Who Knows What This Is?
Sometimes I feel guilty for what I write here. I think, "Who wants to hear your shit anyway, Bobby? What do you have to say that's new?" And then I think, "Hey,I'm not writing this stuff for anyone else, I'm writing it for me. I'm writing it to get better." And then I think, "So what's better? Will I know it when I see it...this better thing?"
I make myself write here. I know to write it down is the only way I can work it out. I have to get it out of my system and look at it before I have a chance to understand it.
And why do I have to know that you're looking at it with me? Why is it so important that you who write here, Dave, Roland, Rich, Raphael...all of you...see what I write? It's unnatural someway, but also necessary to my recovery. It's like I'm saying, "Here I am. Look at me. See....I exist. I'm worth your time just because I'm me and I feel and I see and I live. I don't have to be extra for you to see me. I don't have to do anything great for you to take notice of me. I don't have to be perfect for you to love me."
See, and there it comes, doesn't it. Just when I planned to come here and write about how my recovery seemed to be coming to a standstill because I had lost touch with my inner child and couldn't find him...his pain, I come on here and start talking, and there it is.
I'm going to talk here tonight. It's late. I'm alone except for the cat, and I want to pretend that you're here with me and I can just talk to you. If you were really here, I couldn't. If you were really here, I would have to be someone I'm not, because the person I am simply isn't good enough.
I may have to move the cat. I didn't know cat cleaning could get that loud. She left. Darn.
So, I'm gonna ramble. The site can take it, and I can take it. I'm gonna pretend that someone is reading, although I feel guilty for writing so randomly. I feel like I should have this great and horrible problem if I'm going to write. But no, not really. I hope not.
I improved so much when I got here. I shot out every thought I ever had. I told every bad thing I had ever done or thought of doing. I was going to get me out there honestly, and when I did, I was going to start over and build me up from the bottom into this person I knew I should have been.
Only what if that person is as false as the one I have been?
What if I never find me? Going on like this is not an option. I don't mean the pain and desperation. Hell, I've dealt with pain and desperation all my life. I am the pain and desperation poster child. I mean, what if there's nothing there? That's what I find sometimes...nothing. What if nothing's what I really am?
What if I'm this guy who can pretend that he hurts, and pretend that he cares, and pretend that he loves and pretend that he hates and really I'm just this empty thing? What if, when I get to know my inner child and lead him to the light and heal, the substance of my existence is gone. What if the pain was really who I was?
I'm afraid of getting well you know. Very afraid. If I get well, I'll have to know if I'm straight or gay. No more, well, gee, I'm so mixed up because, you see, my Daddy fucked me and all and I..... Nope, sorry guy. That worked for awhile. Let's get on with it. Straight or gay. Time to pay the piper. Lots of folks are on hold waiting for this momentous decision.
But I don't know. I don't know which one.
You don't know? Shit, guy, you have to know. You said you'd know. You said that just as soon as you figured all of this out and knew what happened and who really molested you and what he really did to you...you said you'd know.
Well, I don't. I don't know. I don't know any more than I did before.
Well, that's just fuckin' great! What are we supposed to do while you're standin' around whining and not knowing, huh? What are we supposed to do?
I don't know.
Shit.
And what about being happy. You think maybe you could be happy a little bit now? Can we please think of something besides your goddamn recovery? Can someone besides little Bobby have the right to hurt for a change? When is it my turn to hurt?
I can't help that. I can't help it when I hurt.
Oh, I know. I bet you were molested when you were a child, right? And so you have the right to hurt more than anyone in the world. The rest of us haven't had any problems. That's great. that's just great. Well you just sit there, Mr. I don't know when I'll be well. I have things to do.
But I don't. I don't know when I'll be well. I don't know if I'll be well. I'm not sure I exist.
I made me up, you know. I constructed me out of smoke and mirrors some way. I have always been an illusion. I left myself deeply hidden. I'm like the Mighty Wizard of Oz. Only I've come out from behind the Great Oz and shown the world my real self. Mistake....Big mistake. Because you see, I'm not really there.
