i think of dying every day. i cannot help it.
I haven’t drawn, made art. Anything in YEARS.
my mom, before she had me, ended a pregnancy. she had been held against her will, in a basement, fed drugs and assaulted, tied down to a mattress. she escaped, crawled from the basement window to her freedom.
she never really escaped. no one does. Some moments are like black holes.
Recently, i asked why she didn't let me stay with CPS and foster care. i pulled away, i cried, i didn't want to go back to hunger and cigerettes and violence.
"i know, I’m sorry… but you were mine.." her voice cracked with the saying, so soft; a broken heaviness to the truth. i understood her more than ever in that moment.
I am a father now.
i have a hard time letting go. i love you all so much. i always have. even them that still wish me ill, i just would hug you to pieces if i could. i can't though, can i? i've cut off my arms a handful of ways. puns.
i had been left with a preacher man and his wife for a time. the people who baptized me.
i was very little.
my mother was told not to report the bruises to the police for the good of the church. For her own good.
i didn't even remember my baptismal until this recent conversation with my mom. i had been trying to talk to my mother about the past, to get some clarity on when/where/what. i do not remember things like other folks its been my experience. I have an illness.
A black white and red snapshot of my mothers arm in my stepfathers hand, nude bodies silhouetted in the moonlight, a red thread from it to her body on the floor. Attached/unattached.
An uncles dark basement.
A cousin twice my age and size in the warm summer woods.
I want to be good, to love and to give joy unending to everyone I can. But I cannot. I am in the dark. I am in the woods. I’m a scared little 6yr old boy and have been for 46 years. I HAVE HURT PEOPLE and allowed myself to wallow in the self-hatred a dark forest can create inside us.
I cannot escape. No one does.
It’s called dissociative disorder.
I was diagnosed in the 90’s. I used to collect social security for it. I probably still should, because I’m fucking unemployable, but I keep trying to be normal. Hold a job. Go to school. To carry on like it was nothing. After all, invisible wounds. Nothing to see here folks!
I HURT people. People who loved me and cared for and accepted me. I threw away every relationship and friendship aside from a handful of the most forgiving philosophical types. I don’t want forgiveness I deserve this shit but please know;
I AM SO SORRY PEOPLE. I CANNOT FIND WORDS TO MAKE IT ANY MORE TRUE. I’m so sorry. i wish it was enough.
My perfect little girl had a nightmare the other night. In the dream I was crying. And it was her fault she said.
Oh god it hurts so much. My poor little kid.
The other day was Kurt Cobain’s suicideversary. I feel gross for making that word up. Anyway I read some words by his daughter, Frances bean. Nice girl. She said nothing to dissuade me, left me even more fond of the solution to the me problem. That was problematic.
There is only up sides to self terminating in my scenario. I’m not a multi-platinum selling artist. I’m a human black hole. I’m problematic. Can’t escape it. No one does.
My daughters mother would be fine and will be able to move on quickly from what I can tell. The kid will be sad, but she’ll end up sad either way from my experience at least this would leave her a version of me that won’t disappoint her further.
Listen to me, trying to rationalize.
I have only one problem with killing myself. Well two; I don’t want to die before my mother, that’d be too cruel. She has seen enough horror, my brothers and sisters in Christ.
The other, is echoed in what Dorothea told me, when I asked why she wouldn’t let me stay in foster car, knowing full well it was the best for me, knowing that I didn’t want to remain her little boy and felt safer around strangers. Knowing she was failing and unable to let go at the same time.
“But you were mine.”
I know mom. I understand and I love you and forgive you a thousand times.
I love my Beans so much I cannot let her go. though I know I should. I can’t.
I think about dying everyday. I cry every single day, I’m crying now and have been the entire time typing this. Every single day is pain. Physical from beatings and falling off bridges and trains and cliffs. What labor my body was capable of time and abuse has taken away.
My mind AhahahaHahaaa uhhh yeah I think I’ve painted a picture but go look up dissociative disorder if you want more of the flavors (like I have a wild “Alice in wonderland” syndrome ever since childhood that’s been coming back lately)
Fun stuff. High end type thinking that requires organization and drive? Yeah no. Basically I’m a child. Emotional and mental child. That has red-outs and high social anxiety. I’m fun at parties.
Every day a I think about dying. I cry every day.
I guess I’m saying is I need help. Your help. Don’t let me be alone in the dark. Help me out of these woods. Don’t let me fail at this, my daughter deserves better dreams. If you know any hustle within my reach, any ways I could provide a better life that are accessible to a broken shmuck like me, put me on game son! Commission me for a portrait of a loved one, ask me for a print or something. Idk.
I cry every day. I think of dying every day.
But that’s okay. She’s 4 now and She’s the bestest kid ever. despite all my shortcomings I’m good at dad. Better than anything else I’ve ever done.
Once you know a love like this, you cannot escape. No one does.
Be good.
