Tuesday, August 18, 2009

I Write the Songs

There is a constant of songs in my head. It's why my blog is what it is. When life is handing me it's daily adventure I begin to hear the hum of a tune in my head to accompany the story. Sometimes a song gets stuck. Like the old vinyl days when the record skips in a groove. You hear the same line over and over.

I had a brief reprieve of numbness after the hearing. A glimmer that life is still on a smooth groove. Unfortunately the scratches are there in between this LP of life. Little pops and clicks with the occasional full scratch that catches the tune in an endless repetition of a line in a song.

What kind of world is this we're living in if you can never win? *

That was two blogs ago, that David Gray song. Usually, if I write out whatever song is stuck in my head, it will move itself along. This one got stuck in the groove on that line. Here I am, several blogs later, stuck in a groove.

I'm sure it is just the timing of everything that has thrown me full tilt back in to my state of numbness. I have had enough counseling to know why I put the wall up. It still sucks to know that internally I feel the need to put it up at all.

I'm sure he thought he was doing me a favor. It is what he does for a living. One would become immune to exactly what emotions are really behind what is on the pieces of paper in the file in front of them. Not everyone lives in my Kodachrome world where everything looks worse in black and white.

Prick has taken to writing letters while he is in jail. His parents, his ex wife, his daughter, his fellow AA acquaintances. I have known about this for years. My answer was always the same when someone would contact me, asking if I wanted to hear it? I would always say no.

One of the things they don't explain to you when you finally get the balls to take out a restraining order is that zero contact goes both ways. I knew the moment I signed that original copy of the PFA that I was also giving up my right to ever defend myself verbally to Prick's ramblings. Unlike Shoe-Man, I can never just pick up the phone and say, "what the fuck were you thinking?" The worst was when Prick began invading my blog sites writing such blatant lies or even worse~ taking things that I have said or done out of context and twisting them in to such a hateful way.

Shoe and I have come a long way in our ten years together. We can call each other on our bad behavior and can explain ourselves in a reasonable manner. Afterwards, we still can come out of it respecting each other. I never knew how rare of a gift that is, to move on and not have hate thrown back at you.

Two years later I still had to verbally go over the whole nightmare while sitting in a room full of men. I had to meet with the DAs office before the hearing. Post Traumatic Stress made me block out a lot of my relationship with Prick. If it wasn't for my diarrhea of the fingers that compels me to write, I'm sure most would be forgotten by now. Not always a bad thing, right? Even the assault itself I will never write or say what exactly transpired that night. Face it, we have all have had our share of knock down, over dramatized, unbelievably stupid fights with our partners. Usually you can laugh it off years later. I wish I could file that last night away in that file. Just an ugly but necessary break up. But the one thing you can never explain is how I would rather he have punched me than the the replay of the sound in my head, when Prick ripped my very soul right out of my body. The ugly scar it has left behind is something I can never explain to a room full of strangers. Shit, or even to my best friend. What makes that sound even worse is that it took him 17 days to finally complete the job of what he started that night on August 1st.

So, it is his job. I never asked if this is something that other inmates do. For some reason Prick has taken to writing his probation officer. For some reason I accepted the copy of the letter he wrote. Everything looks worse in black and white.

Kodachrome. Give us those nice bright colors.*

My girlfriend read it and said what I already knew. "you don't want to read this crap." I took the letter from her and stuck it in the folder with the other Prick ramblings and legal stuff.

There is a reason for everything. Even the sound of my soul getting sucked out of me, is in there for a reason. The good and the bad. I embrace that it makes me what I am. Somehow I have to believe it is for the better.

It was not the smartest of my moves. I chose to finally read the letter on the weekend anniversary of when I lost Gwen. There was nothing new in there. The usual~ place the blame on everything but what it really is. I can accept that. What I could not accept is what he didn't write. That he is so bent on being right, that I was such an awful person, that it is OK to take the life of my horse. There. I said it. The fucker killed my horse because I was fucked up enough to date him in the first place.

My oh my you know it just don't stop
It's in my mind I wanna tear it up
I've tried to fight it tried to turn it off
But it's not enough

I never slept that night. My world will never be the same. I know that. I accept that. It doesn't stop me from wandering around my home, sleepless, clutching the strand of Gwen's tail that Dru had cut for me after the vet finally relieved her of her suffering and before my uncle buried her.

By 4am, I gave up. I read the letter one more time. I put it through the shredder and put the paper in a bag. I grabbed a few more supplies and I drove the two hours in the dark, to Long Beach Island. I watched the sun peek through the dark and over the ocean. I took numerous photos. I felt my inner peace break down a couple bricks that have been building back up. I finally took out the bag of shredded paper. It is someones job to have to read this stuff. I said a prayer of thanks that it is not mine. I thanked the Higher Powers that I do not have the last word to someone who will never deserve one. I walked out to the end of the jetty and watched the surf pound and swirl around the rocks. I emptied the contents of the letter in to the swirling of the ocean.

Kodachrome. Gives us those nice bright colors.*

* Lyrics from:
Simon & Garfunkel, Kodachrome
David Gray, My Oh My

1 comment:

Evanesco said...

oops, I deleted instead of edited! Special shout-out to my Sparkle for being so kind. Your email made this journey worthwhile. It is why we blog, no?
Peace, Love and Light to all of my special peeps who have been emailing.