Thursday, December 10, 2009

Why I ****ing hate my life here

I don't know what it is about coming home from work, that gives me a feeling of doing nothing: probably an intimate knowledge of how many interruptions I'll have if I do work on anything :-S.


A lot of thoughts have been on my mind lately. Hasn't been a very nice couple of days. Much of my time has been spent contemplating large portions of my life, and the future outlook. Really, it is probably a good thing that I can't update my journal from work, other wise I might actually survive to get things off my chest. When I'm at work, I've always managed to have the most focused thoughts: it's just that time of day, but alas, by the time I get home, there's too much to worry about to retain most of them for long, until they're lost to the interrupt storms.

I've been thinking about the dynamics of life here and how to describe it, I managed to think of, what would be equal to several type set pages :-/. Too blasted tired to pour over that again but it would vindicate what I feel. The only concise description that I can think of, is emotional torture; I'm not sure if there is actually a definition of that, but it's what things feel like here, a subtle form of torture. There's no better way I seem to be able to describe it then emotional torture and people who don't care, nor are capable of understanding the things done. Any other way of explaining it, I think would require treading incredibly more painful grounds then that, and I'm already well aware of the differences between my and my families definitions of most concepts 8=). I operate on my own, more "English language and logic driven" definitions of things.

From thinking back through the ages,  I can recall a time where I was actually happy in life: the only worry in the world being that my brother would pop the final cork and our mother would leave us holding the bag. Spanning ~90% of the range of memory I have been searching through, hell, I can even remember a time when my family was borderline on becoming homeless, and being far better off on the inside. Since, I guess the mid '90s, things have been increasingly bad. The price of progressing from being a pawn in their games, to being an appetizing target to punt around the line of fire.


No one has dared lay a finger on me in years, at least a lustrum or more. The only place I fall under assault is where nothing can ever show through but my eyes in the dark. Last time anyone tried getting violent with me, my mother ended up with sore wrists for a few days: because I had locked her hands together until she finally "Chilled out". All I had down was bump into something in the hallway and it sparked firsts flying. I have no problems with disciplinary action when I do wrong, but ahem, just being pissed enough to try pounding at me doesn't cut it ;). Under normal circumstances my reactionary back then (cica 2003-2004), as it would be today if someone started up like that, would be my old triple combo followed up by a point-decommissioner to put them flat out on the deck before they could counter, but I only restrained her from doing harm. I spent enough years of my childhood, hearing my mother going on and on about how her first husband beat her, that I am incapable of ever striking a woman: my mother included. So obviously no intent of harm was in my heart, only a forceful deescalation. Looking back at the past, it is ironic, because the impetus for developing my combative-knowledge was to protect my family in the event of emergency, not to protect myself from them lol. It's been almost that long, if not longer since I've been involved in any brawls, but the muscle memory is always sharper then the muscle.


After that incident in the early-mid 2000s, I think is when my family figured out that I had learned much to much about fighting, to be vulnerable to any blow they could dream of landing without my permission. Since then, at least in my mothers case, she knows how to dig in by other means. It's like being ripped apart without taking a blow.


Perhaps it's probability that my families crazy sign-of-weakness thing, would likely making me a target the likes of a bleeding fish in a shark tank, or that *hammering* just what this shit does to me through anyones head, would be much more painful then dying inside... but all the same: I rarely make an issue of it. I've learned through experience at trying, that it does no good, save to give more ammunition to hit me with again. Life here has allowed me to develop one hell of a poker face, because any sign of cracking would likely be like putting blood in the water, and that means being dug into deeper. Whatever I feel on the inside, you won't see it cross my face unless I put it there, or I'm ready to keel, and it takes a lot of hurting to get me there.


I believe that you can try to build people up or ripe them down, through your words and actions. For the most part, I believe in building people up instead. Because I know all to well how it feels to be ripped down and torn apart by the wolves. The only time I do widdle away at people around me, it's in jest to cause a chuckle, and my friends know it's a joke: other wise I wouldn't say any of the negative remarks I do make. That's how I am, I don't believe in inflicting the same pain upon others arbitrarily. My mother on the other hand, is a master of making me feel miserable.... an absolute master compared to anyone else. Never underestimate how your treatment of another person, can impact them, that's the one thing I've learned from my family.


Over the past couple days, I've looked at a very large portion of my life. The only thing I can say, is that they don't care as long as their agenda is archived... because I don't know if I can emotionally tolerate another explanation. It's impossible to hit me but it's easy to strike me in the heart, that's what they do. Nailing until it hurts inside, and any attempt at making that known, is just going to see things get worse.

The other day a friend asked me if I was ok, I told her I would probably be fine in a couple days; I was at a bit of a loss for words. In the past decade'ish, my family has pushed me hard enough. Three times in my life, I've come close to a nervous break down and bounced back from it. Once contemplated suicide and never will again, period. I've also had several depressive episodes (IMHO anyway) and enough periods of "bleeding out" from this place. These fucks will never kill me.  It even shows in my call sign... like a spider, if you want to crush me, you really have your work cut out for you.


Today I was remembering a song I used to sing to myself silently as a child, whenever my family managed to hurt me where the sun doesn't shine. In thinking about it, it feels more like an slaves song, something no one else in my generation is likely to comprehend (the history majors aside). How much has really changed since then? They still do it, only more often and with greater skill.


All I can say, is my D-Day is coming....

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