On Island Road

Cooper City Florida, 1987
Voorhees and Krueger Come
To gruesome life on a suburban television
Screaming children run
Across a flickering screen
Fleeing bloodslick blades gripped
In the hands of fictional horrors unrelenting

The credits roll
The Screen goes blank
The groan and hum of the cassette
Rewinding breaks the brief silence
As the screams of so many murdered
Teenagers fade into the recesses
Of my young mind.
“What did you think of that?”
The words slide
From his tongue with cold eagerness
“Uh. A lot of people died.”

I am six years old
Spread on the floor
While parents wrestle with oblivion
Behind closed doors
He says ghosts live
In the corner of
Every room, watching
This scares me more than the movies
For some reason

His mother’s apron
Hangs limp from a hook in the kitchen
I imagine now, every corner filled
With aprons, suits, dresses
Suspended
Haunted
Lifeless

The cathode ray glow
Filled with cheap horror
Keeps my restless ghosts
At bay until the morning

Less than a block away
My parents sleep
Ashtrays on their night tables
Who smokes in the house around
A first grader with asthma anyway?

Late night cable
Takes a turn for the worse
Filled with wet mouths
And hungry curves
Speaking a language
I have yet to learn

He unzips his pants

There are power lines outside
Humming static against the
Thick night sky
The heat is oppressive

I know I should feel something more.

Right here
In this town
Sneaking around
Feet pound
Late night blacktop
Still clinging to the sun’s last heat
In this house
On this street

I feel nothing.

Do you know how
To give into hate?
I now know how to give in
To hate.

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On Island Road

I don’t Know What To Say

I was six years old the first time I was sexually assaulted. I can recall the majority of the details with clarity and alacrity. This is a blessing and a curse, I guess because the memories have stayed strong and present with me all these for the past three decades. I have spent the majority of my adult life wrestling with them. Like many survivors, the memories often come bursting out of me with little warning, and at inopportune times. Sometimes during the summer if I am sleeping in a room with a ceiling fan, I wake up with a start thinking it is someone’s breath on the back of my neck. I have spent much of my life in and out of various states of dissociation and bottomless rage. I have spent much of my life like I still don’t know how to say no, and often find myself intimate with individuals who know just how to exploit that.

On the other side of that survivorhood, I distinctly remember being thirteen and my male friends and I figuring out that that there was a blurred line between persistence and coercion. To our young minds, the absence of physical violence somehow differentiated us from the individuals who assaulted me years earlier. Furthering that idea, when I was fifteen, a group of boys abducted one of my friends and took her to a party where they assaulted her. This crime was never reported, but served as singular turning point in the young lives of my friends and I; a reminder of sorts of the secret truth we had always known, encoded in our young bodies: The bad men were real, and they mostly got away with what they wanted. My best friend and I walked around school carrying knives secreted away in our pockets the rest of that year, swearing that we were going to stab the one perpetrator we could identify to death the first chance we got. We never did. He went on to live a normal life until dying in a car wreck on the run from the law ten years later. I was at a party when I heard, and I laughed audibly, comfortable in the certainty that my friends and I were so different from this sorry, dead asshole.

When you are a young person, especially when you grow up in punk, you define yourself by what you are and what you are not. You delineate everyone into a clear “them” and “us”. You surround yourself with other freaks and outcasts and convince yourself you somehow live outside of the unrequited-blood soaked horrorshow that is life on this planet. My friends and I naively believed we were somehow different, all the while shutting out the voices of the women and queers in our lives who have been imploring us to just fucking listen and do better. The few deeply intimate relationships with I have had with men have been with fragile boys with fragile egos, unable in varying degrees to examine hard truths about themselves, always wondering why their lives are perpetual disasters and their exes fucking hate them. Don’t worry. I am counting my relationship to myself in there too.

I wrote letters to two of the individuals who assaulted me at the beginning of my thirties, never having the nerve to send them. Two years back, I decided to send them while trying to reconcile and change my own patterns of abusive behavior towards intimate partners. I held the naïve belief that maybe these two men would hear me out and open a dialogue and that maybe we could sort out some of this mess together. One of them responded. I obviously could not hear the tone in their voice as they composed an email, but I am fairly certain it differed very little from Brett Kavanaugh’s as they berated me, simultaneously calling me a liar and weak for still feeling the effect of their actions thirty years later. They included their phone number in the email, demanding that I call them, which I never did. I have no doubt that had we spoken on the phone, they would have sounded *exactly* like Judge Kavenaugh did on television the other day.

