Secrets Keep You Sick

Secrets keep you sick, or at the very least that’s what far too many ‘well meaning’ therapist have told him. Sitting in those cold and sadly decorated rooms with the ‘professional’ sitting across it looking back at him with searching eyes, trying to crack the code and unlock the secrets of his sick and sad mind. Some would open up to him and tell little secrets of their own, trying helplessly to chip away at the fortress that surrounded what belongs to him. He can’t tell then, he won’t tell them, if they know they’ll hate him, throw him away like his family did. If his own blood can tell him that he no longer belongs in their life because of his  secrets, why wouldn’t this stranger that hardly knows him be any different.

Each day becomes a battle, waking up to the reality of a pointless existence that should be squashed out like a putrid insect under a shoe. The secrets clinging on to him, holding on with their sticky claws that dig into his skin drawing blood, hurting him, like he deserve to be hurt. Pain becomes his close companion, nurturing the thought of death that fester in his sad existence. Then in an almost defiant way, the secrets start to out weigh everything and slowly the walls start to slowly weather and crumble, falling away allowing little bits of the secrets that define his existence to become visible to anyone who cares to look.

That’s when the unthinkable happened, someone looked. For the first time since the creation of these disgusting truths that filled his head someone else saw them and she didn’t run, she did the unthinkable, she stayed and stared right back. The scared little boy who hid between all the vile secrets slowly rose up and showed himself. He knew that it was a very bad idea but some invisible force seemed to pry him out, making him feel strong and he kept rising. She reaches out to him, opening her hand, inviting him to take the biggest risk of his pathetic little existence, and he waists no time to grab onto the first real thing that he has ever felt.

With the strength of a thousand men she pulls him free from the life he has called reality and shows him another truth, one of love and hope. He drinks her love blindly savoring each drop, spilling nothing. He needs more, sucking every last drop that he can get out of her, but he doesn’t notice that she has begun to wither away, she has become a shell, empty. Wanting more he devours her,  unaware to the reality of how he is killing her. Before long she is no longer there.

As he comes out of his feeding frenzy he realizes what he has done. First the guilt comes, then the pain of the reality of what he is sinks in, and he shrinks. Quickly he climbs back into the fortress that once he called home and rebuilds the walls that for so long protected him. He looks at the devastation that he has created and locks it away, vowing never to let it out again.

In a cold, sadly decorated room he looks at the ‘professional’ staring back at him and listens as he says those all to familiar word,”secrets keep you sick”…..

Back in the Game

   It’s been a while since my last blog entry, much has happened since I was last here and it is now time for me to continue to tell my story. hopefully this time I won’t have some sort of crisis that once again takes me away from doing what I have set out to do. 

   Enjoy it, love it, hate it, whatever you want. Ago Pour Perseptum

Realization

My truth. What is my truth? I don’t know, if I did I wouldn’t be writing this at 01h00 with the entire world sleeping. What I would give for the sweet sleep that my son seems to find so easily. Maybe it is his innocents that allows him to drift off to that peaceful place without any problems. My innocents, something I long to have back. if only I could take back the years of drug abuse where I allowed people to do things to me and did unforgivable things to others. Is it my guilt that keeps me awake at night, or the realization that I am the person that certain people said I would be.

So back to the question at hand, what is my truth? This is my truth. I don’t know who I am, what I am, or what I will be in time to come. That been said, I do know what I am not. One thing I am not is someone who gives up. I am a fighter. I fought to get clean from heroin and meth. I won. I fought to get off the streets and make a life for myself. I won. I will now fight to take this identity of myself and forge it into something that not only me, but my son as well, can be proud of. I may not know my truth, but I sure as hell know what I am not, I am not a quitter.

I am so sorry

  I looked up at her from my desk, wondering if it was worth the risk. It was a stupid rule, why she enforced it now made no sense to me. My grade 4 teacher had made a new rule of only two visits per child to the bathrooms through the day, and both of mine were used. Now I found myself sitting at my desk twisting and turning, unable to sit still, wishing I could just go and pee. Unfortunately, rules are rules, and I was no different from anyone else. Twice I had stood up and told that evil woman that I really needed to go and twice she told me that rules are rules. So I just sat there, praying that the bell would ring and that I could run as fast as possible to my salvation, but it never came.

