Design a site like this with
Get started

In Sanity

Perhaps you have noticed by now that I am always hijacked whenever I write. I have important, valuable ideas to share and suddenly we veer off into Never Never Land where Ben wants to kill me, boys want to rape me, and so on and so forth.

Thus, this diary is written by at least a dozen authors even though I’m the only one typing in it.

I sometimes think God might be a human being, but if He is a human being in my head just pretending to be God, there are a few things to note:

  • He’s always awake when I’m awake. No matter how little I sleep, what hours I keep.
  • He wakes me up often on his predetermined schedule. I don’t think human beings are capable of waking the dead.
  • He knows when my parents have doctor appointments, even when I don’t.
  • He knows how to rehabilitate my “broken” spine and crushed hip. Even if it takes two weeks to relocate my shoulder.
  • He’s the best psychoanalyst ever. I don’t actually have to verbalize anything to him, or even put it into words. He just knows.
  • He knows how to keep me out of trouble, not that I make it a habit to get into trouble. Maybe I should say he guides me to fortuitous opportunities instead.
  • He absolutely knows a lot about human beings I’ve never met, like their work schedules and when they’ll be somewhere specific.

I mean, the list goes on forever.

The problem is that God likes to do the least amount of effort for the greatest result… which I’m totally behind as an efficiency nerd. However, it comes at great cost personally. I know I’m being re-trained, I’m being put back in my body to be myself again. I know I’m being healed. It hurts.

Everything hurts. Being alive hurts.

I’ve begged him for death so many times. He told me once that the universe ceases to exist if I murder myself, so I don’t. How could I end all reality for everyone else like that? Unless you don’t want reality to continue… I suppose that’s a factor. Most people do not. They sit around seething in hatred day in and day out. They hate their job, their spouse, their kids, their grandkids, their neighbors, their “friends,” their family. They hate everything they are responsible for. They hate God. They hate the universe at large. It fails to serve them and allow them to play like children all day. Everyone wants to be Caesar.

If you are what you eat, then order Caesar salad… that’s as close as you’re ever gonna get to being king of the world.

[You are what you eat.]

Today I am coffee and cornbread. It’s not sitting well in my system, either, but the more I exercise the better it feels overall. I am also rampant thoughts of a certain deli man, who is continuously daydreaming of seducing me today. Four hours and counting now. I’ll take this man, thanks. After all the mishaps with cheating and other issues, I’ll take the man who can’t stop thinking about me. I don’t even care if he’s Quasimodo. [He’s not, but he thinks he is in comparison to me, apparently.]

Every time I sync to the coffee man’s wavelength, someone jumps in to interrupt us. Mostly, it’s Ben. I stab him relentlessly but he continues. I electrocute him in my imagination but he does not stop. Next, I’ll be putting a knife between his eyes. That one stops them in their tracks when I hit my mark. I cleave their spirit eye in twain.

I really hate Ben. I went most of my life eliminating and deleting hatred, but this one is going to stand. He pretends to have a feeling somewhere in his bosom (and, in fact, I know he’s in love with me), but is that the reason he wants to find me? No. He just wants to fuck me. He wants to rape me for the rest of his life. Just yesterday, he pretended to be the deli man and asked me back to his place for coffee and sex. <insert retching noise here>

[She erects a hard boundary.]

I’m uninterested in fornication. He doesn’t find me attractive like the deli man does. Then again, he hasn’t seen me since I nearly hit my ideal weight (and then bounce back again because I’m constantly exposed to allergens.) The deli man has, though. No doubt he has even noticed that I gained weight since he first laid eyes on me… provided he knows who I am throughout the whole time I’ve been in St. Louis.

I mean, Erie. I mean, Ripley. I mean, Punxsatawney. I mean, nowhere.

Punxsatawney must be a Native name.

I’m tired of fighting Ben off in my mind. I would gladly forget him forever instead. I don’t really want to chase him down with a lawsuit, though that may end up happening. I don’t even want to see or hear his name ever again, honestly. God does not want me to forget that he nearly killed me single-handedly in his neglect and willful stubborn ignorance, however. Or that he ostracized me from my friend-family I created in St. Louis to replace the fact that my real family is a shit show of uncaring raping motherfuckers. He tore my family tree apart limb by limb in my hour of need. How charming, eh?

Unlike Ben, I don’t have ten siblings who would do a bunch of shit for me. [Okay, he has five. Two brothers, four sisters.] Unlike Ben, my father is useless and my mother is stone cold and stone faced. I remember coming back to my parents’ place a while ago and losing my shit, screaming in agony, and all my mother said to me was, “Are ya done yet?” #ParentOfTheYearMaterial

I don’t have cousins and extended family of any sort that can help me do handy things because they’re all roofers and carpenters and the like. I don’t have a rich upbringing at all. He was never a have-not, it’s very obvious in retrospect. Especially since he went to private school for the majority of his life. Despite there being seven children, he and his brothers still went to private school. His sisters did gymnastics. I did absolutely nothing. It was all too expensive. We couldn’t afford uniforms or this or that…

I remember, as a child, never doing anything because gasoline is expensive. Now, I’m not saying my parents were exactly logical and rational, as we ended up indulging in expensive gaming habits involving Magic: The Gathering cards and Warhammer 40k models, but that wasn’t until we were much older. When we were young, I remember them having a Thing piggy bank. Once in a great while, we’d raid it and go to the roller rink as a family. That was probably thrice a year.

