My ex-wife and I still talk and text.
(We’ll call her, “D” for Donette)
It has been a strange relationship, to say the least, but we have known each other for over 30 years and had children together; so there’s not much room or tolerance for bs anymore, or the need for it really.
We’ve gotten older and wiser you see…
Well… She’s old….
Our lives have taken different courses.
Let’s just say that.
We may be dear friends now, but there’s always that “divorce” thingee lurking in the shadows.
One misplaced word from her, or casual reference to a, distant to her but yesterday to me, a reference to an indiscretion, oversight or basic fuck up I may have committed back in the day;
Just below my skin…..
One… Word…From her…
Destroys my fortress, Ransacks my ramparts, scatters my livestock, pillages my village and buggers me lads….
My decks become awash in the tempest that rages over my sea of regret..
The scuppers and bilge be choked with guilt, me hearty…
Basically, anything hurtful (my f/u concept of hurtful) That she says to me intentionally or not, throws a monkey wrench into my works:
That’s not normal… Not the way nor as far as I “take” it!
Oh my brain, my brain, why hath thou forsaken me!?
Back to phone screen:
Oh, here we go….
Question text from D:
“Are you Happy? Be honest ”
My reply text (General) :
” Happiness is not a word that an alcoholic really likes to use, dormant as I may be, currently.
It’s tempting fate. I would rather say “content with the tides”. There are way too many snakes and demons In my head to consider happiness an attainable emotion.
I am mentally ill, nay, mentally skewed, D.
You spotted it earlier than most. You might not have known what it was you saw, but you saw something wasn’t quite right. Even I knew something wasn’t quite kosher in my thinking or reasoning back then…
My “duality of self”.
I know that I barely have a conscience, I am self-destructive, I am extremely compulsive, extremely immature for my age, unempathetic and other things I won’t get into. And it’s getting worse. I can see that.
Being in a truck, isolated, is the best thing for me. No pity party here, I wish I could pity myself.
There is no party, bring your own pity.
Hard to do pity justice when anger and guilt take up all the room.
It is will power loaned to me from God that keeps me at the helm.
Here’s the juxtaposition I live with, in all honesty; If suicide wasn’t a sin, I’d have been dead a long time ago.
Fact, not cowardice.
No pity, no martyr, no BS.
It is fear of a sin that keeps me here.
Not kept…. Keeps.
I’m gonna have to look up religious fervor or zeal or flashes of religiosity as you get older…
I’ll see what the normal people’s take is…
I am one person that actually knows for a fact; that he wouldn’t have been missed much. Most monsters aren’t…
That’s the end of that text:
Lots more to this story….
Here is what the ex-text inspired;
Being missed, mourned, moved aside….
Not that it means anything to me, being missed I mean…
I’m sure it’s nice to have loved ones around your bed as you pass thru the veil.
I can see it…
Well, not in my case…
I’m cool with that.
I would be smiling weakly as people wept, like all awesome death bed scenes have; the TV remote in my hand under the sheets, wishing these wailing asses would get out of the way of the TV screen.
My far off heavenly stare is actually me trying to read the DirecTV guide over their heads…
“My God! My God!” They hear me cry….
The pastor Faints..
The choir sings…
We are in God’s Holy temple!
Hallelujah and Amen!
The Simpsons have been cancelled!
I am in hell.
Yeah, I make fun of it a little…
Death scares me, God is a mystery… So, I laugh.
I am much more spiritual than that.
I do not consider myself a blasphemous heretic nor a pagan, because I am convinced that my loving Heavenly Father has an awesome, wry sense of humor; understands me for the spiteful, ungrateful child that I am, myriad of faults and all, and really really knows what kind of heart I have…
MY GOD… knows me for the man I have become.
My God blames my parents parents parents, etcetera and Infinitum…..
They blame him right back….
I blame lead in the paint, and Sesame Street….
Why don’t I need other people’s love or understanding, you ask…?
Because I can’t trust them…
I’m not saying I DON’T trust them, I’m saying I CAN’T!
I do not have that trust gene or even the inclination to trust someone even half as far as I could throw them…
I want to trust them…
I really really do..
It’s important to trust…. And love others….
At least that’s what all the smart people that define normal and what socially acceptable really is, say.
Yep, the normal people said I’m anti-social too…
They don’t know me too well, do they?
The only time I felt like I was truly in love, I was racked with pain, jealousy, inadequacy, mistrust, paranoia, etc., Not the “normal” amount of love madness, the pathological kind…
All the mental health goodies…. In one woven crazy house basket.
Who in the hell “loves” like that?
I knew something wasn’t right in Rock’n Rollville…. Even back then.
Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy…
Mentally ILL people…. “Ill” being the keyword.
I am not mentally ill, per say or generally speaking….
There is just something wrong…
I was weak
I am stronger
I was young
Now, I’m older
I didn’t care
Now, I care all the time
I was lost
But now, I’m found.
The voices in my head know exactly where we’re at….
I don’t trust them though…
They’ve been wrong before…
But… They’re the only ones that listen to me….
Or is it God?
Am I crazy?
Is God crazy?
Are we all crazy?
I’ll Google it later….
In Google, we trust.
Wikipedia…? Eh, not so much.
I’m a weird Mormon….