Sundiata Keita
Julie and I became close in middle school and stayed that way until about my second year of college. This was a particularly interesting experience partly because Julie and I both were real ugly duckling cases. Puberty did her a lot of favors, and being by her side to witness how differently people treated her really cooked my paradigms when it came to human interactions. That’s not to say I was any better. Though we were friends, we often broke the boundaries of friendship. I shall not elaborate. Through Julie I was introduced to, and saw far too much. Much like was the case with Mez and Maria. Julie’s best friend Lauren for example, took my -
well… I was going to say she took my virginity but that’s not quite true is it? She was the first person I consensually had sex with, traumatic events notwithstanding. Her friends became my friends and her family became my family. In hindsight, this happened every time I became close friends with someone, I would be adopted into their circles, as I alone had nothing like that of my own. Never have. I don’t quite remember how it happened but a joke emerged within Julie’s family that I was actually the father of her little sister. The palest little girl with the most blue eyes you’d ever seen would run into the walgreens I worked at screaming “daaaddyyyy” and I’d pick her up and spin her around. It was always hilarious to watch the people around us short circuit trying to make sense of the interaction. This went on for years. Eventually the family split apart due to infidelity on the mother’s part. I unknowingly had a hand in this as I would sometimes walk her to the home of her par amour to keep her safe in those dangerous east coast streets.
One day, in the car with Julie, her mother and little sister, my fake daughter looked at me and ask me why I had all those stripes on my arms. I told her I’d been working with a particularly mean cat who liked to come and scratch me for fun. Every one else in the car stayed silent. I think I decided to stop cutting myself not long after that.
That memory came to me for some reason or another today, it’s been years since I thought of that moment, perhaps it was triggered when I noticed the old scars running down both my wrists. My “stigmata” I call them. You can take the kid out of the church but….
I was on my way to take my break when the memory struck, which opened the floodgates for more to come, all somehow connected. I recalled particularly dark and harrowing story of the trauma one of my first partners endured, I always considered it worse than any one else’s I’d heard of because it was at the hands of an immediate family member. I felt that added a layer of darkness to it that was unrivaled. For some reason, I never ever, at least until today, thought about the fact that my own molestation was also at the hands of an immediate family member.
I felt myself passing out for half a second as I thought about this, and then snapped back into myself, whoever I am.
When I say I can’t beat it, I think what I mean is that I’ve realized that no matter how many times I think I’m out of the tar, be it due to mania or some new thought pattern I’ve fooled myself into believing. I’m always pulled back to the altar to endure my punishment. I cannot conquer my grief, I cannot conquer my darkness.
But if you keep rising only to be pulled back, then that means it can’t really conquer you either right?
Maybe, but I’ve been tired for years, and I refuse to fight any longer, and I don’t think this thing is capable of getting tired. After all, its not a thing really is it? just a collection of situations and circumstances almost entirely out of my control.
Today marks a year since I was last physically with my love. Have I wasted a year?
A few nights ago I had woken up seemingly dealing with a bout of food poisoning. The sharp stabbing within my intestines was more than I could simply shrug off. This era’s companion got up and kept me company, rubbed my back, we laughed, joked and played till eventually I fell back asleep. As I slept I wondered, how many more years will I waste? I know already that I’ll look back on nights like this one with regret. Yet, the grief is unwavering. Ane Brun sings “I will wait here for my man tonight” and something deep inside me agrees, is satisfied.
That night my dreams centered around them again, and I felt guilty when I woke. I may waste many more years, but again, I can’t fight it, I can’t beat it, I can only let things be, however awful they may be.
I’m going to watch Manchester By The Sea today, and then Blue Valentine maybe the Before Trilogy, Place Beyond The Pines?
I spent too much money on everyone’s Christmas, I wanted to guarantee they had a better one than mine, I’m going to get a few more tattoos, some as insane as GOOD BOY
I’m going to…
I’m gonna
I’m going to sleep, and like every night, I’m going to pray I don’t wake up. Like Gary never did, and then I’ll say “ I can’t believe Gary is dead” and then I’ll wake up, and be annoyed and then I’ll go to work.
