Pain in the Neck

Some deeply personal rambling poetry for an early Halloween... because the scariest thing to be is honest.

"Pain in the Neck"
My mental illness does not define me; but it doesn't leave me be.
Newsflash: I have PTSD from being violently abused. Even if my mind doesn't consciously remember all the time, my body does. And I cannot seperate my actions easily from who I am because I have a broken brain.
So when my neck hurts in white hot pulses of agony from holding enough  tension to pull it out of alignment, let me explain what I go through, rather, where my mind goes to;
I am back in high school, with a loser's hands wrapped around my neck.
My jaw aches too, because I am clenching my jaw to keep from screaming on the exhale as I force myself to do stupid breathing exercises, as useless as they feel, to try and override my own body. To calm myself.
But then that brings back another memory I can't face, hands pulling my hair, my head, thumbs pressing my jaw so I can't bite. I'm choking and gagging in the past and in the present on air.
But I can't bite here because I have to be polite, especially when I don't feel safe, because fear makes you prey. Fear makes you useless.
I have been traumatized time and time again; my brain is broken. My brain cannot be as it was.
Too much, too much, too much, stop, too much...
But the world doesn't give a fuck... that is the task of people. Yet too often, that is a task neglected.
I cannot breathe.
I am in a mask to protect others, I work a job where I serve others, I write to enlighten others, I used to be a leader to others, I used to be a Confidante to others, I am an empath and I have to feel the emotions of others...
I try to live my life low maintenance to please others, so I don't inconvenience others...
I have lived my life for others.
But then my neck hurts and my body remembers.
That is the only thing I can do for me is remember, but only painfully.
I try to forget but I don't feel safe, I can't when the one I cry out to doesn't hear me, but meets my molested eyes.
oh teacher teacher, wretched creature, I called your name and you walked away.
I can't breathe, I can't bite, and I know he's only going to be more aggressive when I try to fight.
Because I can't rely easily on others... I have to rely on me, at some point, everyone leaves.
Then the mask starts to feel like a hand again and it's hands on my neck, hands over my mouth, arms squeezing the life from my chest, hands hands hands crawling over my skin again.
And then my body remembers through the beeping and the screaming, but I'm at work, there's tortillas I should be steaming, but my brain is broken and down my face tears are streaming.
Now I look weak, now I'm broken, a workhorse gone lame or worse, human.
The coils in my neck wind tighter, I can't see through the pain, and I don't feel safe because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid to misstep, I'm afraid to set him off; him in past and him, irritable of the present.
My brain is broken and I cannot seperate now from then because my body remembers and it is afraid.
I cannot seperate my actions easily from who I am, so when I am overwhelmed, I am instantly failure in my eyes.
I am disappointment.
I am, yet again, a let down.
I am, once more, the problem child.
I am a rose and my traumatized brain is the thorn...
I love, with a passion I rarely utter, roses for those very things.
But I cannot love and accept myself because I have only in sad recent time been shown what it is like to feel those things... 2019 brought love, and 2020 brought acceptance.
I have a broken brain because my body holds my emotions too close to my pain.
I am medicated and dedicated to my mental health, but welcome to the modern world where you can't exactly have those things without work or wealth.
I have a broken brain, my illness does not define me... but some days it binds me. Some days I break, I shake, and I can't keep the tears down. Then the tears won't stay down because I cannot easily seperate my actions from who I am.
I never learned how to live for me because I was always ready to die for others... and I did time and time again. And again. And again. And again until I had to step back from being somebody to being nobody again.
So I'm sorry if I'm a pain in the neck...

I Write Darker Things

 As I've continued writing on "The Yaak House" I have realized that I would do well to put my works of macabre horror on a blog dedicated to such so that my readers can enjoy my poetry unadulterated.

I will not move my short suspense story, "Echoes" as it is a milder flavor  than "Yaak House", which has progressed into new and darker realms as I have written on it. 