This individual also came out to me as trans in their email. Two days later, they committed suicide. I blamed myself for the death of another trans woman, and wondered what kind of common ground we could have found had they just listened. I wondered how similar the paths we had walked really were. I spent the next week certain their ghost was in the room with me at night and slept very little. I left my room only to eat or walk my dog. I told my friends I was sure that they would be waiting for me in hell when I died. The crushing feeling of guilt stuck with me until I thought about what an utter fucking chump move it is to hurl yourself into whatever afterlife will claim you rather than take responsibility for your actions.

My heart feels ripped out of my chest this week. My heart is broken for all the people I love who are survivors (and that is almost everyone I know.). My heart is broken for all the people I love who are raising children, especially daughters in this thresher. My heart breaks for the kids who come after us, who were supposed to inherit a better world. My heart breaks for the people I love who live the duality of being both survivor and perpetrator this week, because every person I have loved the most has endured/is capable of/has inflicted some serious harm, and we have to live the lives we’ve made and pick up the pieces. My heart breaks continuously thinking about the people who I have done harm to. My heart breaks thinking about what it is to live in a culture that benefits you so intensely that your hard-learned life lessons usually come at the expense of the people you love the most, and that is treated as normal.

I am tired. We are all tired. We are all tired and heartbroken, and I have no optimism with which to end this post, only a small body filled with venom and unwavering love for my friends doing the best they can.

I don’t Know What To Say

Christmas time is possibly my least favorite time

What do holidays really mean to someone largely estranged from their family of origin?

Maybe it means you start dreading the holiday season from about the day after Halloween, until January second.  It means you get to listen to your friends talk about going away to see their families, or what gifts they plan on giving their loved ones.  You don’t want to fucking hear it, because you don’t really have a family to go home to.  You can’t even imagine what that’s like.

Maybe you think about how the last Christmas you can remember spending with your family of origin, your solution was steal two bottles of wine from the store before making the several hour drive to your mother’s house.  It turns out, if you and your mother just keep drinking, that makes the holiday and one another’s company actually bearable.

You spend Christmas Eve drinking wine.  Mom drank from a glass, you drink straight from the bottle.  You look at dumb shit on the internet, and didn’t talk about anything of any consequence, except mom shows you this cool website where you can look up people’s mugshots.  She shows you your cousin’s latest arrest photo, for her latest arrest on meth possesion.

“Look at what drugs did do her face!”  She drunkenly exclaims.

“She was such a beautiful girl growing up.”

Then shit gets weird.  You half drunkenly start to think about saying something to your mom about the patriarchal weight put on physical appearance, and how damaging beauty standards are, how maybe your long lost cousin’s addiction boils down to more tragedy than the ravages her demon of choice have taken on her face and figure.  You think the better of it, and keep your mouth shut.  You turn your laptop away so mom can’t see it, and quickly type in the name of your neighbors who assaulted you as a child.  These are the real life monsters that lived under your bed that your mother denied existed.

And there he is.  One of the faces that has haunted you most of your adult life.  Your mom denied he existed all this time, denied your experience was real, and told you to get over it, and there he is.  Right there.  It’s the face you know so well, but with added mileage.  The years have not been kind, and maybe that’s just what you wish on this asshole.  You wonder if it means something in some grand universal sense, that you are happening to glimpse this face for the first time in over twenty years while sitting in the same room as your mother, who you rarely see.  You think about some grand tapestry involving threads of family, violence, neglect, mental illness and despair that weave themselves together to be torn apart as sure as night follows day.

You think about saying something to mom while you’re both drunk.  You wonder if the conversation won’t go differently this time.  Maybe the wine will soften both of you.  Maybe the wine will alleviate some of the bitterness that has accrued over the years.

You realize you are maybe too drunk.  You think the better of it, and go to bed.

You can’t sleep and you answer a craigslist casual encounters ad or two.  You try and work up the nerve to go have anonymous sex in the town your mom lives in.  Sure enough, there are lonely men who like effeminate boys in this place she moved to for it’s southern conservative values, even on Christmas Eve.  You drunkenly think for a second about how maybe this is replaying childhood trauma in your adult life.  You tell your brain to shut the fuck up.  Stop ruining your night.  Anything to fill the void, you guess.

