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Old 06-19-2009, 12:51 PM
  # 27 (permalink)  
siamcat
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Join Date: Jan 2009
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Posts: 122
Thanks for all your kind posts. I'm a perfectionist. Forgiveness is a tough thing for me. I guess if I really felt like I was moving on or living in general it might be easier for me to forget, if not forgive, the piercing atrocities of my past. I'm stuck in time, afraid to step forward or out of my cavernous self exile. To meet new people, to make new friends would only mean temptation for me, temptation to attempt the life of the normal, temptation to once again live and breath in the freedom of moderation, a dream never realized. I'm imprisoned and I'm hungry, for anything, human touch, validation, motion....

I've been thinking a lot about external manifestations of internal yearnings. What makes us choose excess over moderation. The carnal appetites we acquire in response to psychological mutations we acquired as children...

'The third child is always the mistake', or so it is written... there is a syndrome associated there, especially if it's been stated by the impregnators that this is so. My parents love me, but they were honest, two was enough, but they got a bonus. My brother and sister were overachievers. In rebellion to high expectations I strove to prove I could achieve more,... but never by the rules. I wrote lengthy papers, but on subjects out of context with the curriculum. I endeared myself to teachers and then skipped their classes to get high in the woods out back. I turned down cushy desk jobs for manual labor, traveled instead of collegiated, bachelored instead of married...

I'm trying to get through this all in my mind. Grow the funk up. This is childs stuff for shedding. But I stunted my grown, mentally, physically, somehow not so spiritually... By 13 I was drinking every weekend, by 14 every night. I dont' know how I got through it all, how I hid it enough from my parents, whiskey was the norm and it's certainly not olfactorally subtle. I showed up at a school drama meeting once when I was seventeen. A board meeting, four students and three parents and the school director. I apparently attempted to light many cigarettes in the cafetaria during the course, I cursed incessantly at the lack of support the Principal gave to the program, I loudly veto'ed any talk of Chorus Line or Guys and Dolls while slurring a long oration in favor of Annie. Stomped the table with my fists... I don't remember one moment of it.

Perhaps the one prescient choice I made in those days was not to pursue a life in the arts. It greatly facilitated my drug use, alcohol is easy to come by working professional theater, they don't mind if you're thirteen, fifteen, it's just the life style. Coffee and liquor, marijuanna and cocaine, you take the uppers through tech week and drink the rest of the run, then tear down, and do it all over again. I basically lived at the cast house every summer from age 14, had my own small room, a glorified closet in the attic, they called it the 'Anne Frank Room'. I fused so many chemicals into my blood, my genes, my DNA must look like a Rat Pack buffet of viral addictions, I hope to never procreate. In trying to find the beginning I remember this all, and it's a tough and muddy walk trying to get through it to reach back to a time when I didn't have that outlet, that infection encoraged or apathated by all around me.

To reconstruct a life without it is incredibly arduous, when there's no foundation from which to build, you're left with a muddy ground that periodically collapses all you try to build upon it. I have to get to the foundation, somehow, through this myriad of false starts and dead ends and trap doors and deceiving mirrored hallways back to a solid place from which I can begin to build a road forward. Every time I take a step now, it just feels like the ground is moving an equal distance backwards, away from my intentions...
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