If we broke something, it was never replaced. We had to deal with the loss and anguish thereof when something finally went kaput. At least, that was my experience. My younger brother is now obsessed with the idea he was the golden child, which he might’ve been… but he was also the baby. I got over that preferential treatment decades ago. No matter how we dice it, my older brother was the scapegoat. And I was the invisible lost child in the middle, forced to cater to whomever screamed loudest for whatever they wanted.

Being an autistic with a preference for the love language known as “words of affirmation,” I didn’t want to hear fighting, anger, and vitriol, so I did my best not to make waves. I didn’t develop a whole lot of interests as a child, delving into art and music most of all because it was the only thing I was allowed to do unfettered and without being bothered. [My brother still has PTSD from me playing one of my CDs on repeat for an entire summer… but SUCCESS. I was left alone!]

So that’s all I have. Art — my own pencil and paper drawings — and the radio. My only toys after I destroyed my simple jump rope that was never to be replaced. After I destroyed my bicycle thanks to not having brakes, and then that was never replaced. After I destroyed all the things I loved, they were never replaced. They wore out… things do that. My jump rope had a shattered bead after three years of constant use. I skipped so much that the rope itself wore out and it came apart completely. Did my parents try to tie it back together? Nope. Threw it away instead of showing me how to try to make it last longer. Never to buy me another.

I bought one a few years ago. Guess what?

It cost me $6.99.

After twenty years, the same jump rope costs $7.

I bet back then it was something like $3.99. And minimum wage hasn’t changed much all these years. It was about $4 and now it’s about $7. That means that jump rope costs one hour’s worth of earnings this whole time.

The bicycle, I get it. Those are expensive… but why not give me another jump rope? Why not even show me how to put all the beads back on and then tie a knot in the rope? Surely it wouldn’t be as smooth, but they gave me a shitty jump rope with no weight and I gave up skipping rope. It was one of my two favorite exercises. The other is bicycling.

Now, I am in the habit of not exercising at all. I was doing yoga and I want to do it, but God was spontaneously helping me do it last year. Now it’s in my hands, it seems, and I have gotten into the habit of being lazy. I used to use all my energy to clean. The problem is that I had a debilitating car accident and that damage got worse over the years instead of better, despite seeing a chiropractor to try to manage it.

You know what my parents bought instead of that jump rope?

A Sega Genesis. Then a second one. Then a Sega CD. Then two Bumblebee Adapters for playing Japanese games. Then 66 video games.

Guess who got to use all those resources because he figured out causing a stink at me manipulated me into giving up control of the resource?

My awesome little bro, of course!!!!!

And then, later, my dad decides to sell all that junk because we “aren’t using it” at $5.00 a pop and $25.00 a system… for what? TO BUY A NINTENDO. ONE GAME. And then he was mad I didn’t want to sit around playing Tetris. I wanted to leave… but he’d do anything to make us sit inside where he can watch us and make sure we’re not doing anything he didn’t like.

I shall never forgive him for selling the only thing left that I loved. I wanted to keep it all, but it didn’t matter. I think this one reason I never sell anything. I just give it away, even if it’s worth something. Because he stole everything I ever loved and gave it to other people. He had to have gotten more than what that new game system was worth and it all disappeared in their frivolous pockets.

I was never considered as a child. Never.

I had a dairy allergy and my mother knew it. She thought I outgrew it, but in reality, I became so used to poisoning myself every free lunch at school that I quit complaining. It was normal to feel like shit day in and day out, so I no longer noticed.

And now I sit here, day in and day out, feeding these assholes. They request poison. I don’t want to feed them dairy, but they demand it. I don’t want to feed them nightshades, but what is life without spaghetti? Without pizza? Without chili? I get them healthy enough to go to the store and she buys more poison. Seven motherfucking pies! SEVEN! AT ONCE!

And I, the healer, am supposed to sit back and watch them kill themselves, running to the hospital in the middle of the night so they don’t have to call an ambulance. Wrecking what little I have in way of a schedule because I stay up all night, expecting them to call me to send the fucking woman home. He could just sit in the ER waiting room alone and we could go find him the next day at 9:00 AM, but no. He must dictate when she sleeps, eats, and goes home. Rapist. Murderer.

He murdered her a long time ago. “Here babe, I can’t finish this ice cream, you have it.”

SHE’S UNABLE TO EAT DAIRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have proven it again and again but nobody is listening to me. Nobody gives a shit. GIVE ME PIZZA, CINDERELLY! NOT THAT SHIT YOU MAKE THAT IS NOTHING LIKE PIZZA (EXCEPT IN APPEARANCE!) THE REAL STUFF! Subtext: My guts can tell the difference as they heal and by golly, I’m so used to poisoning myself I don’t want to stop. It tastes too good to stop!

I could smash my head against the wall for an hour. I really could. I want to call the cops on myself. HELP! I’m being forced to poison old people!

You know what else? They get senior care boxes full of POISON! Cans of tomato sauce, boxes of elbow macaroni, cans of meat sometimes (okay that’s not so bad), bags/boxes of fat free dry milk, cans of peas and beans for chili, diced tomatoes (canned again!), and sugar-laden cereals.

HELP! The charity is poisoning my parents!

This is America, land of the poison. I mean, free!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: