| Title: | The random things you think about... |
| Posted On: | 2007-09-13 08:06:45 |
...while taking a shower.
Somewhere between a year and a half to two years ago I had a hard drive faliure that resulted in me losing a lot of things; the most important being all of my drum samples and songs I was working on, including some hiphop tunes that I actually planned to rhyme on.
Out of the rhymes that I'd worked on, there was really only one that I'd remembered and had memorised, because it was the first one I'd ever really written out and thought out properly; it took about 4 months to get 8 paragraphs down perfect and to say exactly what I was thinking at the time. (which turned into the track I had up for a short while, My Bloody Buddy/You Dirty Motherfucker)
There's another one that I'd started but never got to finnishing that I absolutely couldn't remember a thing about (thanks to copious amounts of weed smoking) untill now, taking a shower and letting my mind wander.
Every day I wake up and it's the same old shit
I feel dead to the world and I just wish I could quit
And take an exit stage left that I won't live to regret
And finally end this existance that I want to forget
'cause I'm tired of waking up alone in the dark
And crying every time I go out for a walk
And every time I sit quiet and look lost in a thought
It's 'cause dying seems so much easier than trying to talk
And anyways, who wants to listen to someone depressed
That's got so many demons that he must be posessed
Who used to take a razor every time his stress manifest
And he would only feel better after he'd cut open his chest
That's the kind of crazy fucker that you lock in a cell
With a straight-jacket on and throw the key down a well
And you don't even open the door once his corpse is starting to smell
'cause you think that just saying his name can damn you to hell
But it's not my fault, it's just the way I was created
By a couple of parents who were always innebriated
That used to beat on me and tell me I was hated
There's not a moment in my life that I was ever appreciated
Thinking about that while I was in the shower, I started to try and put together why I'd written that, what I could have been thinking about. I went to thinking mostly about the last bit about my parents and how I felt growing up.
A common excercise that psychiatrists use to help you think about how you feel about your life now is to ask you to think about your childhood, to think of any memories or events that stand out, specifically about your parents.
Off the top of my head, I can think of one memory per parent.
When I was maybe between 4-6 years old, I used to watch WWF wrestling with my dad on sundays at 11, usually while he was having a few (dozen) beers and getting totally shitfaced. I remember my dad was sitting on the floor with his back on the sofa, and we were play-wrestling as the match was going on. My dad had pinned me down under him, only he wasn't letting me get out from under him. I remember screaming and crying and begging for him to get off of me and let me move; being trapped under a 6'5" 240lbs drunk, completely pinned and unable to move isn't exactly the most pleasent of things, let alone for a child somewhere between the ages of 4 and 6.
While I'm busy screaming and crying, my mom is sitting just across from us at the kitchen table; she's reading a book or a magazine, also having a drink (something hard, either orange or brown in color, probably triple sec or those belini-style things) and just being completely focused and concentrating on what she's reading and ignoring that her child is about 5 feet away in the midst of a complete and total panic, freaking out and crying and yelling.
I'm trapped. I can't move. I remember my thoughts from back then absolutely crystal clear, as if it happened 5 minutes ago; I'm going to die. I'm never going to get out from under him and I'm going to die here. I can't move my arms, I can't move my legs, I can barely breathe, and I'm not going to live through this. I'm trapped under my father like someone buried alive. I'm going to starve and suffocate and I'm not going to live any longer than the next few minutes, because I can't breate, I can't move, and there's absolutely no one around that cares for me enough to check if I'm alright or not.
And I gave up. I was so completely terrified that I gave up, stopped fighting back and yelling, and just started crying and pissed myself.
THAT got my father to stand up and get off me, at which point he proceded to yell and scream at me and drag me up to his bedroom, where he pulled down my pants and took out this big, thick leather belt that he had, and whipped my ass with it.
If he'd used the leather end, that might have been alright. But he was drunk and pissed off and oblivious to the world, and he used the end with the buckle; a big, ornate buckle that's larger than the palm of my hands are now. I was then sent to my room and grounded, my mother having not said a word, not tried to step in and intervene, just sat there at the kitchen table, reading her book and pretending we didn't exist.
The memory of my mother durring childhood is from around the time I must have been 9-10 years old, shortly after my mother had kicked my father out of the house. We'd gotten into an argument about something, I can't quite remember what, and my mother had said something to me that got me crying and so shook up, and she then proceded to lock herself in her bedroom and ignore me.
At the time, her bedroom was at the end of a short hallway. There was nothing else, no closets, nothing, it was just an empty halway leading about 10-12 feet from the landing at the top of the stairs to her room. If you were on the top stair, about to step onto the 2nd floor, the bathroom door was on your left, my bedroom door was first on the right, and my father's bedroom was to the left of mine. Directly infront of the stairway was this hallway, only slightly wider than a door, extending about 10-12 feet, leading to her bedroom door, which is now locked.
I must have spent an hour outside of that door, sitting on the floor with my chin on my knees, crying, telling her I was sorry for whatever I had done, desperatly trying to apologise so that she could take back whatever it is she had said to/about me. All this time, absolutely nothing from her room. Not a sound. She could have been dead or sleeping or had climbed out her window for all I knew, she just completely refused to acknowledge my existance; that her son was sitting outside her door crying and traumatised by whatever it is she had said to me at the time.
When I was that age, I used to draw a lot, one of the only things my mother ever really seemed to encourage in me; she loved drawing and painting as well, so it's one of the only things we had in common. So, after however long I sat outside her door crying, I decided that I would try and cheer her up with a drawing, to get her to talk to me, to open her door, anything.
I went to my room and took a sheet of paper, sat at my desk, and drew. I drew two butterflies, one larger and the other smaller, both with smiles on their face. There was green grass and a blue sky, and they were both flying next to a flower.
I finnished it off by writing "Me and mom" on it. Then, I went to her bedroom door at the end of the hall, and slipped the piece of paper under her door and once again sat there, hugging my legs with my chin on my knees, waiting for her to open the door so that we could apologise to each other and comfort each other.
Instead, a few minutes later, a piece of paper comes back out at me from under the door. It's the drawing I'd made for her. She's changed the smiles on the butterflies to sad frowns, and added a giant hand, complete with movement lines to show that it was about to crush the larger butterfly, and had labeled that hand "FRED" in large letters.
Those are my childhood memories. Whenever someone asks me what I can remember of my childhood, what the happier moments of my childhood were with my parents, I can't think of any. Those are the first and only stand-out memories of what growing up was like to me.
And those two memories really seem to show what two of my main outlooks/observations on my life seems to be; one, there's always someone or something preventing me from doing what I want, what I need to do, to be happy, to be free, and any time I try to ask for help, I just get ignored as if I didn't exist. When I finally give in and accept my fate, it all gets thrown in my face and I get berated for not trying, when in reality I've done all in my power, all that I know how to do, to get where I wanted to go, to get something better for myself, and two, that everything I try and do to make things better, to get some kind of happieness and comfort, always gets thrown back in my face. Everything that I ever do to be happy somehow finds a way to be warped, perverted, and turned on me, so that everything that I enjoy becomes a constant reminder of just another way that I've failed at being better.
