I stand at the counter
Waiting for my turn
To score the meat
Wondering what’s in it this time.
Praying no effects, no effects, no effects.
Hearing the screams.
Each time.
Envisioning the hoisting
Final blows
All in the time I must stand there
In the pools of blood, guts and organs
Labor of love
My mother is self absorbed
Queen of the sick minds
Her life long mission
To visit with as many doctors
As humanly possibly
Hypochondria – my other sibling
Life revolves around her body
And its pain
Since my inception
I’ve dealt with my rescuing her
And her succumbing to non existant
Diseases
Her life line being being prodded and poked
Tested and deemed sick to warrant
Raised eyebrows, worry, concern
The prized cream, pill, lotion, prescription
At the end like one would hold a trophy
And the high – the absolute high
Of before going to her fix
The giddy voice.
Been there for 50 years.
The contemplation is her system
The intrusion is her children
Unless they ooh and ahh about
The daily affliction
And if they don’t
Or won’t they are not worthy.
I used to really worry.
Then caught on.
Still I am concerned
As an automatic response
To the pain of another
For her pain is real
Albeit manufactured
It is real enough for her
So – I nod and suggest
And foresee and she
Goes ahead and does what
She will do in the name
Of self preservation
And knock yet on another
Herr docter’s door
Looking for reassurance
From daddy – seeking protection
From big brother
Seeking affirmation of her beingness
In torment - -that see? See? See?
I am really sick, ergo I am.
They will be astounded at such
A terrible thing
This affliction that I carry
For years I was that affliction
Handy to carry around
See how I suffer because of her
The bane of my very existance?
She is the cause of my pain, my heart break
The reason for my unhappiness, my antagonizer
To whoever would listen – my grandmother
And me mostly. I learnt I was the cause
Of all my mother’s pain when she wasn’t
Feeling sorry for me.
It would fluctuate between.
Mostly my being accused would outdo the pity.
Then they would switch when I learned that
I could get sick and get that pity more often.
So I got sick a lot. In so many varieties.
And her pain took a backseat to concern wrapped in guilt
Which subsided very rapidly at the first onset of good health.
Her power vs my power.
One hell-bent adult 40 ish female without an anchor vs a 7 year old.
Then the 8 year old came along and started imploding.
Giving the first finger and running away – the beginning of patterns.
Then juvenile deliquency full force – shoplifting, regression, temper tantrums
The key codes of self destruction well-implanted
Then the battles at 9,10,11,12,13
She me, me she – don’t fuck with me!
You are killing me!
The crazy making duo – I never realized
Till 20 that people didn’t actually live with knives
And crashing plates and slamming doors screaming
Bloody murder calling the cops and social workers
On their children when they weren’t going hysterical
At the first sniffle, boil or bout of bronchitis that sometimes
Too warranted a call to the cops – just to witness
Because other than Corky the dog, there were none
To differentiate between reality and surrealism.
To feel alive my mother would scream, the jolt of adrenaline
Was her drug of choice while I was growing up.
So everything became a tragedy, a reason to get hysterical
The simplest of issues then became God, hell, damnation, life and death
Killing, blood, guilt all wrapped into one rage session at me
With full blast piercings and no way to combat that or protect
Other than hiding or running away. So both were undertaken.
Frequently I couldn’t do either. And the walls of my foundation
Shook and there was no appeasing. I would cook, clean – Cinderella style
My life was of captive/captor – there was no reprieve or semblence of normalcy
For the first 30 years of my life. I knew nothing of what calm was. I could only guess.
Inside I was constantly on edge, hypervigilant and wary. I stayed away from
People and hid in my apartment raising a child under severe poverty.
Daily, with crime, desperation and people who had nothing to lose
As immediate surroundings I became numb to the world.
Inner conflicts, numb and going to work. Migraines started.
Depression. Keeping a stiff upper lip for my son.
Trying to rise above it all with a smile.
I had no coping skills – what-so-ever.
For 15 years I lived like a rag doll. And the rag doll
Kept working cleaning houses, selling sandwiches on the street
Fending for my own, my son, my life, hiding between bouts
Of working myself to the bone
And trying to understand why
And how to undo
And how to rise above
And how to forget myself
And focus on being the best
Mother I could ever possibly hope to be
Guessing all the way.