If I couldn't hurt, I wouldn't feel...anything. Hurting is how I know I'm alive. Hurting makes me creative. I can't create unless I hurt, you know that, and creating is all I live for...my music, my writing....hell I'd even dance if they gave old men toe shoes. But it's the pain that has always flowed through my veins and out through my creations. I can't create from happiness...what the hell is happiness? That's not an emotion...it's just a brief break in the pain...a breather until we dive back into the pain that has been our mother...our father...our nurturer.
And then I say, "This is bullshit. Will you listen to yourself? Who the hell do you think you are, fucking Aruthur Miller? He died you know, there's a vacancy. You could apply." And then I understand that there is no talent...smoke...mirrors. If you write enough words of angst in a row, someone will think you're creative.
And I fall back on nothingness.
The bastard was my father, you know....a great, great man, so they tell me. I bought it, too. I was there waving the signs when the parade went by. I knew how wonderful he was. His brilliance and integrity were the things by which I measured my lack of same. His manliness...well...God I hated being the sissy son of the most manly man of his generation. The strongest, smartest, greatest, bravest, goddamn child molester anyone never knew existed. Not even me....the molestee.
Ah, the sad eyes with which they looked on me...the poor little sissy fat boy. "You'd be so pretty if you were thin," she'd say. And then she'd put the metrical in the blender and fix my lunch. "Fatty, fatty , two by four, they'd sing," and then I'd chase them around the playground pretending to enjoy the game.
And then in high school. That was fun when the football team decided not to like me, and I broke out in hives every night because I couldn't stand the thought of going to school the next day.
But this time, I was out of character. This time I stood up to the bastards. This time I fought back.....only I was scared. The whole time I was fighting, I was scared to death. And I never forgave myself for it....ever.
And did he do that? How could he do that? Sure, the things he did to me were bad....were wrong...oh, shit, do you know how bad they hurt? Do you know how bad I hurt? Still hurt? Will always hurt? But could they have made me into a fat, ugly coward? Please tell me they could have. I don't want to think that I was born that way.
Ah, yes, the words of angst. See how comfortable I am there? It's like I memorized the dictionary of angst. Why does it feel so good to hurt...to cry? Why does it feel so good to be there again...to see it, to feel it, too scream and cry this time and to tear up things and to......
end up dying in a fit of anger. For awhile I fantasized about the self mutilation thing. I was in college and wrote papers about it...got good grades on them. Why did no one see? Why did no one get some help for me? Couldn't they tell?
But my self mutilation period was very short. Eating was my self mutilation of choice....so much more fun than a razor blade...so much more subtle.
I'm going to bed now. Good ole nothing me is going to totter off to bed. Oh, yes, you think I'm feeling sorry for myself. Nope....not. I think I deserve everything I got. I even think I deserved getting his mother fucking dick up my ass. God, do you know how bad that hurts when I say that? The pain rips right through my gut and ends up in my head. Why the hell would he do that to me? I just feel like garbage...he used me to get off on. Oh shit. He used me to get his fucking self off on.
How do you come back from that? The realization leaves me numb. It's like I'm looking out over a deep valley, but can't see anything, or feel a breeze. I know there should be life out there, but I've lost my ability to feel it. And I lost it so very young. You poor, poor, little boy. Not a chance.
I'll get there. I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor, damnit. Do you ever wish you weren't? Do you ever wish you had no fight left in you? Wouldn't that be nice to just give up and say "Ah shit, this is just way too hard. You all go on and get healed. I'll just sit here and wait." Don't you wish you could be like that?"
I'm just the opposite. A lot of times on this incredible journey, I have no idea what I'm fighting or why I'm fighting it, but I'll be damned if it's gonna beat me....and I win, too. But I'm not sure what I've just won....but I know it'll be back.
