mirror, search

‘Your father is a murderer’ – I say it in the mirror so I can’t escape. And it all falls into place – the fear and loathing, the visceral response to first season of Dexter (we won’t even mention season five).
‘When your first chakra is damaged, then all the ones that follow are going to be skewed’ – I paraphrase Sally’s sentiment to me, sans the matter-of-factness and knowing and affectionate smile.
‘You really are the most beautiful soul you know’. This indecipherable locution from MSS.
‘You make it through this, you’ll have a book, a film and a couple one-man shows’. To myself.

 

 

No rest for the wicked. Up every hour – a constant since October. Dreams, bladder, ghosts in the apartment, hail against the window.
4:50 AM. Look father up online. But ‘JCB’ like ‘John William Smith’ in the Hispanic/Latino community. Plus, he’s probably dead – what I’ve heard all my life. His brother died decades ago from living a shitty life. Sis another battered basket case. Didn’t know of either’s existence until last summer. All three siblings had at least two kids each (haven’t seen my older half sister since I was two), ensuring the cycle continue. I’ve an impressive pedigree of abuse, on both sides.
Counter confusion with three-month-old texts:
‘This is all a result of a lot of trauma that was inflicted upon you, you didn’t create this. You need to forgive yourself, Jason. For being alive. You have every right to be here. Every fucken right. It’s a fucken travesty that you believe otherwise. You’re such a beautiful man Jason, inside and out, and you deserve all that life has to offer so stop punishing yourself. You’ve had enough punishment from yourself and from others. Enough is enough. No more. There’s a real fighter in you and I don’t think you would acknowledge or recognise that but it’s there.’
Instead of crying, I masturbate, then shower, sweep, mop, Windex, launder, masturbate again and scrub my cock of cum the way Lady MacBeth scrubbed her hands of blood. Finally, I relent to mercy and cook myself some cereal. ‘Are your kids getting enough Vitamin D?’ Wilma Flintstone asks me. ‘I don’t know, are your kids getting enough Vitamin D, you hypocritical, self righteous carnivore? Babies sitting around gnawing on raw T-bone all day, every day’ I reply, then feel bad and apologize – so what if she’s a little insensitive, she’s from another time and means well and I shouldn’t have been so defensive.
I take a deep breath and open the book I’m reading. Two words immediately catch my eye: We’ll see.
I hope so.

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