My War

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You gather your armor, beaten, somehow heavier from the years of use, and you fight the demons once more.

You fight the demons and you rage against their walls. Storming fortresses in the hopes of destroying the dungeons they mean to place you in, the tiny dark holes wherein you’ll die and be left for forgotten.

As you lash out and against, you hear a Voice continually humming in the back of your brain like a semi-automatic tattoo gun, inking onto your mind the suggestion that you should just give up, just stop already, just go to sleep.

Just go to sleep.

A distraction at first, it coyly swallows every last demon warring against you till it becomes the entirety of your war. In an effort to dismantle dark forgotten holes, it begs you to enter one of your very own construct, but only once. Once, and forever and ever amen more.

You can say no, but in so doing, understand that the demons will reappear. The goddamned demons will reappear, stronger and angrier than before.

Say no anyway.

Make no mistake, this will be a continual war. The demons need not food nor rest nor restocking. The Voice itself prattles on, dolloping constant bloody stain that’ll continue to blacken even a weary mind retired for the night. The war will rage, in starts and stops, maybe even for the remainder of your life.

Say no anyway.

The war will rage on, in starts and stops, maybe yes, even for the remainder of your life. I know it has so in mine at least. And the armor continues to become heavier every time I pick it up, but still I do.

And it’s not because I’m any sort of hero, but rather, a coward. A coward too frightened to enter into that dark forgetting hole of my own construct, but only once. A coward too afraid to admit defeat. Even after defeat upon defeat upon defeat.

A coward who’s survived.

And in the case of this war at least, being so is just enough to be a victor. Today, tomorrow, and every day after. Possibly even til the day when the demons are vanquished and the Voice silenced once and for all. Forever and ever amen.

It can happen after all, you know

I don’t know why I’m sharing this, except that maybe I have heard recently of far too many who were not cowards, far too many lost to us too soon and far too forever as a result.

And maybe I think, someone who needs these words – someone who is getting ready themselves to make the mistake this time of saying yes once and forever – someone like that might find this scribbled thought and see, and in seeing, See.

I hope so. I hope I can do at least that in my what I would call a life. I know it’s helped me to realize that others have succeeded where I sometimes fear I will fail; to know that I’m not the only one fighting, that I’m not alone. To know that I am loved by other cowards who also continue to survive.

You too, are not alone.

You too, are loved.

If by no one else, then at least by me.

Come, please, gather your beaten armor, and beside me fight another day, OK?

Love,

t

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A Life Straight(ened)

It’s time, isn’t it? Time to write it down, spit it out, give it up.

Yes.

But I don’t want to.

You have to.

But I’m scared.

None the less, its your bed made. You have to.

Are you ready?

No.

Go ahead anyway.

OK…

There is a thing still lying in wait.  A something – ever-hungry, heavy, dark, and leech-like – looming just beneath my surface.

I can feel it there always.

This thing, this Bastard, howls in foreboding glee. Safe in the assumption that I am too scared to ever acknowledge it. Satisfied in knowing that I am piss-fearful that if I ever did, it would surely decimate me.

Leave me for dead.

This thing, this Poison, is the same thing I have felt gnawing with greasy lips before.  The very thing I have previously – with eyes tearfully squeezed hard shut – ignored, all in the hopes that it would simply go away.

It didn’t.

This thing, this Sin, is the director of my nightly ‘mares, the driver of my attacks of anxiety, the detriment to my finally being able to straighten my life, my faith, my forgiveness, my moving onward.

My growing upward.

This thing, this parasitic Fuck, is the last thing I must give to Him. The thing that only He can destroy. I believe this to be true, I want it to be done. And yet this thing I can’t even name. This thing I need to hand over, I can’t see, nor yet look in the eye.

I only feel it, know that it is there.

Lord, please take this thing from me. I don’t know its name, but please rip this overly fattened tick from my soul. I am not strong enough to give it to you. I know this, and I’m so sorry for my weakness. But if I ask You to take it instead, will that count?

If I ask You, will that good enough?

If so, then please. Please, and now.

There is a thing still lying in wait. A something that is slowly bleeding me, and if I hope to be complete again, this thing has to be removed.

This something has to die.

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The first time I’ve ever used a prompt prior to the actual post, within the introduction. This one coming from the good people over at the Write On Edge community.

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Chances…

This post will most likely suck. I apologize in advance.

I’m sitting here in my favorite skirt, struggling. Not with the skirt of course, but with the subject matter for this week’s Twisted Mix-Tape Tuesday.

You see, today we are to sing The Song Spiritual, but the last two years have left me feeling anything but. I have seen the death of family, the death of friends, the death of beliefs, the death of dreams, the death of love and the death of a life I had struggled to build for seventeen years.

And then again, there’s that damned skirt. Sitting right in front of me, wrapped securely round me. That one stupid piece of fabric that reminds me too, of a life new. Of new beginnings and discoveries. Of the chance to finally be the person that I was always supposed to be – the person I’ve always been too fear-filled to be.

What does all this have to do with spirituality? Nothing I suppose. And everything. It’s a topic I could literally spend hours on, as it’s the only one that I think matters at the end. All love, desire and need grows from it. And no matter the God or not that you attribute it to, it resides in all of us. It IS us, as we are it.

“So then what songs make the queue, t?” Again, I’m struggling. They all should. Music is the language of the angels – it’s how we speak to the Spirit. Whether we scream or coo, raise our fist or gently caress, music is how we converse with the Divine. As such, and just for today, I will dig very deep and I will try to show you my spirit in song. The spirit of who I thought I was, who I wanted to be…

The spirit of whom I struggle with being right now…

And the spirit of whom I hope I might someday still be.

