Day 2 : Electric Drewgaloo
It isn’t where to begin.
It isn’t when.
It isn’t why or how.
It’s actually beginning. I fear that once I unstop the keg, the years of pent up pressure will blow the facing off and wreak all sorts of havoc.
Why does it feel so uncontrollable?
My whole life felt out of my control, as long as I can remember.
My parents dual wielded love and discipline with staggering efficiency. A friend of my parents was babysitting me once, and when we were leaving their house to go home, I was likely operating on my usual level of Full Send. I don’t know what I was doing, asking questions, not sitting still, or something. The mother pinched my ear with practiced ease, giving it a twist and pull in one calculated motherfucker of a move. It’s the same motion I’d grow up and use on friends while playing the years long adolescent adventure we called ‘Titty Twister’ (or, I learned after outgrowing the time, a Purple Nurple? Oh my god the name makes sense. Purple Nipple from the bruising ok, I get it. For fucks sake, why was Physical Assault our love language?
Is it because we were all physically disciplined?
The more I hurt you, the more I love you? The more I take, the more I love you back?
Seems pretty fucked up.
Right?
That sounds abusive, right?
So, each time I was hurt as a means of discipline (or, would it actually be the Parent Venting Their Emotional Frustration / Lack Of Emotional Maturity?) I was never thinking “Gee, this is quite unpleasant. I simply MUST remember to not indulge in whatever flavor of mischief has landed me in this situation!”
I was thinking “OW OW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON OW OW SHUT DOWN TO ESCAPE THE PAIN OW OW WHY”
I’ve read somewhere that you can’t properly remember pain, your brain / memory blocks it out.
Seems like a load of shit, because I remember it was excruciatingly unpleasant.
My brain doesn’t do a good enough job of blocking it out, so I run from it. I do my best to avoid remembering.
It’s nice living in an era that is RIFE with quick distractions at hand 24/7.
COVID changed that, my options for running shrank to the size of the house.
I spent a good year ducking and dodging through rooms, avoiding myself with increasing difficulty.
With a masochistic glee, I pursued a role that would land me working night shift for 4 months.
I love people, you are all so fascinating. I use that passion to avoid myself.
I’ve always known I need to peel back the layers I’d built up, bend back the safe door and let out all The Bottled Up Things.
I thought I was very patient, and I am with everyone except myself. I push myself so hard to do things The Best and The Fastest.
It doesn’t matter what it is, it must abide by a few simple criteria.
Do It Perfectly
No Mistakes
No Weakness
Do It Better
Do It BETTER
Man this list isn’t as easy as I thought it would be, I’m coming up with criteria, but then shooting it down immediately because it needs to meet the criteria that I’m trying to describe what kind of catch 22 ass shit is this.
So, I decide I’m going to work night shift because I will be forced to sit in a room by myself for 11 hours.
I spend those 4 months in a haze. It felt like I stepped just outside of reality, I was there, but 6 steps to the left.
THEN, the ante was upped unexpectedly.
Twyla the 12 month old Doberman puppy enters our lives.
It works out really well at night, I’m up to take her out every 2 hours, she is house trained in no time.
Have you tried to sleep all day with a puppy?
They like naps, but they aren’t for 8 uninterrupted hours.
My sleep for 4 months was running a marathon while getting sporadic breaths of air.
I stepped back from the reins and turned all the way inside myself to get a look at the damage.
The foundations seemed sturdy, but wow, there’s some dry rot over here.
You see the burn damage in the eaves?
It’s a bit of a shell of a structure, but there’s a lot of potential.
So I’ve been doing a lot of remodeling, and keep forgetting where I’ve put things.
Some rooms look so foreign I don’t feel at home. Some bits remind me of the old house, and it dumps me back into memory.
Sure, it’s strange and surreal, but. . .
I’m home.
