” I was asking for the relief from living that the drug supposedly gave, with none of the greasy memories I tied to it still attached.”
. I loved it. I hated it. It felt sick there and so special too. Like Nigger Ben Butte, all wrong, distasteful even, but sickly compelling in its defiance.
My son’s not on your spectrum, your stupid rainbow of pain and awkwardness.
String together some rocks, not stones. Not semi-precious tumbled and shining. Just gray hard rocks, fist sized. Then knot that string. Then swallow it. And you will feel like I did staring at my cell phone, waiting for it to ring. I have something akin to a “team” now. Team Therese. Or rather, Team…
I put him to bed tonight. I tried to tickle, hug, sing, play. Slow, gentle; I know not to smother or overwhelm him. Interspersed between each new attempt was the constant refrain, near tears, “Get out! Get Out! Get Out!” pointing at the door.
“Oh…crap. I was really hoping for Roman gold hoards. Not children frozen for eternity in terror clutching at their dead mothers’ throats.”
Since I became aware of blogs, I’ve had one. Always anonymous because I had guck, and I wanted to be free to splatter that guck any way I wished to fling it. I can’t do that freely anymore. I’m real now, accountable for my whines and prejudices and selfishness. But just this once…I’m just gonna…