This new blog is still under construction, but the address is https://andiwritedarker.blogspot.com/ 

Things will be a tad messy on this blog insofar as "The Yaak House" is concerned, but I intend to keep the initial posts as placeholders, but replace the contents with a simple link to the corresponding label on my Darker Things blog. The link to all current posts pertaining to "The Yaak House" can be found here.

Big Weird Brother

Good news, good news! The number of siblings I have in my life has gone up to three!

There's my sister, and I've written and read here about my Charlie, my younger brother... but did you know I have another?

I have another brother!

Ah, but this modern tale of sibling discovery has a twist; for there was no tryst. No teenage mishap fading into the mist.

My newfound brother does more than live in my heart, he lives in my town!

I have another brother... every time I think it, the tears threaten a flood.

If you've been to my open mic before, his voice, you've heard its sound.

I have a big weird brother, but not by blood.

I'm a strange kind of blessed, I pick the nuts that go in my family tree.

I'm doing better, though I'm still depressed, I know my brother is there for me.

I remember the night I met him, it was my first open mic.

He knows my soul has had nights dark and dim; he knows now what he didn't then- that he saved me from my own dark whim.

If you've been here some time, you know our open mic group hosts all kinds, musicians, poets, and even another writer.

He's brainy, eccentric, and above all so very shy and kind.

He loves Björk, he can dance, he can sing, the only thing he isn't much of is a fighter.

I think you've met my brother; a tall, shy man with heart-stopping, brilliant blue eyes.

He's an Author, that special kind of madman; a nut like me, in love with dreams and ink.

I think you've met my brother, his name is McCallum, but for the sake of this sappy poem, I can call him Mac.

We hide away in the corners, like birds of a feather- maybe bats?

Probably bats...

Bats.

There's a story there, I promise you that.

Isn't that the strange beauty of brothers beyond the bond of mothers, the friends who become family?

The people you can relate with, lean on, cry to... you can make one another laugh, even if you don't really try to.

But to circle back to the fact of bats...

(I see you smiling Mac.)

I have lived my life a bat.

Hidden away in my caves, spurning the lights of day, I'm bright and most alive from when the sun dies to just before it rises.

I lived my life disliked.

Dark and misunderstood; angry being held. 

I lived my life thinking, "Nobody likes bats."

Then there's Mac.

Arguably, he may be a bigger bat... 

(Hey, I love you, you know that.)

He likes bats; loves them.

From their tiny teeth, their little gossamer wings...

To their ability to inspire stories like "Dracula" among other things.

I think you've met my brother; heard his soul play in the way writers do on hearts and strings. 

You've seen him be brave, an Introvert onstage, a bat out and about during the day!

He doesn't drink blood, (he doesn't like people that much) but he thrives on coffee and tea, on Vinyl and strange bands. Passes his time with paint on his hands, longing to visit again strange green lands.

I think you've met my brother, isn't that grand?

He's the kindest person I know, to see this soul-scarred bat and say "I understand."

The kindest person I know, brave enough to hold out open arms where words have failed and action is left to speak.

Kind enough to listen, even when all this frantic bat can do is squeak.

My brother is a writer, an author, a wordsmith, story builder, world weaver, an artist with more backbone than a book has spine.

My brother is a man who has saved a life with just his words alone; tell me if you can say the same before you dare open your mouth to muddy his passion or his name.

I have a big weird brother; he's been more than a best friend.

For what it's worth coming from the lips of a heathen... I'd call him a godsend.

Unadopted

It feels wrong to call this tale mine, visceral, angry, sad.
Worse, it is drawn from the experiences too many have had.

You are a cell, you do not feel, you do not scream, you do not breathe.
You are forced into existence by the parents of a young drug whore.
She never wanted motherhood, but oh her father preached.
You were born on the drug den floor.

You were surrendered at the fire station, for better or worse.
A ward already of the state.
Never by the birth mother held, you never got to nurse.
Already you are forsaken by the system, born into bleak fate.

You are adoptable, but you're expensive because you're young.
The system is glorified, a high price puppy mill.
You start to say words, to use your tongue.
"Ma" but those shoes are empty, too expensive to fill.