Self preservation prevails.  You fall asleep in the guest room. You don’t drive drunk.  You don’t go to some stranger’s house and get choke fucked by him until he cums and you leave before he even pulls the condom off, or bother to ask his name.

You drift to sleep and you think of the void.

The void, that great colossal emptiness you are constantly filled with weighs heavily on you.  It is your oldest, and surest companion.  You stare at the shadows on the ceiling, and you are sure they are staring back at you.  You’ve known this since you were a child, and you sought the company of FM radio waves washing through your room at night to keep the abyss at bay.

You feel all that void this year too, as December drags on.  The daylight is short, and the nights are long.  The dark feels goddamn endless.  The dark feels abyssal and gigantic.  You have too long to lie in bed and think about where it all went so wrong.  The mornings barely push their light through the curtains in your room, and it’s so cold.  You don’t want to get out of bed.  You think about lighting candles, or doing ritual to bring light back to you, but you don’t have the strength today.  Maybe you will tomorrow.

You think about the Christmas when you were fifteen.  It’s one of the last fond memories you have of your family, and even that memory is stained with poverty and depression.  This was the Christmas just before you and your mom lost your house.  The house is dirty, and constantly filled with blue cigarette smoke.  Mom stays in the house and chain smokes all day.  Sometimes you go to school, sometimes you don’t.  Sometimes you go out with friends, sometimes you don’t.  You get uncomfortable when you are around your friends and their nice families.  When you are home, you stay in your room listening to records and staring at the ceiling.

You and your mother decide that even though you don’t have money for presents, you should both go to K-Mart, and buy one another at least something to open on Christmas day.  You find something you think your mother will like, and you think about how little money you have.  The heat has been turned off twice this winter already, and it’s a fucking cold one.

You do what any sketchy broke fifteen year old would do, of course.  You secret the present away in your rad teenage punk leather jacket.  This is after all, the K-Mart where just months ago, in the warmer, seemingly invincible summer days your friends would have you go in to the store with your mohawk spiked up to run distraction while they shoplifted to their little teenage criminal heart’s content.  This is the K-Mart where some hick managed to drive a riding lawn mower on display outside into his buddies waiting pick up truck and not get caught.  You think you are doing great, presents secure in your jacket, and saving this meager twenty dollars at the same time.

“Goddamnit, kid.  Do you realize store security is trailing your around the store?”

You hear your mom’s voice behind you.  Oops.  She manages to explain to the store security guard and employees who have assembled around you that you are doing your last minute Christmas shopping together, and you were simply just trying to hide your purchases from her since you were in the store at the same time.  You weren’t actually trying to steal.  She promises.  She insists you are a good kid.

“Of course that’s what I was doing.”  You agree vigorously.

They let you go, and just before Christmas comes, you and one of your older friends go steal a carton of cigarettes from the convenience store two towns over for you to stuff in your mom’s Christmas stocking late Christmas eve.  You wish she wouldn’t smoke so much, but not much else seems to make her happy.

Twenty years after that Christmas, the void pulls just as hard.  You sit at a bar with one of your closest friends, while she finishes her beer and you drink water.  You talk about how neither of you have any family to go to this year.  You didn’t really have anywhere to go last year either.

“Fuck it.  We’ll buy each other presents.  We don’t need our shitty moms.”

You both smile.  You talk about trauma, love, and loss.  You talk about the difficulty and depression of the season.  You talk about moving on, and moving away from destructive patterns.  You talk about legacies of mental illness and despair, how they leave their long shadows.  You talk about how you can almost see the light moving in at the edges of the dark.

You put your jackets on.  You leave the bar.  You hug and part ways, walking different directions  on Fourth Avenue.  You walk home through the fog, and think about what you are going to get your friend.  You think about how to move through the sadness that has persistently followed you for these last two months.

No, fuck it.  You think about the sadness that has followed you for almost as long as you can remember.  Maybe this year you’ll beat it.  Maybe this year, as this holiday season and it’s fake happiness fades into the the background and the winter days start becoming incrementally longer you’ll find new ways to thrive,  instead of just surviving like you always have.   Maybe all this hurting is really just growing, and the bad times melting away like muddied snow come the spring thaw.

 

Christmas time is possibly my least favorite time