As always, the 3rd is for hate

I hear you there in the dark spaces, screaming of what you would do if let out of the carefully compartmentalized corners I have placed you in. You raged loose at the world threatening that if you could not have all things beautiful than no one could, oh the hateful things I have heard you whisper for hours upon  days as l forced you away from those that you might hurt with your bile and fury and self-immolation the anti-phoenix consuming yourself in a thing of horror; perpetual death.

Every year, the hate/grief surges forward. Logic and culture dictate that you should be resolved, completed, distastefully acknowledged and then swept away.  “Move on, just move on”, is the well-intentioned mantra. “Forgive and Forget.”

Forget? If I could but disentangle all the living horror wrapped around the pure memories of love/grief I would. I would swallow bottles of pills and undergo surgery if I could forget.

Forgive? FORGIVE? Forgive the self-centric and narcissistic? Forgive the incompetent and idiots? The blind-siding hatemongers?

  • student doctors, so proud that they can rhyme off 9 possible reasons why there are white smudges on the xrays, but can’t look at a medication chart to properly adjust a bowel management program;
  • screaming nurse yelling at a heavily sedated dying man, that he can’t talk to her like that, because she called his husband a fag;
  • ‘friends’ who shopped for a suitable knick-knack, while visiting both before and after death, claiming that they had given it to him, so they should get it back, including gifts that he and I had given each other;
  • RBC – the bank from hell that drained as much as they could from his account before I finally needed a lawyer to pit the CRA against them to do what should have been done in the first place.  Not to mention that the money in the account was actually mine, since that was the account we paid bill out of so I just topped it up.  That didn’t piss me off as much as keeping from being able to mourn properly with everyone else at the same time, so I could close off the estate;
  • Ashes. His brother screaming for the ashes before the cremation has taken place. Nagging, hounding, even after I said not until spring, and then bitching about his lost work time that he was holding. Telling me how I was hurting his father.  What a rotten person I was. Then when I send the overflow ashes to his dad, AS PER HIS REQUEST, it still wasn’t good enough, because he wanted it planned so he could be thered.
  • The sister-in-law who spent most of her last visit with us bitching about being a PSW and how she hated working with sick people. We were talking about the bad PSW we had in to help Jaymz, and had to get rid off. Then she hugged him tight, after we told them to barely touch him, as the cancer was in his bones and in the back. He started to cry from the pain, and she thought it grief, so she squeezed him harder and rubbed his back until I yelled at her.  But I was the asshole.
  • Shamma. Mother of his godson and did not even call for almost a year, after he told his godson he couldn’t cut hair anymore. Then she tries to come down the day I was forced to place him. Then she played nice-nice at a luncheon, until he went to the bathroom, and tried to read my beads for keeping her from him, as this was “her time” to spend with her son’s godfather.  Then she tried to show up the day he died and put pictures of her and her child up in my house.
  • Susie mother-fucking Goulding.  You righteous bitch. Bursting into tears at your last haircut, not being able to take the pain of knowing Jaymz had cancer.  Carrying on to the point that I simply had to leave as it was easier for he and I. Arriving at the palliative ward, demanding entrance.  I asked her kindly to wait so I could get an update from the doctor, see how Jaymz was, and then maybe have her up.  (She had driven in after being told not to come until she had spoken with me, but she called from her car when she was almost in the city.)She was already calling up to the room to speak to the doctor, as I was riding up the elevator. With all the commotion, I missed speaking to the doctor myself that last night. Knowing his wishes that if he was ever unconcious that he didn’t want people to see him, I went down and tried gently to say “no, he’s in a coma. No, don’t go up.”  Then so angered I could deny her access to her BEST FRIEND, she handed me the receipts for all the gifts she had brought.  And I didn’t punch her out when I handed it back and said “get yourself a refund”.  Then still not respecting anything, called for an update, found out he was dead, and called and left a cheery message that she would give us her staff discount at her flower shop for funeral arrangements.  Sweetie, darling… all his friends knew there was no funeral.  None of them had heard of you before.  You were a client. Your only redeeming feature was that you had a baby, and he wanted to hold a baby before he died.  The sound of your name still brings me to full rage.
  • I hated the consoling nurse who tried to shush me as I wailed hanging on to his cooling hand, as I tried to feel any sign of life beneath the crisp linen.
  • I hated the funeral home for neatly combing his hair into a part, and for lying him in the chapel with comforting music.

And cancer.  I fucking hate cancer.  I hate that I did my best and it simply wasn’t good enough; I hate there was no miracle drug or standard treatment worth taking; I hated that it took my love away quicker than I had found him.

