Places I Don’t Want To Go (from 2000)

Panama City, FL USA

This piece from 2000 has C-PTSD written all over it (pun intended). I did not have a name for it then.

There are many places that I never want to go back to.  When I think about them I begin having violent reactions.  Like little explosions in my head. The sensation begins in the back of my neck, right under my shirt collar and moves up and warms my ears.  I think this is why my ears are always red.  Mom always told me that my ears were red because I was tired. I believed her.  But I think she was lying.  I think she lied about everything now.  Looking back.  Not much makes sense to me anymore.  Not that it made sense to me then either.  But is even more twisted and pathetic now.  Now that I am this adult with adult capacities.
I was always told that when I became this adult thing, that I would look back to those days of childhood and thank her for all the guidance she gave us (now switching person to include my brother). To her, are the same anyway, so I could just as well say I to include us both.  Anyway. Fuck I can get off the subject. She told me that I would thank her.  But that isn’t in anyway true.  I mean, I am confused at the whole fucking memory en-mass. I don’t want to thank her. I don’t what to congratulate her on what a great job she did as a parent.  I think I turned out ok, but that was my doing, my choices. I think.  I’m not sure. I think she was lying to me.  You see?   When I look back, all I see is lies and bullshit.
But then again, she, like Panama City Florida, is a place I never want to go back to.  The little bombs go off in the back of my head.  Cold sweats and all, no shit.  But mom is not what I want to write about.  Not now.  But I am sure that in course of whatever this is, however long or short, she will be there.  I have this flaw.  I punish myself.  I’m self-destructive.   The old Jewish doctor would definitely tell me, “then don’t do this.” These places.  These states.  This being.  I visit over and over again.  I go back.  The vow broken.
To be honest, I am purging some things.  It’s cheaper than therapy, which I am sure I desperately need.  I was looking at a map of Panama City and it came back, the bombs.  I looked at the map and finally asked, why the fuck do I do this.  I hate this fucking place worse than any place on earth, and I willingly open a travel guide to see if it is still there.  I started doubting myself really early on.  I doubt every thought that comes in my head and test its validity.  It goes round and round until I don’t have a fucking clue what the original thought was, or the original decision regarding it.  This is a pretty fucked up way to live.  Here is an example that is going on right now.  Here I am PURGING private thought.  Vomiting, spewing, and I am worried about the frequency of the curse words. The fucking curse words. In my head, I can see the fucking review of the (whatever this is), as if I would really release this pile of shit.  It reads “honest look at the human psyche; introspective; curse words frequency 3:20, vulgar.” Fuck!

Anyway, I doubt my decisions. Always have. I don’t want to put blame, but I think it is her.  You see, every time I would decide to do something, I was asked a thousand ridiculous questions until I doubted my very existence, and would sit passively in the corner waiting directions from the queen creature.  The queen creature knew that I was a bowl of Jell-O, only crushed horses hooves and red dye #6.  A decision, you see, could not be made by one as lowly as me.  And it isn’t my age that makes (changing tense to show that this is not a past experience), me unworthy to make decisions, it is the worthless piece of flesh that hangs between my legs.  My family is firmly rooted in a man-hating, repressed-lesbian matriarchy. And I am a man, god-damn-it! A fucking man.  And I will never live that fact down.  Now I have learned to live with my inadequacies.  And in fact I do actually make decision on my own without regard to what the queen-creature, or other queen-creatures, wish, but they still have hold of me.  They still’ve got me by the balls.  The voice is there.  I do it to myself.  “Should I put curse words?”


About ~Drew

I am a survivor of childhood torture. Each day, I put one foot in front of the other, moving forward. To do any less would spell my own destruction. My music/poetry/prose deal with the devastating effect of this kind of abuse on a human being: me. My experiences/thoughts/ideas/misconceptions are exposed here for all to see. Here. I am lain bare, naked, hidden only be the cloak of anonymity.
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