Everybody wants a baby,
adoption is only second best.
A last resort, a maybe,
hearts break in tiny chests.

You are one, but you have no home.
You witness your first abuse, foster mom and dad are violent, they fight.
You're young, you're scared, the suit people come, you get an ice cream cone.
You cry though, because it's not a familiar room you sleep in that night.

You are two, you are curious and loud.
You are cute, but you live with a monster.
The people that have taken you are the birth mother's crowd.
You're just another check for their roster.

The suit people come, you aren't even three.
They take you again, a new unfamiliar room.
There are still bruises on your cheeks.
You don't understand, and you cry when the thunder booms.

You are three, childless newlyweds take you to the pond.
They decide a child is too much, too soon.
You don't know the word yet, but you feel conned.
The suit people come, another ice cream at noon.

You are four and you  already feel alone.
You're in daycare, and the suit woman comes.
The words of heartbreak and hope echo on your young lips, "I go home?"
The pain in her eyes burns brighter than a hundred suns.

You are five, you think you have a home.
You a family, an aunt too.
There is something weird with her, you feel it in your bones.
The suit people come after she starts kissing you.

You are six and you make a friend, your big brother, his name is Fred.
The suit people ask about him, with hope and a grin.
You say he wrestles naked with you in bed.
You learn years later, that the taste on his lips was gin.

You are seven, you're crying, you want a home.
The drunk you almost called dad says he's going to give you something to cry about.
Then, he breaks your bones.
The suit people, at the hospital, are the ones who see you out.

You are eight, and your gaze is haunted.
You woke from sleep with hand muffled screams.
After the act, he smoked a cigarette, flaunted.
The suit people come, for the first time they are a dream.

You are nine, another house, it happens again.
But the suit people don't check in as often now.
It doesn't happen often, only now and then.
Your learn it's called "sex", and realize for years, you've known how.

You are ten when you taste hope.
Start to call them mom and dad.
It's beautiful and fragile, a bubble of soap.
They are the first real parents you've had.

You are eleven, you haven't changed houses for a year.
You feel like you have a home.
You begin to forget fear.
Mom gives you a blanket, it's hand sewn.

You are twelve when you overhear.
These cries are joy, and soon enough you learn.
They'd been trying for an en vitro baby, it's worked, they cheer.
You're not in the announcement photos, but for this family you have yearned.

You are a week from thirteen when the baby is born, she's perfect and pure.
You even get to hold her, you call her your sister.
Then comes the heavy blow, they don't need you now, so you are returned.
You never get to say how much you'll miss her.

You are thirteen, you're still angry and you're hurt.
People don't want to adopt, they want blood, they want kin.
You're in Catholic school, this father's hands are crawling beneath your shirt.
At home, you trace a sharp pencil against your skin.

You're fourteen, now nobody wants you.
You're in a group home, you are covered in self inflicted scars.
Your grades are falling, your college hopes are few.
That's when you meet her, your first real friend, your star.

You are fifteen, she is your best friend, you start to call her mom.
She's seems ancient and wise, she's a writer.
She knows every way to reach you, and when you audition for a play, she's there to cheer you on.
You know by her scars she too, is a fighter.

You are sixteen, you're still in that group home.
You're losing hope in being adopted, but the mom friend is there.
You skip school one day to go get stoned.
Mom is the one to find you, you feel guilty, she was scared.

You are seventeen, you're little more than skin and bone.
You have more scars now, your body is thin.
Nobody wants you, you have no home.
Mom begs her parents to take you in.

You are still seventeen when you try to die.
You friend, Mom, cuts you from the noose.
Like a newborn with the cord cut, you begin to cry.
You wish you could overlook the haunting  truth.

Her hands are shaking as she holds you close.
Your life is the greatest tragedy she has ever seen.
This friend has been a parent to you, more than most.
You tell her everything you've survived, she weeps and keens.

