Always Saying “Sorry”

So, my sister threw her babyshower without me, which was okay, but she erased me asking if she wanted a gift, like I said. She deleted me. My family is often too embarrassed to bring me places. In HS, it was much the same way. All the girls without dates to prom in our group, went together and made sure not to invite me. The people who care about me are getting old and busy. I let this sister buy dog food and things she needed but had a hard time affording. We went to Branson, once, and her old boyfriend and she got a feast at Joe’s Crab Shack and all of my clothing money. I wanted her to have a good time. Then she stole money from me, and I didn’t care about that. What bothers me is how she treats people, in general.

Growing up, we had issues, don’t get me wrong, and I wasn’t perfect after being abused in St. Louis. The aggression went away after I turned 14. We were kids in a bad situation. I still said sorry.

She has been placed in anger management, and I’m in social skills. Part of her anger is a consequence of drugs. I’ve seen, thanks to her many times, people go into rage when the high starts wearing off. We almost hit cars on the HW when her boyfriend ate some poppers.

Social skills has taught me a lot about how people should interact. I’ve said many times that I wasn’t seen as equal in school and always bad, so I can be extreme, but mostly hide from people, go into my corner and shake.

I hope she gets the help she needs, too. Perhaps I was harsh in saying that her baby will probably be special, incredibly mean, but she is a partial drug addict. To get a feel for my family, I once took her cocaine and buried it in the backyard. My mother slapped me for going through her stuff and ignored me when I said M had cuts all over her.

Another HaHaHa

Bring it on… God and the Devil don’t like me either. Rejected!

Things That Hurt That Make The Chosen Happy…

My sister didn’t invite me to her babyshower.  It did hurt me.  When she was “helping” me, I gave her all of my money so that she could have a nice time with her boyfriend in Branson.  That was Austin, the dumbass.  I mostly wear clothing with holes in it and did then, too.  I also gave her money for food and gas and she stole from me on top of it.  She might have developed that odd problem people do where they punish me for their guilt. I didn’t condemn her for liking drugs either, though I worry a bit about the baby. We had issues growing up, mostly because of the abuse I’d been through. Most of the time, there’s a reason somebody becomes mentally ill.

It did hurt to not be invited, indeed.  It seems like I get rejected by everyone, not just for my holy clothing, but I’m a total loser.  I’ve fought back so many times, especially in school. Nobody wanted to come to my birthdays, especially in elementary school.  I was going to major in English and teach younger kids. I ended up in the army to help my siblings and mom, too.  

 I will blame others like Breaking Benjamin, who probably helped, “All will be abandoned, none will shine” and “all of these imaginary friends.”  Indeed, they were my friends in my head, and they took that, too, along with my soul. Lol  With Marilyn Manson, he likes to watch suffering, I guess, because most people fall into it so easily and cry, cry, cry, whining, why doesn’t anyone care?  It was the same when they tried to get me to kill a girl in my sleep.  They’ve flung a lot of us.  I rolled over.  You don’t even want to know how many times I’ve been “the locke has been raped” or damaged. They have messed with my organs and other things. Just schizophrenia, those damn somatic hallucinations.  I’ve been tortured brutally, especially in Virginia.  I was abused growing up in Northwood, unbelievably so, I’m used to it. 

I try to isolate and then Breaking Benjamin, and the agents, say, “not integrated.”  Because they’ll try to kill me and exploit me.  Talk about, what’s the reason?  I’ve looked in the mirror a million times and blamed myself.  The mirror was the source of many eating disorders.  If only I were pretty…  I tried not talking, and they put words into my mouth.

The they want me to kill myself.  Alas, I stay in hopes of getting them back for all they’ve done.  I have stories to write.  Feel me.

Back to that, and I ran a bit today instead of just jogging. I made my route in 10 minutes with an extra lap around the pond.  Next week, I’ll combine routes.

People suck…

A Terrible Night With the Doctor

    The clock struck midnight.  Bree closed her eyes as the flashlight scanned her delicate body covered in wounds, a bit of gaze held back the drips of agony.  

No one truly saw them.  No one believed her, all of her words were lost in space.

The strange and unusual states of the patients at night, how they cried, how they said, “Nurse, help!” only to be stiff as a board the next day, unable to move but a waxed doll to place on machines, machines that didn’t care if they lived or died.  

The light withdrew like a phantom.  Bree wanted to grab it, to keep him back.  

Him?

