punkwalrus (punkwalrus) wrote,

Memoirs of a Nobody

I watched "Memoirs of a Geisha," last night. It got me thinking, as these this usually do, about parallels in my life. And now I can't sleep because the dreams of a past sealed in history come back to haunt me as they do from time to time with depressing regularity.

I have always felt if I could forgive my father and the awful things he did, I could get over him, but I am but a single mortal and I am fighting 18 years of pain, tyranny, and regret. I am not yet strong enough to forgive him. And so I must go chasing windmills and try and sort out the tangle of raw nerves into their individual components and try and keep working on the white-hot knots.

I think one of my most puzzling problems is the indigence of "how it all ended." Like somehow I was too privileged to have it all end this way, like I was promised a better life that never came, and I am still waiting for... something. Some sense of completeness, some final gift a part of me is still sitting at a train station, sitting on a bench in my Sunday best, my legs too short to hit the ground so they swing back and forth under the seat anxiously awaiting for my name to be called. I feel arrogant and foolish for feeling this way, but this is a major thread that weaves the net that binds me.

It might have been better, perhaps, if my parents were honest. I'll never know how that would have impacted me. If I grew up knowing that at 18, I would be alone in the world, would I have felt better? "Oh, yeah, at 18, we're gone. Make sure to say goodbye to your maw on January 9th, and to your paw September 1st. Yeah, your paw will come by once in a while, but it won't be pleasant. Those will stop in 1999. Buh bye!" But instead there was the lie and hope that everything is really okay, and we're all just over-reacting and maw isn't the town drunk and paw isn't the cold-hearted psycho kids and animals alike instinctively fear, and you're not "that Larson boy" that people "tsk tsk" under their breath.

We're all normal and better than them! I can still hear my father's psychotic "devil may care" laugh when someone suggested he was a sick man. That's why I made a vow not to lie when I grew up. I didn't want to live the lie anymore or be like him. Lies hurt my brain, and I don' WANNA!!!

I am not alone in fandom. I know lots of people stories I have somehow secretly sorted as better or worse than what I have had. I know I shouldn't... it's not right. But I also know when someone tells me about how mom is a nut, and dad has that funny and embarrassing hobby that bores the rest of the family to drink, part of me grows very angry. "Don't you know what you have??" I want to say. "Have you NO idea what a SUCKING feeling that is to hear you have a mom and ad who LOVE YOU?? DO YOU???" It sucks at my belly and stirs up the same ulcer I have had since I was 12. God it sucks like a vicious vacuum from a source you cannot see in the darkness.

It used to be a constant low ache, but as time passed, it spends time in the darkness doing nothing and then striking like an cranky old cobra at random times when something flashes in some dark corner. "The memoriessss.... it burnssss usssses...."

There's always that fantasy of "one more day with mom when she was sober." That perfect memory that caused me to leave the movie "A.I." feeling like my stomach had been ripped from its roots and run over by a team of soccer players with cleats. It has two versions: one where I go into my body as a kid, knowing what I know now, and then another where I show up as an adult. Somehow I have time travel. And somehow I know I have only one day to spend with her before the time bubble collapses. I have even tried to figure out how the rules would work, like it would end up in some Twilight Zone episode where people would demand some plausible reality to back up the scenario. But then my brain, obsessed with reality, pans out how my mother and I would have an argument where I would futilely try and tell her that she's going to be so miserable in 1987 that she takes her own life. It never ends well. Sometimes it starts out with me getting angry that I came from the future and she won't take it seriously. She's looking at me with that, "I know you're LYingggg..." smirk she gave me when she wanted the truth to be different. "No, really. And we don't have much time, and I want to know about my Swedish relatives, and why you married my dad, and not Paul who became a very happy and successful doctor. I wanted to say I got married, and had a wonderful kid, and I wish you could have met my family and known what a heartless bastard your husband really was when he bitched because he didn't want to buy a casket that they were just going to 'burn anyway' because he wanted your death to done and over with as soon as possible. Oh, and I drink coffee now. I hope you didn't learn from your mother because, boy, did the Swedes complain when she moved back and made such a weak brew. Man, I wish you could have gotten to know the Internet. I really became a good computer wizard, but unlike your husband, I was actually as nice guy about my knowledge."

I never really have "back in time" fantasies about my father. I recall pretty much hating him most of the time as early as I could remember. He always played rough with me and teased me so much that I would cry, and then he'd laugh at my crying. I only recall him associated with pain. I recall he once dragged me across the rug when I was about 3. Not because I was in trouble or anything, just "playing." I got rug burn so bad it bled. He ignored my crying, going "WHEEEE!!!" to drown out my pleads to stop. Putting on a shirt was painful for a long time, and I recall being freaked out by the rash and the scarring in the mirror even long after they healed. My mother was angry with him, but like a scamp who broke Mr. Wilson's window with his baseball, he got away with it with a scolding, but no long-term repercussions. The scant few "back in time" fantasies I have about him involve killing him while he slept, or having one last drag-out, knock down fight where I didn't curl up into a ball or run away crying or hiding. He'd be forced to kill me. I'd let him. I wouldn't stop, no matter how much I bled of what bones were at a bad angle. Like Monty Python's "Black Knight," I'd never stop until he beat me so hard, he would have to dispose the body. I truly believe he would do it. And some sick part of me would gasp my last breath in joy, knowing that even when he killed me, he'd have to cover up what happened, make up lies, and spend the rest of his life always keeping tabs on the investigation.

God, I have a lot of anger towards that horrible, horrible man.

When I heard the geisha never heard from her sister again, and how she lost her parents, I felt some pain. Earlier in the day, I heard that the last survivor of the Totanic died. She was only 5, and lost both parents and three brothers in the wreck. I felt more pain.

I feel no sense of cycle, no "circle of life" that Simba had. My parents bounced me around like a pinball until someone suddenly pulled the power cord. Then I bounced around some more, with luck found some good friends, and while it was never their place to raise me, inadvertently set me on a better path. But even though I have a great wife and son, I feel so alone. No grandparents, an uncle who barely knows me, and cousins in a foreign country who are hard to read. I feel like I have to till my own dry and arid soil all the time. I should be so grateful and nights like this all I can do is be bitter and selfish. All I can do is cry and wail on a blog that a few dozen readers will glance at and maybe comment, but ultimately forget. I am so hurting and so sick of reliving the past, and yet so afraid to let go in case there was just one last memory or saving grace that explains away everything and I can go, "Oh, hey, that's NEAT! Okay, now I understand the abuse, and now I don't have to be in pain anymore!" Wishing for the lies.

Man, I suck. If you have a family, and they are not dangerously pyscho, can you do me a favor and call them and let them know you love them? You don't know how hard it is where I am right now. I don't want any of my friends to EVER feel this bad about ANYTHING if they can help it.

This was the filtered shit. I am not fishing for complements, or "poor Grig," or "No, you're a good guy," or any of that stuff. Hense, comments off. I just need to vent.

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