You are a month from eighteen, when her bold words are spoken.
"I will have not kids my own, but raise the ones tossed aside."
She makes a promise in her flesh that can't be broken.
She turns 24, and she has her tubes tied.

You are the day before being an adult, nobody wants to raise you.
People wanted kin, people wanted babies.
At least your friend mom is pure, is true.
Nobody thinks about the foster children they see.

These children, praying for maybe.
Praying to be that lucky third.
If en vitro doesn't work, if they can't have the baby.
Then maybe, just maybe, talk of adoption is heard.

You are 18 and you try to die again, the darkness sweet.
You wake in the hospital, your friend, now your mom, is reading your note.
The closing line, "Cause of death? En vitro, you see."
You reach for her hand as she sits shaking beneath her heavy coat.

You are 19 and you live with your friend mom.
She's crying because the state won't let her foster.
Your faith in humanity is all but gone,
You take her out to dinner, spoil her at Red Lobster.

You are 20 when you track a once young crack whore down.
Friend mom is with you, she wants to meet her too.
The once young whore is ancient, she lives across town.
The whore's gaze is vacant, she wants nothing to do with you.

You're halfway to 21 and your track down your father.
Well, at least your find you have a half sibling, his son.
Another foster child with whom most won't bother.
Your father is a grave, he turned on himself a gun.

You are 22 and your half brother is 15.
His last three foster parents returned him after their successes conceiving.
The pain is his eyes is your own memory, keen.
"Bundles of joy" are so damned deceiving.

People want blood, people want kin.
People want blood to their heirs,
More shallow than their skin,
The hands with blood on them may as well be theirs.

You are 23, your brother is just 16.
His foster parents just had a miracle en vitro heir.
Your brother was taken off life support after hanging from a tree.
He had over heard their plans to return him and despaired.

Your friend- she says to call her mom- holds you while you scream.
You were the one who got the hospital's call,
his life was taken by the selfish genetic dream.
You're thirteen again, you curse it all.

In his suicide note, it reads;
"My cause of death... en vitro, you see..."
You curse the fertility clinic for their "Good deeds"
You weep for the brother who never got to be.

You run into your former foster parents, you are 24, a friend is 22.
They're at a pro life rally as you walk her into the clinic.
They scream, "What if your mother had aborted you?!"
"You didn't want me either," your smile is bitter, cynic.

Silence spreads through the small crowd.
You tell about your freshly dead brother.
They slink back, guilty and cowed.
Your friend is brave through the abortion, you hug her.

You are 25, friend mom is 31,
You hear about the crack whore now in a hearse.
You can imagine never knowing the sun.
But here you were born, for better or worse.

You're 26, walking into the clinic beside a young girl.
It's your one-day sister, she's just 13.
Her parents are there, if just  to protest, she says she wants to hurl.
Mother doesn't want her to abort her grandchild, the size of a bean.

She screams, she howls, "Someone will adopt it!"
You turn to her, you scowl, "Until they have their en
vitro child."
Your one-day sister turns to her mother and spits.
You tell her then you've missed her, she smiled.

Your one day sister becomes an only child disowned.
She comes to you when she's kicked from the house.
You are 27, you finally have a home.
Your friend mom is cleared at last to foster, she helps your one day sister out.

You are 28, your one day sister is now forever.
Family of choosing is a bond hard to sever.
You have a family, and of hope, at last you have a token.
She made a promise in flesh that can't be broken.

Everybody wants a baby, adoption is only second best.
A last resort, a maybe as hearts break in tiny chests.

