It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to. And, probably I will cry. Because not too many people ever read the old blog, I feel it's appropriate to share that with anyone that might read this blog. Additionally, some of my readers might be relatives, some version of relatives and acquaintences, so there are many things I will not be sharing so as to avoid the impossible task of calming anyone's anger. However, I will speak my mind. I'm going to offend you. If you're a relative or a version thereof, I am going to piss you off. I tried the whole anonymous thing and it just didn't work. Nothing is sacred, if you reveal who you truly are, you will be made a pariah for it. That's why we all hide behind our facade. The real 'me' makes the fake 'you' so very nervous. I'll try to be honest while not 'naming names'. And, I'm not going to link this blog to anywhere, so it should be safe.
My first entries will be those that I started on Experience Project. Why? Because that was the beginning of me. When I first logged onto Experience Project, I wasn't sure what I would find. It was amazing. I got to explore things and thoughts and feelings from other people's perspective. And that, gave me a greater perspective for myself. Sadly, the experience backfired in the worst possible way. I had several profiles there. And, someone hacked into them and read things I wrote. Most of what I wrote was true, but there was some fabrication and some outright lying. In my different profiles, I tried to give different aspects of my personality free roam and free expression. Unfortunately, what worked well for me, was disastrous for others; not that they had any fucking right reading what they had not been invited to read in the first place. The damage was done. I didn't feel free to express myself anymore. I didn't feel free to talk about things in euphemism or on parody anymore. I wasn't free. My freedom of expression was taken away, and those that did it, felt completely justified in silencing me. That's the way isn't it? Those that feel their words and thoughts are paramount to everything and everyone else are remarkably efficient at silencing the rest of us.
Still, I do have a lot to say. Though I am quite aware that my blog will be read by those I have not invited to read, I still plan on trying to be transparent and honest. If I'm writing a fictional piece, to express something, I will note that in the title. And, if you read my shit, and get pissed off, you deserve to feel whatever you're feeling. This is MY space, much like my underwear drawer, my pocketbook, or my diary. Sure, you can look inside, but you're going to find things that you didn't want to find. You're going to see things you didn't want to see. And you're going to learn about me things you wish weren't true. I'm not a nice girl, not even close. I'm not a slave, not a dog, and THANK GOD!!! I'm no longer anyone's bitch. Read on, at your own peril. I AM not spookyghost.....
I AM ANGRYFACE
8 June 2010
Sad as I plan my trip to CA to visit with Gram before she passes. It is a weird thing to think you KNOW you're seeing someone for the last time. Weird, right? I'm getting on a plane to go see her so she can die.... Well, not so that she can, but so she has closure for when she does. So that I have closure too. I've lost four important people in my life so far. The first, was when I turned 16. My uncle's wife killed their son while high on cocaine because she thought my uncle loved the child and not her. She strangled the baby I watched a few times a week. He was 1 year, 1 month and 4 days old. He was beautiful. I'd say his name, but the story made the papers. Best to let the dead rest in peace.I never really overcame that event. I went to the funeral, and it was open casket. That wasn't a good thing. He looked for all the world like he was sleeping. Confused, I placed my hand on his little chest, and he was cold. I've cried over it,..but I don't think I ever really recovered from the reality that a woman, silenced her own child. Even today, a hundred years later,..I still can't grasp it.
The second, and third, were my two grandfathers. I grew up with shitty people. Really awful people. But my two grandfathers were good to me, along with gram. My second grandmother is pure evil incarnate and that horrible bitch is going to live forever!!! Sorry, that was rude,..but she used to beat me with a wooden spoon and a leather belt, so, I believe I get to say nasty things like that. But my two grandfathers were good men. And they died and I never got to say goodbye. For one, I was stationed overseas. For the other, I was in the hospital fighting for my life with meningoccocal meningitis.
The fourth death that really troubled me happened when I was in college. My dear friend, Porter Nelson, had survived skin cancer. In order to survive it, he had to have his entire scalp removed. He had a prosthesis, with a hair piece, but he was always self-conscious about it to me. I was in college in CA, and he was in college in Utah. He drove out to see me, for an impromptu vacation. He was coughing a bit, but we both drummed it up to the damn weather. A week later, he returned. His trip out was to express his love for me. But I was too young. I told him I just wanted to be friends. He was hurt, but he never let it show. After he got home, he got a bit sicker. He called me one morning, while I was packing to head home for winter break, and told me he was going to the doctor. I told him to call me later. I got the message later that he called, but I had a flight to catch, and figured I'd call him once I landed. But I never did call. Around Christmas, I called. And called. And called. Finally, I wrote him a letter. When I returned to school mid-January, there was a letter in my mailbox waiting for me. My dear friend had called because when he went to the doctor, they discovered that his lungs and abdomen were filled with cancer. He died two days later. He died alone, and it was my fault. He didn't have many friends, but I was supposed to be his friend. I let him down. I've never told anyone this story, other than the women that were in my dorm when I read the letter and fell down sobbing, no one has really ever known. The shame I carry about leaving my friend to die has definitely had an impact on me. In truth, I did love him, just didn't know how to express it, and was afraid of what loving a man meant (I was a virgin still). I was afraid and naive, and ignorant. It seems like forever ago, and just yesterday at the same time. I wish I could say I'm sorry. I wish I could tell him I love him too. But he's gone. And I'm not one to believe in God's waiting room where all our loved ones are just waiting to reunite with us. Porter is gone. And he was a good man, and he was denied a great and full life. Sort of makes me ashamed of the life I've led.
The reason for my taste in music,..is Porter. I still have the tapes he made me when he learned that I liked such crappy bands. I can't bear to listen to them, because he talks throughout, explaining the history of bands and such. Maybe some day, I'll have someone burn them to discs. But for now, I just remember my friend. My special day is December 3rd for Porter, the day he died.
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