  Eventually it just became to unbearable for me, and I once again stood up and went to the evil woman’s table in the front of the classroom. With each step I could feel my body losing a little more control. NO!! NOT HERE!!! I looked up at her sitting on her perch and tried to say the words, but I couldn’t. My mouth had been sowed shut, there was nothing I could do but stand there and look at her. Then it happened, I felt the warm betrayal start to trickle down my legs and I began to feel the panic wash over me. NO!! This can’t be happening to me!! Why?? My eyes dart downwards and I see a golden puddle of shame grown around my feet. That was when I looked towards my class mates to see every eye glued to me. If only the ground could swallow me up and make me disappear, then I wouldn’t have to see the other children pointing fingers and laughing at me.

  As if that wasn’t enough, that evil woman decided to open up that trapdoor on her face she calls a mouth and utter the words that even as a child I could not believe she had the cheek to say.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  I wanted to scream at her, to lash out and tell her that I did, that it was her fault and her stupid rules! I didn’t, I just stood there, looking down at the puddle that had formed under me, shamed. I ran out of the class and went to the bathrooms, followed by my friend and savior who had spare clothes with him. He told me that it was an accident and we all made mistakes, he comforted me. I didn’t deserve to be comforted, I needed to be punished, the way that my mother would punish me when I wet my bed.

  “Useless little child!!! Can’t even get up to go to the toilet! Useless!!! You are a disappointment little boy!!!T”

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! A few random blows to the body and I was punished. Then I was sent off to school smelling off piss so that everyone could know just how useless I was. So peeing myself in front of everyone wasn’t actually that bad, they already knew, I was useless.

  That was when it hit me, the school would have to tell her what happened! That would mean another beating, one that I deserved no doubt. They did phone the house, but my “mother” didn’t answer, she was too busy feeling sorry for her own pathetic existence, with her head buried in her pillow.  I knew the truth, she was counting down the minutes until she could remind me of my evil, my very existence that was the cause of everything bad.  I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t, she was my mother. It was her duty as my mother to show me just how much of a terrible ten year old boy I was, and I had to be grateful to her for that.

  Even as I type these words down I feel like I am doing the wrong thing by exposing the evil that called herself my mother. I can’t hate her, at times I find myself staring at my mobile, her number on the screen, wanting to hit  call and tell her that she deserves to die. At times I just want to call her and say that I love her and miss her. Truth be told, she messed me up so badly that neither would be a good idea, instead, I cut her out of my life and started to live my own life. I made a promise to myself and to god that I will never do the same to my son, and I haven’t.

  So, this is what I have to say to you mother…

  I have become a disappointment, and I am so sorry. I haven’t ever abused little children like you said I would. I’m sorry. I never raised my hand to my partners. I’m sorry. I never did rape or murder anyone. I’m so sorry. I am a disappointment, I pulled myself out of a gutter of hatred and self loathing and became the man that I need to be for my son. I am so sorry…

1003452_268767543266513_265912644_n

 

It really did happen…I think

I can still remember it like it happened only a moment ago. I was a skinny little 15 year old boy, standing in the hall way at home. She was in front of me, her face was all twisted up with hate and complete disgust, spit spraying out of the tool that she would use to beat me to a pulp as she screamed those words that burned themselves into my forehead, so that each time I look at myself I’ll remember.

“YOU!!! YOOOUUU STUPID LITTLE BOY!!! You are going to grow up to be one of those men who beat there wife! You will probably touch little children too!!!! YOU ARE AN EVIL LITTLE PERSON!!!”

That was what my mother told me on a regular basis 15 years ago. I’m no longer that little 15 year old teen anymore, I’m a grown man with an amazing little 3 year old son. I am a productive member of society, yet, those words have never left me. They have stayed with me like some parasite just waiting for the right time to hatch out of its eggs and infest my body, eating me alive from the inside.

I wish I could say that I hated my mother, because trust me, this isn’t the worst of what she put me through as a child, yet I just can’t bring myself to say those words. I’ve been told that this is common for children who have had abusive parents, I don’t know…

Truth be told, my childhood experiences, teenage rebellion, adolescent drug induced rollercoaster ride and all the relationships I have ever had are the reasons that I have started this blog. I am going to tell my story to the world, a story about love, hate, happiness, suicide attempts, abuse, drugs, prostitution, hustling, and finally, a journey of self discovery. I must warn you, much of the story I have to tell isn’t a pretty one, but I’m positive that there is someone out there who will appreciate it. I will put a little up each week, enjoy it, hate it, love it, laugh at it, cry…..AGO POUR PERSEPTUM