Her voice choked, but she knew better than to make any noise at night.  The nurses failed to come to the aid of the patients, the screams! The screams!  Their slip resistant shoes stopped making faint noises as they hit the floor, farther and farther away.  The keys turned and all went into the breakroom.  Bree wondered what conversations they shared.  The conspiracies grew wilder and wilder. 

Bree knew a scream might slip from her red lips.  

“You did this to yourself,” her dad told her, the last time he saw her two weeks ago.  She knew her place in the great white house had dwindled and would fade with her in a silent cemetery. Neither one of her parents could take the embarrassment of a self-harming teenager.  Those kinds of people, as her mother said when any deviation hit a person or a pack of unfortunate souls.

Well, she was that kind of person. Blood and bones go together.

A knocking sound and then a squeaking hinge greeted her ears.

She knew he would come.

Bree closed her eyes and tried to appear naturally asleep.  The man, the thing of abhorrent mystery, stood outside of her door. 

Her chest burned. Her lips trembled.  She wanted to cry but remained quiet as an exhausted dog, hoping to be too unimportant to mess around with..  

A beep came from the other side of the room and a raspy voice caused Bree’s pinky finger to move, “Who is on call tonight?” the thing asked.  

Nobody answered, just static.  The thing growled and came closer.  Bree took in slow, deep breaths.

The foul beast moved a few steps closer.  

Not me, Bree thought. Not me. 

A door opened down the hall.  Someone held keys and walked toward her.  The creature remained.  Bree felt the stare, felt the knife of her will failing futilely. 

“Oh Dr. Mite, you asked who was on call?”

“Yes, Hellen,” the beings voice still shook and quaked. Sorry, I have a bit of a cold.”  

Bree opened her twitching eyes, feeling safe and protected. She could be so silly at times.  Her friends told her not to be such a drama queen on one or more occasions.  

Open up, she commanded her mind.

Red eyes blinded her, and her body felt tense.  She shook and screamed.  Then all she could hear were the creature’s footsteps leaving the room.  

“Yes, those kind of people,” the nurse said.

The Sunset: Part of My Writing Journal

As a child, I saw the world as a sunrise, each day a place of bliss to play with my grandma, tell stories, and eat oatmeal cookies topped with icing.  

As the colors expanded over the sky, eventually filling the atmosphere before the glorious heaven turned blue and the clouds white puffs of dragon smoke. Magical.  I gazed at those clouds, and saw the wonder in each one.  

At night, I look up at the sky and see the heavens as bland, stars muted by human light, by the cars busily ignoring all above, beside them.  With each push of the gas, the world around them became blander with the colors betraying their nature and entering into the minds of so many and so disregarded.  They can only blame blackness for so long, as if nothing is a color.  The stars and planets would show the loveless if they could become invisible and leave them floating in space.  

Yes, now we are nothing and who are you?

I’ve lost several of the people I once loved, burned and put into the ground under flowers, fresh, fragrant, a small memory of when they existed and pulled petals off trying to find a lover’s desire.  

He loves me. He loves me not.
If you have to ask. 
The flower says, “good-bye.”
Destroyed.

We spend a slip of time between nothing and nothing.  Some make the journey with haste, going from destination to destination on the wheel of time, circular.  And some try to rat out life.  You took me from where I belonged.  No one belongs to death!  I can hear the voices in my head. They want me to join them.  I won’t.

I’m sitting by the ocean, playing with the sand that once belonged to something else.  A vain person would say its life died in the hand of fate, living or not.  I think differently than most people.  The prior form grew tired and let go, hoping to travel more, dreaming of smaller bits of themselves, often inanimate children.  If not, why would they have ever existed?

I close my eyes, and a wave rolls over me, neither pulling me out or putting me back alone.  I pulse with the living breath, once in, once out.

The beach fills with people and my skin burns a red color.  

Do not kiss the sun for too long.

A Tear Apart

     The rocks crunch beneath my feet as gentle waves tap the shore.  My hand picks up a shell, white and black.  Once it held a muscle, and now it holds my attention. I wonder about the animal’s life, not knowing much about his type, her type. Do muscles come in male and female?  I admit to not knowing much about nature.  The trees laugh when the wind whispers this to them.

Tossing the muscle into the lake causes it to make a plop sound, small, almost indistinguishable from the noise of the animals around, of the lake in front of me, by the sky above me. 

Clouds pass by, and I think of their shapes, types of temporary constellations, I reason.  They come and go as does all life in the lake.  The fish swim underneath my gaze, a few of the braver minnows dare me to try to grab them. Their slick skin would ooze onto me faster than I could use my wits to surpass the fish’s body.  

