can believe it, but in time he proved to be as useless as the rest of the people I knew.

I gave myself the moniker of social chameleon because I didn’t have an identity, not really.  My identity, in retrospect, was a Fraud, but that was because I wasn’t allowed to have an identity – if I did, my mother would not have a “Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Who’s The Fairest Of Them All” resource, and we all know THAT just can’t happen.  Seems to me, your identity became a tragedy of the NMother as well, enveloped by whatever She was/is.  Part of the reason I have to have a new reality is because my old one just didn’t work.  I couldn’t be a chameleon anymore.  I could not be a Fraud and expect to have a fruitful life with my wife, with my family.  And that’s what’s important, that it’s my family, not my mother’s.  I have made a choice to be someone and something different.  I have to remove her parasitic grasp of me and See that I am able to become something more than what she wants for me.

Another thing my mother gave to me which I took with and ran, was the ability to constantly pick out people to be close to that were not healthy, that would use me somehow.  I did this because I was trying to fill a void with the love and attention I was seeking throughout childhood.  The love and attention that should have come from MommyDearest, but was instead a vacuum of souls.  The people I was attracted to and were attracted to me were all the same types of people that I grew up with: vapid, superficial, all-consuming, selfish collection of biophysical, biochemical reactions that created something that walks and talks.  So now, while the prospect of good, deep friendship is there, I’m not concerned with that because I can’t be, and that’s the kicker.  Right now, I’m more likely to fall in with the likes of the Past.  Instead, as I focus more intently on myself, the natural gravity will shift from those of the Past, to a more healthy, and prosperous Present and Future.  But, as my wife points out, start with myself, and the rest will follow.

Until then, it’s comforting to know there is community here struggling with very similar issues where support is always offered…without strings.