From a young age, I always felt stifled
I wasn’t allowed to be me so I was muffled

Mother insisted at my school I be held back in first grade
Principal said no, she insisted and in her hands he played

She said I'd be better off ******* because someone could do something with me then
Because the way I was, I was unable to learn, refused directions again and again

Mother said I came from a loving caring family that I treated terrible
I just don't know how to appreciate, and made others lives unbearable.

Being me was really not acceptable
So I always felt quite skeptical

Everything I did, wanted to do, said or liked
Was considered bad, wrong, sinful and disliked

My having fun was not allowed
For I’d embarrass them in a crowd

I never knew what I was allowed to do
Because of that I never really had a clue

Never knowing what to do, say or how to act
Since all my actions against me were attacked

My mother said one thing to me and did another
I knew she favored others over me so why did I bother?

My entire life has been quite a farce
Attention I wanted from her were sparse

Always pretending to be such an outstanding mother
To impress the friends and family she shouldn’t bother

Mother said I couldn't work because I can’t get along with anybody
Making me dependent on her in every way, she said I was shoddy.

While mother was pretending to me that she really loved me
She was going around bashing me to any family she’d see

I’d complain that other family members treated me bad
She said all you  do is cause trouble and make me mad

If you could just grow up and learn to behave
Then everyone would be nice and about you rave

I trusted my mother when she said I was born bad, told her I  see
She asked the doctor for help but said nothing was wrong with me.

Mother spoke with fork tongue;  sold me out, lied to me constantly
Leaving me to wonder how to survive without her cautiously

I'm afraid to have fun, I'm always afraid someone will be cranky
When I did things I'd pay for it because mom would be very angry

Afraid to be me, don't know how to act, who I am, or what to do.
Today I feel the same and for that reason I will always be blue

At the age of almost 60 I'm finding out things were never my fault
I'd like to take all those bad feelings, and lock them in a vault

Copyright 2017
All rights reserved

The solid wall,

Unscalable in height,
Impenetrable in might,

How that secure wall,
Encase this psyche,

And carefully constructed,
It be excessively rendered,
The masquerade of idealisation,

Albeit,
This wall ultimately conceal,
What torment persist,
Of ageing scars,
The heart still suffers

It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.

Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.

Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.

The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.

This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,

and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.

I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.

The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.

I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.

The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.

Do you think she’ll witness my downfall
When she goes to hell?
Do you think she’ll feel the anguish of empathy?
Do you think she’ll find a way to introspect
Instead of projecting?
That would cause her suffering.
I won’t be grouped in with fools
Who discharge ressentiment
With dreams of those who’ve wronged them
Suffering more than they have...
But I know it must discharge somewhere.
What constrains me?
The stunted superego
Suffocates the id
Holds it down and kicks it;
A child beaten
Tells itself
It doesn’t want to hurt its family
Until the day it’s realized
That it can’t.
And then, its spirit broken
Lays dormant, a pressure cooker
Tells itself it doesn’t want to rise
To cope with having fallen.
It stays silent and still long after left
Alone.
Retreated so far into itself
That now it fails to recognize
The threat is gone –
The abuse goes on
Long beyond it’s ended.
She told me she loved my poetry,
That I inspired her to write
About her father.
I should have seen it coming then
It was no different from before -
I let myself be used again
I have no excuse.

I told myself I wanted all of her
But I never wanted her blame shifting
Her gaslighting
Her traumatic bonding
Her disorientation
Her playing the victim
Her cruelty
To happen
And it would be easier to cope with
If it actually hadn't.

It would've been easier
If I'd been the crazy one
Because then I might've had the power to fix it
If again I could go back to the time
When I clung to her lap
And she ran her fingers through my hair
And said, "Your head's really ****** up, isn't it?"

If I could go back to my "data acquisition"
And be okay when she refused to give me answers
When she refused to tell me what we were
Or if I meant a thing to her
So I couldn't hold her to expectations
Or have them
Because I meant nothing to her
But she couldn't tell me that until I tried to end it
She just let me say "I love you," and didn't say it back
(Except for the few times she slipped just to keep me trapped).

She told me that it was all in my head
And then that I wasn't imagining anything
In the same paragraph.
She told me she was "over this"
But wouldn't tell me what "this" was
When I was the one crushed under it.
She let me chase that conversation
And played with me
And told me, "You're just going to have to be confused then.
This is my straight forward response.
The truth is, I'm sorry but you will have to deal with it."
But I didn't want to deal with it.
I just had to.
And all I wanted was the truth
But I still don't have it
And I don't know how it can stare her in the face
And she can still deny it

I don't get how she can torture me for months
And not have the decency to say, "Yeah, I did it,"
So I can rest.
I don't get why I still need her validation
Why I still tried so desperately to get it
Why the army behind me isn't enough

But it has to have something to do with her saying,
"I am not your ex. I am nothing like your ex.
You need to be able to collect the data in front of you and dissociate from past trauma.
Seriously,"
Every time I tried to defend myself from her actions
Until I stopped trying because I was too busy trying to analyze my own
Or, "You tell me all your thoughts,
I go through them with you
Confirming. Or. Denying."
Like she was the omniscient authority
The objective standard by which the validity of my feelings and perceptions were measured.

I think it's because
It'd be easier to cope with
If it hadn't actually happened,
So I convinced myself it wasn't happening
And I'm still struggling to believe it.
It'd be easier
If it was all in my head
Because then I'd have something to be certain of
(Even if it was only my uncertainty)

And I wouldn't have to admit to myself
That I was in love with a sociopath.
I wouldn't have to wonder
Whether or not she did it on purpose.
I wouldn't have to face the fact that I feel abused and broken
And empty
And like there's a hole in me I'm not sure how to fix
That I allowed to be drilled there.

Taking medication may be fastening together the seams that could split. Between SSRI, HRT, and caffeine the moments speed, fleeting before I secure my grip. What's the point of living as a zombie losing opportunity through barely there fingers? I can be **** for you, I'm fond of pleading on my knees, tongue over my teeth, waiting patiently for my mouthful -- but what's point? What would it solve to introduce a controlled study meltdown? Well, I see the seasons coming at first light. Spring and Fall pull balance apart. So pull apart, because these meds don't help when my mind conspires without me, but with the world. Leave me alone. I'm caught gazing at the canvas in the white on walls. If it appears I'm choking, I am. I choke myself to gasping near to death as a means to depart from my leaden regret. Do I grow wings? No. Do I ascend? No. Do I myself then deify? No. It takes endlessly repeated little deaths to prevent permanent disintegration in passion's cruel flame.