Like I said, I'm going to bed now. Even the cat went to bed. If any of you sat up with me, or listened, or cared, you gotta know I love ya. I have to love ya, because he never did, and I needed his love so badly. I'm tired guys, thank you. You all gotta stick with me...I got no one else. Bobby
I make myself write here. I know to write it down is the only way I can work it out. I have to get it out of my system and look at it before I have a chance to understand it.
And why do I have to know that you're looking at it with me? Why is it so important that you who write here, Dave, Roland, Rich, Raphael...all of you...see what I write? It's unnatural someway, but also necessary to my recovery. It's like I'm saying, "Here I am. Look at me. See....I exist. I'm worth your time just because I'm me and I feel and I see and I live. I don't have to be extra for you to see me. I don't have to do anything great for you to take notice of me. I don't have to be perfect for you to love me."
See, and there it comes, doesn't it. Just when I planned to come here and write about how my recovery seemed to be coming to a standstill because I had lost touch with my inner child and couldn't find him...his pain, I come on here and start talking, and there it is.
I'm going to talk here tonight. It's late. I'm alone except for the cat, and I want to pretend that you're here with me and I can just talk to you. If you were really here, I couldn't. If you were really here, I would have to be someone I'm not, because the person I am simply isn't good enough.
I may have to move the cat. I didn't know cat cleaning could get that loud. She left. Darn.
So, I'm gonna ramble. The site can take it, and I can take it. I'm gonna pretend that someone is reading, although I feel guilty for writing so randomly. I feel like I should have this great and horrible problem if I'm going to write. But no, not really. I hope not.
I improved so much when I got here. I shot out every thought I ever had. I told every bad thing I had ever done or thought of doing. I was going to get me out there honestly, and when I did, I was going to start over and build me up from the bottom into this person I knew I should have been.
Only what if that person is as false as the one I have been?
What if I never find me? Going on like this is not an option. I don't mean the pain and desperation. Hell, I've dealt with pain and desperation all my life. I am the pain and desperation poster child. I mean, what if there's nothing there? That's what I find sometimes...nothing. What if nothing's what I really am?
What if I'm this guy who can pretend that he hurts, and pretend that he cares, and pretend that he loves and pretend that he hates and really I'm just this empty thing? What if, when I get to know my inner child and lead him to the light and heal, the substance of my existence is gone. What if the pain was really who I was?
I'm afraid of getting well you know. Very afraid. If I get well, I'll have to know if I'm straight or gay. No more, well, gee, I'm so mixed up because, you see, my Daddy fucked me and all and I..... Nope, sorry guy. That worked for awhile. Let's get on with it. Straight or gay. Time to pay the piper. Lots of folks are on hold waiting for this momentous decision.
But I don't know. I don't know which one.
You don't know? Shit, guy, you have to know. You said you'd know. You said that just as soon as you figured all of this out and knew what happened and who really molested you and what he really did to you...you said you'd know.
Well, I don't. I don't know. I don't know any more than I did before.
Well, that's just fuckin' great! What are we supposed to do while you're standin' around whining and not knowing, huh? What are we supposed to do?
I don't know.
Shit.
And what about being happy. You think maybe you could be happy a little bit now? Can we please think of something besides your goddamn recovery? Can someone besides little Bobby have the right to hurt for a change? When is it my turn to hurt?
I can't help that. I can't help it when I hurt.
Oh, I know. I bet you were molested when you were a child, right? And so you have the right to hurt more than anyone in the world. The rest of us haven't had any problems. That's great. that's just great. Well you just sit there, Mr. I don't know when I'll be well. I have things to do.
But I don't. I don't know when I'll be well. I don't know if I'll be well. I'm not sure I exist.
I made me up, you know. I constructed me out of smoke and mirrors some way. I have always been an illusion. I left myself deeply hidden. I'm like the Mighty Wizard of Oz. Only I've come out from behind the Great Oz and shown the world my real self. Mistake....Big mistake. Because you see, I'm not really there.