 

faults & traits & madness

I remember when my cousin came to stay for a week, and on Saturday night we were watching “The Littlest Hobo”.  I had been reading in the StarWeek tv guide magazine that very day that there were several dogs used as the Hobo on any given episode.  When C said “boy, that’s a smart dog”, I told him about the article.

He shrugged and said “still a pretty smart dog” and we continued watching.  No biggie to him.

While my cousin is younger than me, he was still closer in age than I am to the next sibling up from me, and the kind of stuff I told him was exactly the same thing that they told me.  When he went to the bathroom, I got blasted by my siblings how you don’t tell little kids things like that, and it was like telling them there was no Santa Claus.

I knew where that browbeating came from.  Our family hadn’t been raised to believe in Santa.  As far as I was aware, everyone knew there was no Santa, except for my friend, Derek, who I told on the bus when we were in Grade 4, and he had complete crying jag all the way to school, and I was the asshole, because all the older kids were worried that the younger kids had heard me say it as well.

Huge biggie.

I remember the bus driver, Ellen, looking up in the rearview, alternately amused at first, and then saddened.  It hurt worse than what what some of the older kids were whispering at me.  After Derek was let off, and the the attention of the older kids went from trying to console Derek to berating me, she finally stated coldly, that Santa wasn’t the only one seeing if people were being naughty or nice.

I still have those “thoughtlessly being helpful” moments of crushing someone’s idea with unsolicited information…as opposed to purposefully crushing someone’s idea with unsolicited information; or inadvertently crushing someone’s idea with solicited information.  It’s still one of those faults about myself I really don’t like, causing countless ohno seconds… that moment after the thought is already partway out the mouth, and I’m thinking “oh no…how do I turn this about?”

Because of a need to try and keep up with my siblings, over the years I’ve developed a drive for learning a little bit about everything, enough to keep up with the conversation.  Mind you, I think part of it also came from my father, who read the encyclopedia for entertainment, and loved documentaries.  He liked to learned, and still does…as do I.

It’s a common trait that we both have:  learning something new – mostly outside of the realm of necessary, as opposed to need to learn for work (though not always) – is enjoyable.  Facts are interesting.  They are also the arsenal of the introvert unable to engage in social chit-chat, yet wanting interaction…whip out a relevant fact, and you are still contributing to conversation patterns.

The other side of the opening stories is that childhood feeling of needing to be more grown-up than I was.  Coupled with that was the unspoken (sometimes whispered about) directive “pretend everything is just fine and keep a smile on your face or else”.  The final ingredient?  I have always been aware since I was very little that I was different but didn’t really comprehend what that difference was until the ripe old age of 7, when one of the kids at school called me a faggot.  Someone giggle, shocked, and explained he thought I was a “homo”.

With part of a word, I could look it up, until I figured it out.  The encyclopedia in the house was still using the “abnormal psychology” type of definition for ‘homosexual’.  And I knew from my staunch upbringing that it was an abomination, and they all went to hell, no matter what.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you have been completed fucked over by life at age 7, with no hope of redemption in the afterlife.  AWESOME.  I know some of my sibling felt that I was a goody-two shoes growing up, but how else are you supposed to redeem your worth as a kid?  And the more you tried to hide that you are different, and the more you try and pretend everything is all good, the more the vultures circled on the playground, innately sensing different and using it cruelly as only children can do.

In spite of all that I promised myself long ago:  I’m going to move to the city, and escape these country ass-wipes; I’m going to meet people like me (i.e. gay); and I’m going to start living my life.  And I can be that mad, quirky, crazy, weird, fun-loving, strange – add your adjective, if you’ve met me – person, because gosh darnit, there are some really nice people I like that rather like that aspect of me!

So I’ve moved to the city, I’ve met people like me, but I haven’t started living my life.  Only for a short time, when I jumped down the rabbit hole to follow my love, and things got curiouser and curiouser…but then that stopped.

Now I’m trying to get it things restarted, by checking the map of where I’ve been, so I can try and remember where I was going…or pick a new direction to take.

(Note:  I’m not nailing myself to the cross by showing the world what a martyr I was, nor revealing secrets for the sake of entertainment.  There are people in my social circle who have had far, far worse lives – but those aren’t my stories to tell – and there are some things in my life I will truly never take pen to paper over.  My twisted logic is, if I take all the dark and horrible secrets that I’ve been keeping locked up and let them out, then they simply become facts.  Facts are simple, neutral things.  Secrets hold dark power, and destroy lives.  I will not be destroyed.)