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Again, I apologize for the high probability of this post sucking, and as I see that I’ve left you all in a slump of sorts, all mopey-eyed and possibly-despondent, I will provide you with this for your bonus track. It’s the me that sometimes exists, after I’ve walked my Pride & Joys back to their mother’s for the night, and I’m left to my own dancing devices, alone again with only that damned piece of fabric wrapped round my waist, and my personal conversation to be had with the Divine…

A mother’s love…

It’s happening again. As I’m getting ready to get on a big plane and fly far far away, the little mother in the back of my head is literally screaming.

“What if it crashes? What if you die? Is this how you want to go out? Do you want that last post to be your swan song? Really? You do know it wasn’t your best work, right? And did you get all the stuff no one is ever supposed to know about buried and out of sight? How about those “Dear Santa” letters in your drawers? Didn’t you dispose of them yet? Did you tell the kids how much you love them? Did they listen? Are you going to leave C like this? Aren’t you/couldn’t you/shouldn’t you do something – well – “special” for her? Isn’t it about time that you did? Even though she’ll be livid if you do? Did you get straight with God? Did you ask forgiveness for all the things you’ve done, felt and thought? How about all those things you didn’t? I mean, just in case the plane crashes? Just in case you die? It does happen all the time, you know. That’s why I simply refuse to board one. They’re flying death traps, pure and simple.”

If you hadn’t guessed, that little mother in the back of my head is a direct inheritance from my (only slightly larger) real-life mother. Given to me on the day of my birth, and fed slowly but steadily over the years since then.  I’m none to sure why she’s still around, as I’ve been spending the better part of my later years trying to kill her off. The little one in the back of my head, that is. My real-life mother is far too accomplished a cook to ever knock her off. Now don’t get me wrong, while helpful at times, overall she’s been much more of a hinderance than not.  I fear as if her fear has kept me back from quite a number of things accomplished and adventures to be had. And I worry she’s only gaining in strength, with the more I try to eliminate her. Or the older I become. Or maybe as a result of a little bit of each.

So. I’m going to get on that damned plane, without first squirreling my secret things deeper away. I’m going to get on that plane despite her booming voice, echoing in the (surprisingly otherwise empty) cavern of my skull. And I’m going to do so, simply to spite her. To make her shut up. Hopefully, once and for all. Of course, I’m also going to get on that damned plane simply to get to the destination I need to be at. But as goals go, that hardly sounds lofty at all, so we’ll just skip that part.

My real-life mother, of course, will once again be asking for both my flight number and the times of departure and landing. Both ways. She doesn’t need this info, as she will neither be flying on, piloting or controlling the landing of my plane. But she requests it anyway, so she can frantically track the flight’s progress, minute by minute, hour by hour. And as you may recall, since Satan’s personal sex-filled low-slung Camero – the internet – is not allowed in their house, she does this all by phone. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that this played at least a part in the advent of prerecorded messages. I asked her at one point why she needed the departure time, as even she had to admit, very few crashes occurred at this juncture of the journey. To this she simply replied “well, I need to know when to start praying, don’t I?”

That indeed she does.

Did I then ask her why, if she normally says to “put it all in God’s hands”, she then has to meticulously track each and every flight that her boys venture on, even after she’s dropped J.C. a line? Hell. To. The. No. With mom, it’s best not to ask questions that help to highlight that even God himself will never be fully trusted. So she will pray. And she will check. And she will get upset when I land, and don’t even have the decency to call C and herself to let them know that I’m safe. And then she’ll become more irritated still when she tries to commiserate with C, only to hear a response of “if he dies, I’m pretty sure someone will call me. If no one calls, I’m pretty sure things went just fine and proper.” OK, C would never actually use the “and proper” bit, but I sometimes like to pretend she’s British as well. Because the Brits have the coolest accents, and they really do know how to layer.

Anywho, back to mom. Both the slightly larger real-life version and the little one, currently reading over my shoulder and sulking in the back of my head. As I believe we’ve already established my feelings on the latter, I feel I should also mention that I truly love the former. She has always made sure that I was OK. And even if she slipped on occasion, causing more damage than good, I know it was done from love, not malice. And I do appreciate the fact that she worries about me. I just wish it didn’t manifest itself as being so – well – worrisome. I also wish she would actually be able to “put it all in God’s hands” one day. I know that’s what I plan on doing again when I get on that big plane, hopefully with a window seat assignment. See, the one thing I can never tell mom I do is this. I do pray. Just for a moment. Each and every time I hear the engines flair and the pilot announcing that we’ve been cleared. I would like to think I do so because I mean it. But honestly, it could be just another instance of my Roman Catholic Voodoo genetics kicking in. Regardless of the reason, I do make sure I’m straight with God before we hit the air. At some point in time, all my secrets will be laid bare any way, no matter how deeply I try to bury them now. They’re safe enough where they currently stay. But if I’m placing myself in a situation wherein there’s even an outside chance resulting in me meeting the Big Man, I think it wise to at least first make sure He’s cool with me, prior to our introduction. So I spend a moment asking Him to forgive me, and asking Him to take care of mine, should my plane be the one that’s going down this time. It does happen all the time, you know.

Oh! That reminds me – one more tradition I delight in sharing with my mom is this. Each and every time I leave she says “make sure to take God with you.” And each and every time I respond with “but ma, I only bought one ticket.”

I know, and still she loves me, right?

Here – please enjoy a little traveling music for our journey and I’ll look forward to seeing you all again the week of the 12th. If you don’t see a post by then, then you’ll know that mom finally nailed it…