Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Pain and Sisters and others... July 6, 2011 Revisited

I was reviewing some of my earlier writings in order to give them a vacation from the blog (not delete them) when I stumbled across this piece...  And decided to give it a revisit.

I imagine... there comes a time (if you are lucky) when you realize that you can leave the "stuff" behind.  I've been feeling that way lately.  And if I had the time at the moment, that's what I would do.  However, in the midst of some "garbage" writing (although historically correct and experiencially true) I've "published" on this blog, I've written some pretty good pieces... This piece is an example.  So, I revisit it...  If you are a truly successful person (I'm not talking about material success) you find yourself in constant evolution mainly due to a certain level of introspection and conscientious/consciousness.  Maybe no one notices your evolution.  And that doesn't really matter, since you are the only one who ever truly felt your experiences.  So, maybe you are the only one who truly will appreciate yourself.  I imagine that isn't true.  Although, in the end, it probably doesn't really matter who else truly understood... 

I guess you don't understand the immense pain I felt.  I guess you think it's easy to just bring it all back to the surface.  Eh!  Fuck this!  You know absolutely nothing.  Do you think a smack in the face is something worth complaining.  No my friend.  It's an awakening.  It's a thank you sir may I have another?  A cool breeze. The smell of salt air on the board walk.  No, that's not pain.  A surgery?  Tan Poco.  Try losing everything an everyone you thought cared about you, but as a child and not being able to formulate the words for asking why?  No.  That's not it.  Do you know hunger?  Do you truly know hunger?  Imagine.  You are 6-years-old.  You haven't eaten for seemingly months and someone floats a hot slice of pizza infront of your eyes, steam rising, oil and tomato sauce dripping.  You can smell the cheese that's still oozing.  They say, "Open your mouth and close your eyes.  I'm going to give you something that isn't a surprise."  You feel the heat of the slice aproaching your mouth. You feel the vapors touching your nose, the smell of oregano and garlic wafting into your nostrils.  Your stomach growls in anticipation.  The scent is so strong you can taste it.  And then suddenly the air around your face becomes cold with the slight breeze of the person withdrawing from you, carrying away the pizza and you hear, "What? Did you really think I was going to let you eat this beautiful slice of pizza?  You've got another thing coming..."   And that was the love my mother showed for me growing up. Yes, she tries compensating, now. However, she spends most of her life compensating to herself.  Prolonged pain, prolonged neglect, prolonging intentional misunderstandings breeds anger, breeds resentment.  You don't know pain.  A husband cheating isn't pain.  A girlfriend leaving isn't pain.  It's the resolution of a malfunctioning relationship. It's a new opportunity.  However, a mother who is not emotionally available?  A mother who has spent her life saying, "But I suffered all my life and I deserve something for me", who cannot see that, sometimes you must truly give to those closest to yourself in order to stop suffering.  Sometimes you must focus on creating true quality of living within your own immediate family in order to realize that you actually have something valuable without all the luxuries.  You must protect those closest to you, not push them away, ignoring and neglecting.  You can't drop your mother and shop for another.  And I think that's the point no one is understanding.  

Ok.  I'm getting the whole story wrong.  I did take charge of the situation.  I was the man of the house at the age of 5.  Without my father there, I sat in his chair at the table. Actually, I stood up on that chair unzipped my fly and I placed my penis on the table like the judge's mallot "Order in the Court!  Order in the Court!"  Do you think I'm inventing?  This is not fiction my friend.  The slice of pizza was a metaphor. But ask my mother about the whipping out of my penis at the dinner table not long after my father died.  Was it a Judge's mallot?  Or was it a symbolic gesture, a prediction of the years to come? an offering for sacrifice upon the altar of our lives where I remember seeing my father get up from the table, run to the bathroom and then hear him vomit horrendously.  Do I hear his vomitting when I am sick and bent over the toilet?  Thank god I don't have those experiences regularly.  Did I tell you about one of the only times I've had a feaver in my life... Maybe they should have chopped the damn thing off and dressed me up like Shirley Temple.  Maybe then they would have accepted me in their tiny kindom...  In their dolls house.  Sheri didn't like dolls.  She wanted to be like her father. She didn't like that my father had a real son...  Sheri cut the grass with the ride on lawnmower.  My mother cut that same grass with that same mower.  However, when I said that I wanted to mow the lawn, my mother yelled, "For the life of me!  You're going to chop off your foot!"  Am I inventing this MOM?  Is this what you want to hear James?  Is this personal enough?  