If I couldn't hurt, I wouldn't feel...anything. Hurting is how I know I'm alive. Hurting makes me creative. I can't create unless I hurt, you know that, and creating is all I live for...my music, my writing....hell I'd even dance if they gave old men toe shoes. But it's the pain that has always flowed through my veins and out through my creations. I can't create from happiness...what the hell is happiness? That's not an emotion...it's just a brief break in the pain...a breather until we dive back into the pain that has been our mother...our father...our nurturer.
And then I say, "This is bullshit. Will you listen to yourself? Who the hell do you think you are, fucking Aruthur Miller? He died you know, there's a vacancy. You could apply." And then I understand that there is no talent...smoke...mirrors. If you write enough words of angst in a row, someone will think you're creative.
And I fall back on nothingness.
The bastard was my father, you know....a great, great man, so they tell me. I bought it, too. I was there waving the signs when the parade went by. I knew how wonderful he was. His brilliance and integrity were the things by which I measured my lack of same. His manliness...well...God I hated being the sissy son of the most manly man of his generation. The strongest, smartest, greatest, bravest, goddamn child molester anyone never knew existed. Not even me....the molestee.
Ah, the sad eyes with which they looked on me...the poor little sissy fat boy. "You'd be so pretty if you were thin," she'd say. And then she'd put the metrical in the blender and fix my lunch. "Fatty, fatty , two by four, they'd sing," and then I'd chase them around the playground pretending to enjoy the game.
And then in high school. That was fun when the football team decided not to like me, and I broke out in hives every night because I couldn't stand the thought of going to school the next day.
But this time, I was out of character. This time I stood up to the bastards. This time I fought back.....only I was scared. The whole time I was fighting, I was scared to death. And I never forgave myself for it....ever.
And did he do that? How could he do that? Sure, the things he did to me were bad....were wrong...oh, shit, do you know how bad they hurt? Do you know how bad I hurt? Still hurt? Will always hurt? But could they have made me into a fat, ugly coward? Please tell me they could have. I don't want to think that I was born that way.
Ah, yes, the words of angst. See how comfortable I am there? It's like I memorized the dictionary of angst. Why does it feel so good to hurt...to cry? Why does it feel so good to be there again...to see it, to feel it, too scream and cry this time and to tear up things and to......
end up dying in a fit of anger. For awhile I fantasized about the self mutilation thing. I was in college and wrote papers about it...got good grades on them. Why did no one see? Why did no one get some help for me? Couldn't they tell?
But my self mutilation period was very short. Eating was my self mutilation of choice....so much more fun than a razor blade...so much more subtle.
I'm going to bed now. Good ole nothing me is going to totter off to bed. Oh, yes, you think I'm feeling sorry for myself. Nope....not. I think I deserve everything I got. I even think I deserved getting his mother fucking dick up my ass. God, do you know how bad that hurts when I say that? The pain rips right through my gut and ends up in my head. Why the hell would he do that to me? I just feel like garbage...he used me to get off on. Oh shit. He used me to get his fucking self off on.
How do you come back from that? The realization leaves me numb. It's like I'm looking out over a deep valley, but can't see anything, or feel a breeze. I know there should be life out there, but I've lost my ability to feel it. And I lost it so very young. You poor, poor, little boy. Not a chance.
I'll get there. I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor, damnit. Do you ever wish you weren't? Do you ever wish you had no fight left in you? Wouldn't that be nice to just give up and say "Ah shit, this is just way too hard. You all go on and get healed. I'll just sit here and wait." Don't you wish you could be like that?"
I'm just the opposite. A lot of times on this incredible journey, I have no idea what I'm fighting or why I'm fighting it, but I'll be damned if it's gonna beat me....and I win, too. But I'm not sure what I've just won....but I know it'll be back.
Like I said, I'm going to bed now. Even the cat went to bed. If any of you sat up with me, or listened, or cared, you gotta know I love ya. I have to love ya, because he never did, and I needed his love so badly. I'm tired guys, thank you. You all gotta stick with me...I got no one else. Bobby