Nature gives the world an abundance of creatures and creations, not all cute, not all fair.  I think of the giant catfish by the dam and shutter.  My grandpa told me this, and grandpa never lies.

The color of the water in the lake is tinged with green algae, mud, and other elements of mystery, stirred in a pot akin to a witch’s brew.  After I walk a few feet out to where the gars reside, I look down, unable to see much of my pale legs.  A fish here and a fish there nimble at the hair on my legs.  As a child, I’d cling to my grandpa when we swam, his legs covered with freckles and age spots.  He laughed with his small blue eyes, a chunk of ear missing due to cancer, and the whitest teeth an older person could hold, totally fake, of course.   

My grandpa passed in 2012 after a long life blessed with friends and family.  Up until the very end of his life, he could surpass me at arm wrestling.  I said I was going to beat him one day when he wrinkled like a tree’s bark and grew feeble.  I still lost.  This caused him great joy along with grandma.  As he lay on his deathbed, he told everyone what a wonderful wife he found and how they stayed together through all trials and troubles without fighting and fussing, carrying on, or being selfish.  My grandpa and grandma helped as many people as they could, always thinking of others before themselves.  

I look into the lake and see a rippled face go up and down.  Their faces don’t live in mine, as my father and his brother were adopted.  I feel the love of my grandparents in my heart, which rings truer than a false impression of love.

A fish jumps out of the water ahead of me, I turn my gaze and only see a ripple in the water.  I glance down at my arms, sunburned, and head up the hill by my apartment complex for some aloe.  

Released from my memory, I walk father and father away from the pond, sad and feeling lost in the present.  I cry a green, murky tear, reminding me of what is part of me, forever, I will love.

Ab Carver, Mental Illness Junk, and a Wonderful Jog!

           My grandmother came over yesterday and brought me the items I asked for.  One of the items carves your abs but not with a butcher knife on a pig--though I am!  You roll back and forth, side to side, and it works out your abdominal muscles, rear, and ever a few muscles in your back.  I am, thus, so sore at the moment.  
           I went for a jog last night, and the low humidity made the short run enjoyable.  I ran on the homestretch, I should say.  The combination of the ab machines and jog has left my body aching... I guess that's better the earthquake that occurs due to my obesity.  
          I don't talk that much about mental illness anymore.  I haven't heard voices since 2013, but I have cognitive stuff and visual hallucinations, often more or less illusions.  The only ones I've seen recently came in the form of a man walking into my room and telling me to follow him, a shadow man, and then rats crawled into my room.  
           That's all I have to say!  Well, I guess I have one more point here. I'll be taking American Literature 1 at a community college this fall.  I go online.  The campus, however, is only a few miles away.  I'm kind of running out of literature classes to take, you know?  

What are you up to?…

Resident Residue: A Short Story

Resident Residue

The residents of Lovely Glory were called to a meeting on a calm, spring afternoon. Apparently, someone ate a cake intended for everyone, or so said a few of them, envious of the thief.  The sun agreed in the sky behind the window.  

“Who ate the entire cake?” The manager, Mendy asked with her loud, strong

voice that could shake any continent to dust.

All eight of the residents looked around at each other, some angry because they wouldn’t get cake since someone took the entire, delicious dessert.  

A voice perked up from the corner of the room, “I’m diabetic.  If I ate the cake my 

blood sugar would have spiked to Hell and back,” said Melly with her perfect curls and youthful make-up.  She planned to take a walk in the autumn afternoon.  Melly kept her room straight and clean.  Mendy already knew she was innocent.  

The rest of the residents looked at each other with wrinkles and shaky bones.  

“Wait just a minute,” said Ben, “I have an alibi as well.  I went to the hospital last night.”  

“I know who it is,” said Janet. 

“Nobody likes a tattle tale,” said Ralf.  

“It’s not always about you,” Janet ranted.  She had missed an inch of her hair dye.

“It was me,” said Ralf.

“No, it wasn’t,” said Janet.

“Who do you think it was?” Ralf asked. 

“It was Sarah.  She snuck into the kitchen last night. She came later with a 

rectangular object.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Sarah, “I was carrying a TV dinner.”

“It was me. I’m telling you,” said Ralf.  

“Ralf!” They all yelled, used to his cries for attention.

“Okay, Ralf, why did you do it?” Mendy asked.

“Because life is like that.  Whoever takes the cake, wins the race.”

“And where are you going in life?” Janet sighed.  