Well I can bleed for you if you want.  I can bring you into my deepest most painful realms, not of the mind, not of the Valentines Hearts in all of our mythological chests, but below the skin, where all the worst things are felt and hidden.  Do you want that?  But can I go there?  You don't need to feel my suffering in Mexico.  We all seek the repetition of the suffering we knew in childhood, if we truly knew it, in order to improve upon the past, to master the situation, even if subconsciously.  If you didn't suffer in childhood, chances are you won't truly suffer as an adult. THANK GOD FOR YOU!  My relationship with the racist and invidioso Mexicans is only a reproduction of my elementary school experiences.  And here I have come out on top.   The suffering I haven't repeated is that which I suffered with my family, which is not played out by Margarita.  Yes, there was a time...  But I'm not that timid and shy child I had been growing up with my sisters and my mother in Branchburg, with my neighbors with my elementary through high school peers.  However, they continue being the same people as adults.  Margarita said to me a month or so ago and she has apologized since, not because she was wrong, but because she didn't want to hurt me I hate to say this, but truthfully I am sure that your mother is so relieved that you do not return to the U.S. It's much easier for her to have you out of reach, visiting for 4 or 5 days every 1.8 years.  I'm sure all of them feel that way.  Did I smack her in the face for saying that? No. I felt a slight sinking of the facial muscles around my mouth and I pondered her all too perceptive statement.  

I don't have 4 nieces.  They are my sister's daughters.  Do I care about them?  Do I care about the children of unknowns living in the next town over?  Do I care about the neighbor's children?  Who are my sisters?  How were they?  Now let's enter their hearts, lifting up their true memory feelings, instead of the illusions they place in their minds when they know that they have a brother buried in an unknown land far away, when they say to their daughters that those girls have a long lost uncle.  Do they tell their daughters, your uncle metaphorically smells bad. Will they tell them, "Honestly, I would have prefered a true girl's club without the intrusion of this smelly boy..." Is it not ironic that my sisters don't have sons?  

And yes, I have thought long and hard about the irony that I don't have children.  And I will be frank with you.  I can't imagine the strain brought upon my mind and my spirit by the concern that I will do unto them as was done unto I by not only my mother, but by my Uncle Stan and who the hell knows who else those days that my Aunt Esta was bending over infront of my 4-year-old eyes with her nighty and no panties, showing off that "orange" tuft of hair showing between her bare ass cheeks.  Do I invent these memories?  Tell me, why would a 4-year-old remember that?  I don't remember being sexually abused.  That memory does not exist, although my PTSD specialist said that my early adolescent behavior screams that I was sexually abused...  Is there are reason why my aunt dropped her pre-school education career so early?  But this is just conjecture.  My cousin Seth, the one who insisted that his father beat the shit out of me "when Uncle Al" was dying in Memorial Sloan Kettering insisted on having me arrested for saying these things about his parents in 2006.  But, what if he had kept his mouth shut that April 2000 evening at the Passover table on Old York Road?  I insisted that it was Beth who was beaten...  I don't have that memory either therapist so and so... Was Seth inventing?  Why say such things about his father? And he said it with a smile, a reminiscence...  

I'm sorry.  But I've gotta go.  I can't continue on with this for now.  I don't like the coldness I feel seeping below my skin.  

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