Why NOT play Kick-the-Carcass?
09 Jun 2010 Leave a Comment
in abuse, Anger!, broken heart, Dave, Death, fears, just messed up, Life, Life Lessons, life transformations, Writing Tags: abuse, abusive relationships, broken, broken dreams, broken heart, Dave, DAVE K., destruction, dysfunction, fears, fucked up, heartbreak, hopeless, insanity, lies, Life Lessons, lost spirit, manipulation, sociopaths, wishes
No consecutive hours of sleep for what seems like weeks, although I can easily remember not so long ago when it had been more like months, so I logically know I can pull through this “short stretch”. However, when n the midst of the sleeplessness, it feels as though I’ll pass out, die, or just maybe snap into forgettable pieces. I keep reminding myself that it’s been worse and try to be grateful for the little bits of sleep I do get blessed with.
Stressing the move, finances, the gossip and lies (of course, as usual), THE ex, the children, packing, moving across the entire country from everything I’ve ever known, living out of district for my kids’ school out west, my ex husband, and his motives and choices, and how they’re going to relate and affect our lives out there, so far from the only home we’ve ever known.
With all of this, I’m struck hard with acute awareness of the severe alteration of my heart, my perspective, my very essence… Who I once was is gone, with all that’s happening now and all I am responsible to be and do, with all the fears that are hanging just over my head like a shark’s mouth ready to swallow me whole, I really just want to sit down and bawl myself sick. Grief hangs all around me like buzzards and flies on a carcass. I know, I know… This is nothing new…I’ve been a barely-breathing carcass for years now, my only traceable movement being the slight shakes and involuntary shuffles and slides of a dead body that’s being kicked a few extra times for good measure. Big thanks to Dave and friends for that lovely prompt..without it, the buzzards might literally begin to feast on my mourning flesh, not just the metaphorical feastings of Dave and friends on the leftover remnants of my heart, my soul, my reputation, my freaking character! After all, at this point, the pickings are so slim and meager that I genuinely can’t understand the interest…surely there’s not enough there to satisfy even a starving soul?
Apparently so, as I can’t even plan my pathetic, late-as-hell “escape” without a kick every once in a while for good measure. I’m struggling and fighting this damned sense of victimization which I hate so much it makes me sick even to write of these things any more. Or maybe it’s that burning sense of injustice and flood of unkindness and continued crucification which keeps me from withering up and dying completely. It’s almost cost me a great degree of my voice and I do not know what I could even be after he’s fully taken my voice and my ability to write. It just might be my lingering indignance which is holding the shell of my existence together at all, keeping it from crumbling quietly into dust. Perhaps I should stop fighting this victimized-feeling and embrace it, allow it to strengthen me out of my hopeless feeling of being powerless, beaten, and small? Hmm….
I have comprised a plan of revenge. In my circumstances, I have no way in which to actually carry it through, but it’s a lovely fantasy nonetheless. I imagine that many people love me and know the truth of these past five years…the whole down-n-dirty, humiliating truth and they are so outraged and angry they begin a letter-writing campaign on my behalf – no, on the behalf of all people who have gone through emotional and mental abuse. Upon me leaving my home, he receives hundreds of letters from people who know the truth, faceless people who are not afraid to stand up against this man’s cruel persecution of my spirit. Each day or week he receives lovely pieces of mail from people who know what he has done and refuse to buy into his lies and bullshit, as a regular reminder that he did not just “get away with it”. And he, like me, has no chance, opportunity, or method by which to combat the attack. He would just have to sit in it, regularly reminded of his cruelty, its effects, and his powerlessness! Then he might have to spend some time in paranoia, looking at every stranger who meets his eye and wondering, does he know? Does she? Just as I still worry with every person I meet or pass, “Did he tell them I was crazy? Did he tell that person I’m a psycho? A slut? A lying cheater? Wonder what story that person heard?”
For it seems, just when I’ve let the worries go and have convinced myself anyone who believes his garbage at this point is merely a victim of sorts themselves and is entitled to my sympathy, when I finally get to the “I don’t give a damn what he’s said to anyone”, another lovely twisted story of his finds its way to me…piling on top of the huge pile of garbage he’s dumped on me that I’m already trying to climb out from underneath. And the exhaustion revives itself in me. The sense of powerlessness and damned victimization I hate SO much, gathers al around my soul to begin feasting again.
I sent him a message asking him just to please SHUT UP. Leave me alone. Reminding him he has not a single reason at this point in his game to speak my name even, let alone tarnish it further. He has won by yards and miles already. The damage done is irreversible even now. I’m leaving and his story will always stand in my place of absence; not mine, not the truth, but his sick and twisted deviation of my person. I can’t imagine any greater victory for him? So why continue beating this broken and beaten thing? Does he really still get that much pleasure and self-satisfaction from it…even NOW? Why not just SHUT UP? No, go above and beyond to make everyone always, think the person you’ve victimized is psycho crazy, then you never have to worry about being held accountable for the cruelty you perpetually heaped upon her… After all, she’s just “crazy”. Nothing she says will ever account to anything after you’ve told that to enough people ad nauseum.
Why am I so surprised anyway? Why wouldn’t anyone want to continue kicking and beating the person they’ve already slaughtered? After all, she’s dead already…. It’s not like anyone will ever find out the truth now…or believe it coming from a crazy-psycho dead girl even if they did!
Ohhh it would be Christmas every day to just imagine this letter-campaign of outraged people, addressing the truth to him which he feels he has sufficiently buried beneath his heavily placed offensive-tactic accusations and insults. He could just laugh away a few letters, but if hundreds came to him long after I’m gone, that would have to make him think maybe he wasn’t really fooling everyone after all. His mailbox becoming the screaming, lingering Tell-Tale Heart of an Edgar Allen Poe story! It’s a harmless, but juicy thought in my weak state of stress, fatigue, and hopeless indignation…
(insert evil cackle here)
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