The shame of rape and molestation is like being locked in a room full of roaches feeding on you - this post is a light turned on in that room to make them all scatter, big heavy combat boots to stomp them to death, and a flamethrower to keep any of them from getting out alive. I'm taking what is mine out of that room once and for all and setting fire to it when I leave - then watching it burn and getting on with life. I decided a long time ago that I wasn't going to be a victim OR a survivor, I was going to be angry and let anyone that needed to know it know all about it. No holding back, no mercy, no apologies. It's the only thing that keeps me from tearing myself apart sometimes. I don't recommend it to everybody, but that's my thing.

I wrote this two years ago after creating a piece of artwork that I was afraid would kill me if I ever tried to do it. It proved just the opposite, it made me better for the pain of its labor. I got a random comment to that original post last night from someone claiming to be an old friend of mine that has been looking for me and was sad when I disappeared from her life. I've reached out to her to see if it really is me she's looking for, went back through some of the comments to that post, and in doing so have realized the power of this thing - the story, the artwork, and how it all resonates with people. I have made several new LJ friends since this was originally posted, and decided to repost it for two reasons. First, it is a good way to really get to know and understand part of who and why and what I am. Second, I know what my worth is and I know that I am a good man who never does anything to hurt anyone, and if exposing this much vulnerability will be a catalyst for someone else to help heal themselves up or at the very least feel less isolated and alone in the world, then it is worth it.

DISCLAIMER:
I realize that there are going to be those people who will look at all of this and think "Comment Whore" or "Attention Whore", which is fine. Think what you want to think about me, I support your right to think whatever you choose to - but fuck you just the same. Actually, motherfuck you. This isn't about you and it certainly isn't for you, it's for the person who reads this and is moved enough to try and complete their own journey of suffering and try to put it to bed. It's for anyone who knows anyone that went through something similar, to help make them a more understanding and better friend. It is for anyone who thinks it is important enough to point out to others and say "here, I want you to read this" - and provoke others who may not ever hear this story otherwise into closing the circle on all of the isolation people like us are cursed to live in. Link to this post, email links to everyone you know, post links in communities and on message boards, and wherever people will be encouraged to read it. For the record, I don't mind the comments and I DO want the attention paid to this post - but only so it can be a healing thing for someone else.

Here is the original post, (dated May 28, 2005):

"Be my good boy now, and I'll take you to get ice cream after..."

That's what he would tell me, he would take me to get ice cream if I didn't cry and if I never told anyone. Can you believe how lame that sounds to me now? That's what he told me when I was 10 years old and it started, to the best of my memory which is pock marked and moth eaten at best. I never got to pick my own flavor, he would always buy me a single scoop of strawberry in one of those nasty cake cup cones. To this day I will eat neither strawberry ice cream or cake cup cones. A few years ago I was offered strawberry ice cream, and it never occurred to me that I would have any adverse reaction to it. As soon as the spoon got in my mouth, I gagged and ran outside to vomit, which I did violently. I cried the whole time, realizing what that taste had come to represent to me. So no more strawberry ice cream for me, ever.

This post details more personal information than I think I have ever shared on LiveJournal before, and it will have graphic moments and might make you regret reading any further. I make this post public because I no longer care who knows about this kind of thing, keeping it to myself and the choice few who already know about it has always been part of the problem. Perhaps this might serve to help someone in the same struggle.

( Cut for content - don't say I didn't warn you... )

Today I decided to start a new piece for my En Abstraktia series. This one actually does have a title, I have decided to call it "Good Boy". It was created in the spirit of a violently angry little boy that lives inside me, so betrayed and hurt and angry that I rarely ever see him. I never thought I could ever help him, but I decided to let him take over this particular piece. And he did. I'm much happier now that I let him do it, too.

So for anyone who has ever been hurt like this or ever felt betrayed or victimized, this is for you. If you are the parent of a child, let this be your wake-up call for an opportunity to have discussions with your children. It is estimated that 70% of abusers are someone that both the child and parents know well. Feel free to link to this entry and pass it around, post about it or whatever - I don't care. I make this post public because I think that art SHOULD imitate life and it should provoke and inspire on some level. I think it should be shared, and though I don't normally explain these pieces, this one was too personal not to. Thank salenelle for that.


Series: En Abstraktia
Title: "Good Boy"
2005

I just woke up a few moments ago from another nightmare, another one about HIM. One of these days, this bullshit will stop. I woke up kicking and crying and scared to death and practically jumped out of the bed, scaring the hell out of D in the process. I'm okay now, about 15 minutes have passed and I'm getting my bearings. My muscles are sore and my throat is on fire from heartburn, which I usually get when I'm upset for some reason. I did my silent/to myself "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay" chanting and now I feel kind of numbed out.

Here it is - I know now what it would take to get me to believe in God. HE would be alive again and I could kill him myself with my bare fucking hands in a public place and anyone looking on would know why and applaud me for it.

I'm okay.

"Be my good boy now, and I'll take you to get ice cream after..."

That's what he would tell me, he would take me to get ice cream if I didn't cry and if I never told anyone. Can you believe how lame that sounds to me now? That's what he told me when I was 10 years old and it started, to the best of my memory which is pock marked and moth eaten at best. I never got to pick my own flavor, he would always buy me a single scoop of strawberry in one of those nasty cake cup cones. To this day I will eat neither strawberry ice cream or cake cup cones. A few years ago I was offered strawberry ice cream, and it never occurred to me that I would have any adverse reaction to it. As soon as the spoon got in my mouth, I gagged and ran outside to vomit, which I did violently. I cried the whole time, realizing what that taste had come to represent to me. So no more strawberry ice cream for me, ever.

This post details more personal information than I think I have ever shared on LiveJournal before, and it will have graphic moments and might make you regret reading any further. I make this post public because I no longer care who knows about this kind of thing, keeping it to myself and the choice few who already know about it has always been part of the problem. Perhaps this might serve to help someone in the same struggle.

( Cut for content - don't say I didn't warn you... )

Today I decided to start a new piece for my En Abstraktia series. This one actually does have a title, I have decided to call it "Good Boy". It was created in the spirit of a violently angry little boy that lives inside me, so betrayed and hurt and angry that I rarely ever see him. I never thought I could ever help him, but I decided to let him take over this particular piece. And he did. I'm much happier now that I let him do it, too.

So for anyone who has ever been hurt like this or ever felt betrayed or victimized, this is for you. Feel free to link to this entry and pass it around, post about it or whatever - I don't care. I make this post public because I think that art SHOULD imitate life and it should provoke and inspire on some level. I think it should be shared, and though I don't normally explain these pieces, this one was too personal not to. Thank salenelle for that.


Series: En Abstraktia
Title: "Good Boy"
2005

It is completely fitting that Hannibal would have a Dean & Deluca lunchbox for the plane trip, and that he would agree with the little boy that the food served on the plane was inedible. I also thought it befitting that he would strike an immediate rapport with the child, being that the child hadn't garnered any life experience to become rude or careless enough to make of himself, categorically, a meal.

"I think I was wrong, I think you were right...
And all my angry words keep me up at night."

This beer tastes really good, I only wished I had something really spicy like Korean or Thai food to go along with it. And fresh lychees. And a Percocet. MMMMM......

"But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run "

I feel it is almost impossible to achieve (let alone sustain) anything resembling joy lately. What I think is happy is really fleeting in my head - except for the things that remain a constant. I suppose I'm dissatisfied with life as it is now. Don't take it personally you-know-who, I'm not even talking about you and besides - I've already told you that you worry too much. I chalk this all up to the change of seasons and my allergies, the weather being inconsistent and downright disagreeable, and the fact that I've had painfully illustrated yet again my belief that there are no absolutes and conversely few accidents.

"Long ago and not so far away
I fell in love with you before the second show
Your guitar it sounds so sweet and clear
But you're not really here, it's just the radio"

Today I walked down the field of memory that exists somewhere in my head, and revisited places that I remembered as the happier points of what passed for a childhood. Yeah, I know, my childhood sucked - so did yours, blah blah fucking blah... It's an old story and an even older exercise in self indulgence to glorify it. Thing is, if I spend any amount of time recalling what good things I can retrieve from my past, they get convoluted with the things that were... What were they... Twisted? Horrifying? Who can say. Sometimes I think the stuff I carry around of my past, if for no other reason than because out of habit I don't know what else to do with it, I don't keep for the juxtaposition of my happier days. I'm aware of it, but it feels like it is someone else. I'm completely disconnected, even though I'm aware of most of it. I say this having posted just this morning about what a good mood I was in. That's one of the many pluses of being bi-polar/manic depressive, though - you have one high, and you forget the low that's coming. But believe me, that bitch is in the mail somewhere. You're licking the stamp for it and you don't even know it because you're too "up" and "happy".

"You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere "

Waiting To Exhale was on tonight before Hannibal, it was like getting a visit from a friend you haven't seen in a while who just breezes in and buys you a drink and then ZZIIIPPP!!.... they're gone again. Kind of a let down when the credits roll and your friend is gone again. Feels like the days after someone close to you dies and your reaction to life going on is less than pleased. As if the earth absolutely must stop to mark the occaision. As if that weren't selfish in light of the things we are emotionally immune to most days anyway.

"Just before our love got lost, you said
'I am as constant as the Northern Star."
And I said, "Constantly in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar.'"

I know many of God's faithfully devout. I love some of them, and some have even garnered my respect. I love them, yet I wholly despise what they believe. Remember, kids - even Jesus hates the sin but loves the sinner! Don't look at me like that, I didn't make it up. Each and every time I hear someone speak to me about God these days, I want to show them the video of the people falling from the World Trade Center and ask them where the fuck their almighty loving savior was that day, or anyday someone suffers for that matter. "It's all His plan!" they offer, like that's supposed to be anything near a valid answer.

"You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me..."


Man, I'd give anything to right now be sitting at a bar with no one else around, a bottle of Glenlivet scotch, a Baccarat highball glass with two cubes of ice in it, a fresh pack of Camel Wides, and a silver Zippo. And a jukebox playing nothing but the songs whose lyrics are being dissected throughout this post. I want God to be real, and I want him to come into the bar and sit next to me so I can spit in his face and then give him my bar tab so I can say "You owe me more than this, but it's a decent start." and then walk out feeling better.


"I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine
Till time stands still
Until the winds don't blow.
When today is just a memory to me,
I know
I'll still be lovin' you."

Okay. Here's the deal.

I'm struggling right now. Struggling with some things I have been dealing with since I was quite young. Things that have been provoked in me lately that I have only just recently remembered. Things I should probably write about but I'm not sure how. Things I have tried to forget for most of my life but they always find me. Things I don't want to say because once I say them they will become real and I don't know that I can handle that. Things I know will unleash something from within me that I am completely terrified of, and right now I feel it bite and writhe and claw beneath my skin.

I cannot begin to talk about this. I never really have. I'm not prepared for my own words, tears, or those of anyone who would hear or see them coming from me. I don't want to be touched, I don't want to be stared at, I don't want A N Y O N E asking me "Are you okay - Is something wrong - Do you want to talk about it", etc. etc. etc...

So just bear with me. I don't know what to do and I'm not about to accept anyone's advice about it right now. I love the people close to me more than anything right now, and I know that some of you want to help - if I come to you with this, then and only then will I be in a position to talk about it.

Being happy most of the time and being positive and nurturing comes naturally to me. On the outside there are no scratches to be found on me. If you could turn me inside out you would only see pieces right now.

I used to wish that there really WAS a God and that God would have believed in justice for my tattered soul. I would have gotten to kill that unimaginable motherfucking monster myself and he would know everything I know about pain and suffering... And the last image he would carry into hell would be my face standing over HIS broken and bleeding body - and I'd be wide eyed and smiling. But that man is dead and there is no God. So I'm stuck with this hate and this rage, just stuck here burning and burning and burning.



Orestes - A Perfect Circle

Metaphor for a missing moment
Pull me into your perfect circle

One womb
One shape
One resolve

Liberate this will
To release us all

Gotta cut away
Clear away
Snip away and sever this umbilical residue
That's keeping me from killing you

And from pulling you down with me in here
I can almost hear you scream

Give me
One more medicated peaceful moment
One more medicated peaceful moment

And I don't wanna feel this overwhelming
Hostility
Because I don't wanna feel this overwhelming
Hostility

Gotta cut away
Clear away
Snip away and sever this umbilical residue

Gotta cut away Clear away
Snip away and sever this umbilical residue
That's keeping me from killing you
Keeping me from killing you