What am I going to do about my present situation? My sanity’s in dire straits. I damn sure am not going to confide in family. I mean what the fuck for? Isn’t it a little late to patch up old wounds? A lot of shit has been left unsaid. But some how i manage to disguise it in bitter jokes and manage to give off this cynical charm like: “this shit is so much old news that It doesn’t bother be now. It’s soooo … water under a bridge… that I’m cool on it.” I make the little comments like “Knives without forks give me flashbacks” –accompanied by a chuckle— reminiscent of the days when strangers imprinted large brown welts on my otherwise smooth flesh to get me to practice “proper” table etiquette. Or maybe she beat me to break me. Maybe she didn’t like my twelve year old pride and dignity and saw it as a sign of insolence. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe they didn’t like that i was different. They all knew it . They just never liked it, never accepted it. Never accepted my strong will so, She, Her, They — had to break it. Maybe because of them I still can’t find my place in this world and because of them I fulfill each whim as if it were my last wish. I’ve realized that whims do not an identity make. Having gone from the gothic Bohemian AfroJamerican black Daria in high school to the brazen alcoholic young adult post high school to the raging quick-tempered shrew in later years to the utterly monotonous(which can sometimes be mistaken for soothing) shell of my former self (whoever she was). Truth of the matter is I want to be angry but all I can feel is self-pity.
My brother’s an alcoholic wife beating bottom feeding bastard –almost in every sense of the words. Yet, somewhere deep (I mean DEEP) down inside I pity him. A part of me whispers a silent prayer for him each day hoping he’ll change some aspect of his flawed mentality. I can’t bring myself to hate him enough, and try as I might to deny he’s any relation—He is still my brother. But who am I to feel pity towards him or to even pray on his behalf when I’ve got my own mental maladies and skeletons.
I’ve fallen into some kind of robotic depression. I’ve closed myself off to the world outside, buried my head in fiction. Fed my own sociopathic tendencies. If anyone else can see this manifestation, i cannot tell. Because I board myself up in my house (phone unanswered) and only leave to work the graveyard shift. Strangely I’m comfortable alone. I have no need of friendships nor for that matter, relationships. I’ve been thinking about joining a gun range just for a little stress relief, but it occurred to me that no normal red-blooded Jamerican female would think of target practice as the first solution to stress. Most people use gym memberships. I have one. I just don’t use it. Anyway, lately my Mom’s been having problems with my brother and I’ve been thinking about “putting two in him”. I’ve given it a lot of thought and I wonder if I would lose any sleep at night if he died. Then it occurred to me that If I had the capacity to kill him and not flinch then what would I do to a stranger on the street?
There is this undercurrent of rage roiling inside, bubbling over. Something dying to come out, cold to the touch but fierce. Maybe I should pray for myself. I’ve found myself so cosmopolitan as to spend the last 10 years of my life bedding women knowing that sooner or later the desire will fade and in it’s place another addiction will surface. Okay maybe addiction is too permanent a word. Let’s just call it a distraction