Heat

This is the view near Park Ave, with Central Park behind me.  It was an hour long ride in a crowded and too hot train car.  Since i am 40 mins early, i get a cold soda because i was shaky.  The only reason that i can decide on my own to drink Coca cola is if i am feeling sick and need the fast sugar.

i texted Sir Raven that i had arrived, needed a soda, just took my meds, and had all of the chores done, checked off wunderlist jobs.

The appointment went fine, i have another month of medication.  It represents survival to me.  Quite literally-survival.

 

i got home, angry all day long, and tried to just breathe.  The ride home sucked, i was standing the entire way, and we were so jammed in that a mans hard cock was up against me.  He had no where to move to, so it’s not like he was being a pervert.  He had my hip and ass area on him for about four stops, and he is a man, so i seriously doubt he could control it.  When we finally could move away, we did, never making any facial contact.  Or, at least, i didn’t.  i figure that must be embarrassing enough for him without me trying to scrutenize his face.

 

i thought about patterns all day long, the ways that i allow peple to behave badly, give them a pass, and-

all day i thought about the heat in my veins, the rage, the numbness-

 

but i texted when i got home as ordered, lit a candle, made a snack plate (presentation is clearly not my strong suit, but i do try.  Wine, water ,slippers waiting.  i put on my colored chap stick and fixed my hair a bit.  i rolled one, calmed the pain-inside and illness.  Sir Raven happened to text and ask how i was, and i told her i was angry.  Once home, she told me to come sit at her feet on my floor pillow.  i generally instigate this by asking if i can sit by her.  So, this was a surprise.  We talk about promises broken, the anger, the sealed off heart and how my baby girl energy will not be out until i feel safe and comfortable and happy.

 

i know i made sure to point out that i’d never take love, affection, service, obedience.  But my personality and access to my heart?  Yes.  In a proverbial heart-beat.

 

i know how to be alone in this world, very well.  Books were my friends.  Stuffed animals.  Children i took care of.  Art.  Literature.  Always desperately trying to reach up and out of my circumstances.  i was a runaway.  A throwaway.  Broken bones, bruises, vaginal scarring, burn scars, should-have-gotten-stitches, knocked unconscious, broken doors.  When i hear the word bitch i still look up, as if it is my name-because it was, from the age of ten.

 

And yet—and yet-

there were always these magical moments-

Sometimes, they were my mothers drunken admissions that she was in love with me, that if we were not mother and daughter, we would be lovers.  It started when i was 12.  But i was already a childwhore at 5.

 

So its not exactly her fault-

 

And yet-

she is the person who would create the moments, where it felt like i was in a bubble, where i could have whatever i wanted-even though i never took it.

Sometimes, there was expensive jewelry, put up and “kept safe” for me.

There were nice vacations, sometimes nice houses, and i worked for all of it.  My drunken mother would dramatically spread her arms wide, proclaim it’s all yours.  Everything.  It was all for you!

She would cry then, and i would hold her, and she would tell me she would die without me.

 

So, no, there wasn’t love in the way most people would understand it.

My mother always made it abundantly clear that i received nice things because i was sweet, kind, gentle, loyal, and always taking care of everyone.  Sometimes, they were gaudy expressions of her-to draw attention to her generosity.

i like simple things, calm jewelry-single pearls, small solitaires.   Not gaudy.

i’d like to not be tormented by thinking about my mother, ever, and i go long periods of time and do okay.

Sometimes, what slaps me in the face is suddenly smelling her perfume, or suddenly hearing the music she is playing.  Sometimes, what slaps me is understanding that other people have a mother, have other people who would not let them fall through the cracks, and i do not.  i’m also not able bodied, need help with basic things at times, and have memory issues when exhausted or the content is given when i’m overstimulated.  If it is emotional laden, i have perfect recall, like a recording.  But the rest?  dates, figures, times? No.  Just no.

i never, ever loose time.  There are times, though that chronic pain makes it seem as if something took longer than it took.  i time things a lot, to compensate.

 

Sometimes, its the same patterns.  Its too rare an occasion that i feel treated or loved, and i’m exhausted from waiting for promises not honored.

On some level, it feels like if i deserved good things, they would be happening.

i loved the cart, below.  it looks like a picnic table.  i asked for a lemonade, but they had mint lemonade-and that sounds yucky.  The vendor assures me, in Italian, that this is a classic combination.  No, thank you.

i’m within 50 feet of the zoo, which is on my list of promises.  And-yeah-i pointed that out.  i’ve gone to one museum in five years.  i was promised build-a-bear two years ago.  i was promised attention, s/m, sex, affection, and quality time spent having experiences together.  You want the keys to my heart?  There you go.  i don’t have any interest in people needing to guess at what i want.  i think that is one of the stupid games, manipulation, and i have no interest in that.  i may bring up something important or express upset in a big way 2 times a year.  But that is where i am- wanting to just hide alone.  i keep trying, because its the only right thing i know to do.  If i’m obsessed with anything, it is doing what i believe is right.  Thats my guiding principle.

It’s not right being pushed to this angry place, but i’m here—and i’m in pain.  Lots of it.  Did i mention i was standing for an hour and a half being all smashed in the trains?  Ugh.

i am thankful she listened, that i live in a city i’m in love with, that i know i love in a special way, and that i feel slightly less bad.  Angry is bad.  *Edited to add:

i start to get nervous, because i am angry.  Despite my words that i use, my voice comes out like a hurt five year old saying, ‘I’m really mad at you, Daddy.  You make me sad inside of my heart.”

i pour her wine, refresh the water, bring her meds.  She crawls into bed to watch youtube and i eventually join her.  i have to be able to stop rocking, and stop being near angry tears before i can lay down.  i’m feeling overly hot.  Sick.  i admit i have to get back up, the night routine is not completed.  Sir Raven had eaten half a wrap left over from her lunch and nibbled on her snack plate.  Once i was in bed for a bit, she was suddenly starving.  i got up and made pancakes and scrambled cheesy eggs.  i snorted laughter on the way out of the room, because she complained my pancakes are too fluffy.

i couldn’t help but laugh and tease her that her home life was so easy that she was down to that as a complaint.  Despite my ‘bitching’ and so-called ‘list of demands” earlier.  Even if i did sound like a little child, afraid to sound angry.  The only reason she even let me go on talking was because i was on my knees at her feet, and also that i sounded like a little girl.

i had to get up anyone, set up the french press, clean up her snacks and drinks, turn off lights and televisions, and put on my nightie.  i didn’t ask to get in pjs earlier, so i just climbed in.  It doesn’t appear she will send me out for anything tonight.  i had everything she wanted in the house.  (Except not too fluffy pancakes)! lol

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