66. Poisonously

“I’ve written since I was 6 years old and thought everyone else did till I was in high school. I just ate it up when a teacher made writing assignments or had us keep journals. I was shocked when the other kids said they hated writing. To me that’s like hating breathing. I can’t not breathe, nor can I not write. Sharing, on the other hand, is not a desire of mine, at least not yet. My writing is too private and intimate. I don’t hang my underwear out to dry publicly and I don’t air out my intimate writings either. I suppose I could hang my panties on the inner clothes lines, though, and cover them with my blouses and skirts, shorts and slacks, socks. Hmmmm, maybe start with an anonymous blog….plain and concrete to begin with and then work into the intimate apparel. I could do that!

“As a kid I hid in my journals. I’d spend hours hunkered down pouring my soul onto the accepting pale blue lines of my notebooks. I had to store my soul there inside journals because my mother was so toxic. I breathed in my journals, not in her presence. She pinned me down as a mental health torpedo that had been activated when my dad left her. I was a ticking bomb, and occasionally I’d flare off in small jet trails of rage, giving just a glimpse into my awesome destructive powers. She feared me and my truthful witness to her underhanded manipulations, her poisonings. So she stealthily undermined my mental health, challenging and undoing every bit of evidence that proved my worthiness.

“I broke in high school. My perfectionism reached its zenith and imploded. The pressure was too great, the air too thin for me to breathe. I considered going anorexic, but I love to eat. I was not giving up lasagna to push back my mother’s assault on my soul. I accepted the depression label instead, still pissed that I had a diagnosis when she was the pathological one. I was just one more poisoning victim on her hit list. I read once that FBI profilers claim poisoners are passive-aggressive cowards. Believe it. If you can connect them to their poison, they have an airtight alibi in place already and an alias if all else fails. They slither off to Argentina or Paraguay like Nazi war criminals…cowards every one.

“Yeah, that felt good to excrete. Here I am now, alone with some jazzy guitar music and a laptop. I love it!  I enjoy my own company, which may be a prerequisite for being a writer. If you hate yourself, how could you stand to be alone with yourself for hours a day?  Okay, drink whiskey, you say? I suppose, but I don’t feel the need to numb myself as I am just now coming alive, feeling the blood rush through my cool limbs. Ahhhh! How about some warm milk? That’s better than Mom’s formaldehyde solution.


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