“All the way until the end before you suckers!”

Most of the residents cocked their heads to the side. 

“Oh, you old folks, how can you not know that I’m going to heaven?”

“Because the devil doesn’t want you,” said Janet.

Everyone laughed.

The Cow Moos

Today I managed to shave off 3 minutes of my jog. Sometimes, I slow down or stop for less than 30 seconds. I learned, too, that I have to walk during the day if I want to jog in the evening.

My back hurt a bit, but not much. I stretched and then made it home.

Before that, I visited grandma, and she looked terrible. I stayed with her for nearly 3 hours, and I watched as she perked up. I did not read during the visit. She weighs in the 70s, can’t move her legs, her feet are swollen from heart failure and kidney failure. She still looks out for me and said, no soda. She harps on me that such drinks are too expensive and are bad for me.

Growing up, she’d eat a 10 year old pizza from the freezer and pay her helpers’, bills. She also bailed me out of debt from Virginia. She has plenty of money but she has a big heart and helps everyone she can, not rich. Due to the debt thing and wanting to help her sons retire, I only inherit things, not money. At the home I’m in, the room measures more than an ordinary room. My bookshelves fit nicely with some of her books. I kept a few shelves of her books and donated the rest to goodwill. My grandpa, on the different side, didn’t think anyone would want my old science books or her old books, but Redracks needed books beyond, “Bonnie and Sue, the Romance with Drew.”

I feel strange about her life, at the moment. Her friend, Judy, died of blood cancer, the woman we went to the lake with all the time. This summer felt odd because we didn’t go to the lake, as Judy died and grandma is in nursing. My uncle sold it and got quite a handsome price, an old trailer on flat land near the lake. It’s good land, I suppose. She and grandpa used to own a lake house down the road, a normal home. They designed it themselves but didn’t put a bathroom upstairs. ???

At the lake house, we’d play games such as rumicube, which I slyly learned how to cheat and win the game. If you keep all of the cubes to yourself until the end, everyone will be stuck, and you will be relieved of all cubes. They should make a rule against that.

We often went down to the lake and had hotdogs and s’mores while seeing the stars twinkle above, and the strip of the milky way. The entire family would go down there.

My cousin and I used to talk to each other with a child language called gibberish. It’s easy to do, much easier than pig latin. To cloak words, you have to speak rapidly. My cousin took less than one day to learn it. It took me a while.

The strange thing about my family is that they have issues calling me out or dealing with someone who calls me slow, stupid, or retarded. It’s an issue with them, not that they get trashy and punk-like. The conversation switches or the room goes silent. These are people who call other family members such things.

Feeling Tired and Agitated Today

The day started with me feeling exhausted. I attempted to stay awake after breakfast. My social worker called me while I walked to grab a drink from the gas station and told me I had an appointment orMOVE, a weightloss program and afterwards needed my glasses adjusted. Sleep caught me on a web lasting the entire trip.

Now I’m reading Painless Writing by Barron’s. True, a high school book. I went to a public high school and have a shitty education, especially since I spent years being told the answers again and again in special education.

My writing is terrible, I see, from the first few lessons. Why such a revolutionary realization? Because so many books are written poorly, too.

My goals changed, and I will be reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, working through grammar textbooks, and continuing to develop my vocabulary.

Well, that’s all folks!

Street Smart and Not

I have lived in areas with bars, in poor districts, and I’ve had my own dealings with less than favorable situations. For example, when I was little, my dad and stepmom would fight and leave me places. Usually, I was close to home and would simply walk there. During that particular time, I lived near affluent people.

I’ve had a few run-ins with gangs and people that are not kind. In Virginia, I walked with this guy over a pool of blood half-way to the gas station. Because I’m a genius, I’d always wander around in that area a lot. I’d give this old man enough to get a soda in the evening.

In St. Louis, I did the same thing, walking between the worlds at night after my head injury. Men would pull up next to me and ask me how much I cost. One had bizarre eyes, a strange yellow color, not his whole eye, just the iris. I kept walking. Another time of utter stupidity was when I gave a homeless man a dollar in an alley. He chased me. That was in Oregon. I was wearing a long skirt and flip-flop, heeled shoes.

I also confessed to a crime I did, and the other person didn’t. Guess what happened to me?

Good cop, bad cop with psychotronic warfare sucked, too.

The truth is that I will never be street smart. It’s not in my blood, and I am a nice person.

My life goes like this…

Then I’m stuck there with no voice… We don’t get trials anymore.