Twisting and Turning

January 7th, 2005

This isn’t an extraordinarily special day.  This span of 24 hours that shall pass from dawn to dusk and then end in the still frozen chill of another winter sunrise.  Fate had not determined a series of significant events for my loved ones or me on this the 7th of January, 2005, but I have other inclinations, aspirations.  I have decided to cast back a ways to the one I “used” to be, just a bit, not in everyway, just slide into my previously “used” skin, take the clothes I stashed at the back of the closet out into the light of day once again, feel a modified touch of the old punk attitude for a time, now that my son is ten.  I guess I feel he has matured enough that I can express myself without any danger of my child misunderstanding the statement I am making in my approach to my apparel or musical choices.  I firmly believe that my son has an established impression of my character and standards by this point in his life, how I dress (I must stress that I don’t expose unnecessary areas of my body or wear disturbing apparel) and the music I listen too will not effect his core belief in who I am.  I have found, unfortunately, punk rock is not a kid friendly forum of musical expression and I have had to be extremely careful in my choice of artists and songs (My son listens to most of the music that I listen too.)  I am not reliving a dead past, dead no, alive, very much alive, never died, it has been intrinsically entwined in the very fiber of every moment of my life, every thought process that snapped across the synapses of my brain, since the very moment the present formally became my past.  I am not trying to desperately stay forever young because I treasure the honor of claiming to have tread this Earth another day longer rather than another day less.  When a child looks upon my countenance I want them to follow the map of my laugh lines and weathered creases, let them trace the routes of my tears and the crevices left by battles won or lost to discover the true nature that lies beneath.  I like who and what I am now, far more than who I was then, but I also desire to merge the two once in a while because it was who I was then that made me who I am now.  I never stopped being me.  I grew up, took on responsibilities that warranted appropriate behaviors from me, and granted something’s did change and fall by the way side, but I never lost myself during any of those changes.  And now that the time has come that I can carefully slip back into myself, taking the good, not the bad, I only hope that I don’t meet with too much disapproval from those around me.  This is sort of an experiment.  Let’s see how long my mother will tolerate this.  Or perhaps this is all just a slight manic episode.

November 14th, 2004

There was a time when the feel of a liquid caressing my throat, warming my insides and fogging my thoughts was a welcome sensation.  The thought of a stiff drink was a desperate and needful draw to me.  Anything to numb the stick and stab of the thoughts that plagued the everyday misery that had become my raw and naked life.  Memories of my youth’s ludicrous antics and failures loomed before my mind’s eye like garish trollops leering their wares at me with a cruelty unwarranted.  It came to a point where I had nowhere to turn; shutting my eyes tight did not even deter the images from smearing their lurid flesh across the thin glass pane of my consciousness, obscuring my view of anything else.  They haunted my dreams with their screams and cackling laughter; they would taunt me with shrill and nasty utterances, daring me to chase them away.  And chase them away I tried, with many attempts at dashing them against the buttress of my will.  But, when the will is finally broken, the battlements of emotional fortitude devastated and laid waste, what is left to protect the fragile mind from the machinations and the cruel intentions of mental illness?  Very little, when you are left dazed and confused and ignorant as to what is happening to you.  What happens then?  The rape and pillage of a mind laid bare to the whim and fancy of “marauders” one only dreams about during the nights when fevers make nightmares too real to bear.

November 7th, 2004

Last night I heard the whispers again.  They carassed the skin of my neck and gently found their way into my head.  I wondered if they were truly coming from without my mind or if in fact they were figments of my fertile imaginings summoned up by the encroahment of my illness. I heard them call to me and then fade away to a wisp of a breath, at first I was not sure they spoke to me at all.  But, they grew more earnest, ever more determined to hold my attention, as if my ear were kissed by their shadowy lips.  As their beckoning became sharper, it seemed they had slipped into my mind without my noticing and no matter where I placed my thoughts, they were there.  Their insistence came with a hiss that issued throughout my mind and to my fright, what appeared to be soft and tender like the lips of a lover, was now drawn back in an ugly sneer to reveal sharp and jagged teeth beneath.  The whispers no longer held sentiments of a sweet nature, now they were laced with dark and fierce tones of cruelties I could not hide from.

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