Waiting for my turn
To score the meat
Wondering what’s in it this time.
Praying no effects, no effects, no effects.
Hearing the screams.
Each time.
Envisioning the hoisting
Final blows
All in the time I must stand there
In the pools of blood, guts and organs
Labor of love
My mother is self absorbed
Queen of the sick minds
Her life long mission
To visit with as many doctors
As humanly possibly
Hypochondria – my other sibling
Life revolves around her body
And its pain
Since my inception
I’ve dealt with my rescuing her
And her succumbing to non existant
Diseases
Her life line being being prodded and poked
Tested and deemed sick to warrant
Raised eyebrows, worry, concern
The prized cream, pill, lotion, prescription
At the end like one would hold a trophy
And the high – the absolute high
Of before going to her fix
The giddy voice.
Been there for 50 years.
The contemplation is her system
The intrusion is her children
Unless they ooh and ahh about
The daily affliction
And if they don’t
Or won’t they are not worthy.
I used to really worry.
Then caught on.
Still I am concerned
As an automatic response
To the pain of another
For her pain is real
Albeit manufactured
It is real enough for her
So – I nod and suggest
And foresee and she
Goes ahead and does what
She will do in the name
Of self preservation
And knock yet on another
Herr docter’s door
Looking for reassurance
From daddy – seeking protection
From big brother
Seeking affirmation of her beingness
In torment - -that see? See? See?
I am really sick, ergo I am.
They will be astounded at such
A terrible thing
This affliction that I carry
For years I was that affliction
Handy to carry around
See how I suffer because of her
The bane of my very existance?
She is the cause of my pain, my heart break
The reason for my unhappiness, my antagonizer
To whoever would listen – my grandmother
And me mostly. I learnt I was the cause
Of all my mother’s pain when she wasn’t
Feeling sorry for me.
It would fluctuate between.
Mostly my being accused would outdo the pity.
Then they would switch when I learned that
I could get sick and get that pity more often.
So I got sick a lot. In so many varieties.
And her pain took a backseat to concern wrapped in guilt
Which subsided very rapidly at the first onset of good health.
Her power vs my power.
One hell-bent adult 40 ish female without an anchor vs a 7 year old.
Then the 8 year old came along and started imploding.
Giving the first finger and running away – the beginning of patterns.
Then juvenile deliquency full force – shoplifting, regression, temper tantrums
The key codes of self destruction well-implanted
Then the battles at 9,10,11,12,13
She me, me she – don’t fuck with me!
You are killing me!
The crazy making duo – I never realized
Till 20 that people didn’t actually live with knives
And crashing plates and slamming doors screaming
Bloody murder calling the cops and social workers
On their children when they weren’t going hysterical
At the first sniffle, boil or bout of bronchitis that sometimes
Too warranted a call to the cops – just to witness
Because other than Corky the dog, there were none
To differentiate between reality and surrealism.
To feel alive my mother would scream, the jolt of adrenaline
Was her drug of choice while I was growing up.
So everything became a tragedy, a reason to get hysterical
The simplest of issues then became God, hell, damnation, life and death
Killing, blood, guilt all wrapped into one rage session at me
With full blast piercings and no way to combat that or protect
Other than hiding or running away. So both were undertaken.
Frequently I couldn’t do either. And the walls of my foundation
Shook and there was no appeasing. I would cook, clean – Cinderella style
My life was of captive/captor – there was no reprieve or semblence of normalcy
For the first 30 years of my life. I knew nothing of what calm was. I could only guess.
Inside I was constantly on edge, hypervigilant and wary. I stayed away from
People and hid in my apartment raising a child under severe poverty.
Daily, with crime, desperation and people who had nothing to lose
As immediate surroundings I became numb to the world.
Inner conflicts, numb and going to work. Migraines started.
Depression. Keeping a stiff upper lip for my son.
Trying to rise above it all with a smile.
I had no coping skills – what-so-ever.
For 15 years I lived like a rag doll. And the rag doll
Kept working cleaning houses, selling sandwiches on the street
Fending for my own, my son, my life, hiding between bouts
Of working myself to the bone
And trying to understand why
And how to undo
And how to rise above
And how to forget myself
And focus on being the best
Mother I could ever possibly hope to be
Guessing all the way.
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