A Letter to My Teenage Self

To my teenage self, in the early years, 15,16, 17; it's going to be okay, you're going to survive. You'll be battered and bruised, and I wish I could say it would be the end of the abuse, that you would get the chance to reclaim your youth. I wish I could say it will get easier, but I think you know better. The Heathen will get to you, will get away. The dinner table criminal will come tumbling down, but her enabler will continue. You will get stronger. You will learn to stand alone.
To my teenage self, in the later times, 18, 19, there's a lot still to come. Your purpose is not done. You were born to lead, you were born to heal, to inspire.
To my teenage self, through all the hard days; you will pull people back from the brink.
You will be a leader, you will be a confidante.
You will be the one someone comes to, the day of his attempted suicide.
You will be the one that he talks to.
You will. Be. There.
You have to be there.
He will not be the only one.
There will be so many who come to you.
You will see so much hurt, you will see so much pain, you will lose your son.
It will hurt, but you will survive.
You will lose people, you will miss goodbyes, you will miss their presences and advice, you will inspire.
You're going to survive, because people will hold you close and cry. You will be their rock, you will be the mountain, firm beneath their feet.
To my teenage self, you're going to beat this.
You will save so many people, you just have to be there.

Enabled (and the history of the peice)

This was originally not supposed to be something for the blog, but it feeds the fire in me where the matter of dinner table criminals are involved. I'm from a place with a wretched double standard; and in my mind, those who enable abuse knowingly are just as bad as the abusers.

"Enabled"

I think I'll throw this out with the trash, because Flashbacks are a thing, and there is no greater displeasure than waking to a morning full of them.
They never tell you that they can be almost anything. For me, today, it was just seven words.

So maybe I'm a bit angry, and perhaps I'm harsh, but what remains is the fact that the people I haven't cut from my life yet are mostly still connected to me here.

After doing some deep meditation, I have come to the conclusion that I really do not care who you are.
If you know, or suspect, that something is wrong, and then do nothing about it? You are truly the worst kind of person I can imagine, and I will walk you to the gates of hell myself. I say this from a place where I can acknowledge that I have been this person as well and I loathe it, but I've grown.
Overgrown, perhaps, to the point where I am comfortable with my thorns, my scars, comfortable with my truth and trauma. There was a time where I would wallow, where I would set myself aflame in the kerosene self pity... but I've grown.
I've grown and matured into someone who pours her rage into Molotov cocktails, enraged messages she never sends, left to burn out. Left to wither, die.

I have grown into someone who confronted an enabler of one of her sickest abusers... and was asked "Did she touch you?"
As if the suspicion had laid in their mind.
As if they had been okay with the potential of my molestation as a Child.

As if it was lesser because "she" was not "he".

As if. It was. Okay.

90% of sexual abuse cases involving children are family or guardians.

Throw in the fact local judges don't give a damn,  and it's a wonder that our society functions as well as it does.
Survivors, I speak with undiluted ire from my own experience, are talked down at often, so I might just be the salty one here.
It's also worth note that in many cases, especially in cases involving family members, some members of the family will defend the offender and enable bad behavior.
Those who speak out are made into villains, and the ones enabling bad behavior will just whine and point the  blame somewhere, and often at someone, else.

Because God forbid I have my own opinion, be my own person, have my own life.

If just one thing in my situation had been inverse, maybe the perverse would at last take their last ride in a hearse... but as things lie, I'll just wait, and I will dance the day they die.

I'll just end with a quote from a conversation that still stirs fire and ire in my soul, because it's the line I woke up to, ringing in my head. It's the line that leaves me eagerly awaiting the day someone is dead.

I leave you, with those seven words.

"It's not like she touched you... right?"

The Tchotchke

Now for some art, namely of the Tchotchke. The pronunciation is as weird as the name, Cha-ch-ka.
The Tchotchke are a creature from my science fiction novel in progress. They're large, the size of stags but capable of being far larger if enough resources are available to them, and no two are alike in their horror. The masks pry apart and off, exposing sinew and muscle. They make a variety of sounds, but are most known for their ability to use high frequencies to shatter glass. Larger Tchotchke can even warp steel this way. Little is known about them by most sentient races, with the exception of an elusive and secretive elder race, the Lixir.
These creatures are in part inspired by my own night terrors, naming and drawing them being a way to take some of their power away.

The first Tchotchke Sketch, circa 2013

First Colored Tchotcke Sketch

A Tchotchke of Legend, Ymirnth, Mother of All. Acrylic multimedia