MORE THAN YOU WANT TO HEAR

This post, I suppose, is an extension of my previous post Death Wish - - just an inane ramble of things nobody wants to hear.

There are times when I think my blog is boring and repetitive. The spark that I once had (or imagined I had) has diminished. Yet, I continue to write - out of habit and necessity. Necessity - because writing (for me) is an addiction.
I've thought about giving up blogging.
Probably impossible.
Or cutting down my posts to one a week. Some bloggers do this very successfully. I'm much more spontaneous than predictable. I write when the mood strikes me. Which is often. 

There's a danger in writing too much.  Readers grow weary of your unrelenting presence. Yet, there's even more danger in writing too infrequently. Readers will lose interest, assuming that you don't care.

I occasionally (often more than occasionally) repeat things that I've blogged about before. This is not the result of senility (hopefully). I deliberately do this for the benefit of my newer readers. 
And, hell, some good stories are worth repeating.

That's what I did in my previous post.

I write about my violent father and dysfunctional childhood mainly because it so severely affected the rest of my life. I can't ignore or escape the detrimental repercussions.

I don't want sympathy. I don't consider myself to be a noble survivor. My story is nothing special. We're all survivors in one way or another. Life sadistically kicks everyone in the ass and we all have our own private bloody crosses to bear.

I could easily write a book about my father. To say that he was complex would be a vast understatement. In many ways, he and I were alike - except that (thank God) I didn't inherit the insane violence. I am alarmingly complex and infuriatingly complicated, which sometimes frightens me.

It would be an impossibility to analyze my father in a blog post, but I'll mention a few things. He was definitely psychotic, paranoid, and probably quasi-sociopathic. When he went into a rage, the level of violence was beyond extreme and all sense of reason was abandoned. 

What caused his insanity? Inheritance. His type of behavior was prevalent among many Hungarians. I have my own definite opinions, which I won't go into here.

In "normal" times he could be kind, extremely generous, humorous. I hated those times most of all because they didn't last.

He never handled any situation in a mature manner, but rather reacted with  childlike tantrums. He had a terrifyingly intense desire to get even. Nothing was ever his fault. His mantra was "You made me do it" or "It's entirely your fault".
He never, ever said "I'm sorry".

The violent rages were inevitable yet unpredictable. He'd explode in an instant. The anger was never brief. His rampages could last for days, even weeks. And when he finally returned to "normal" it was as though nothing had ever happened. He chose to remember nothing.

What would spark my father's rage? The smallest things imaginable would set him off. When I was fourteen, I got in his way while he was working in the yard. He grabbed me and stomped on my bare feet until they bled (he was wearing heavy work boots). Then he pummeled me with his fists and squeezed me so tightly in a vicious bear hug that two of my ribs were fractured.

Only one small example of hundreds. Many incidents were far worse.
I think the hate that I harbored is understandable - - a hate that nearly consumed me.

I'll regret posting this. I've said far too much. All of it is past history. My father died in 2005. He mellowed slightly in his old age, and I think he had remorse.
I've forgiven him. I no longer have hate. Yet, it's impossible to forget.....

DEATH WISH

 
One time, after an extremely violent confrontation with my father (and believe me there were many), he handed me a loaded gun and told me to kill myself.

He didn't actually tell me. He begged me. Said he wanted to see me dead, wished with his whole heart that I would do it.

Our horrifyingly turbulent history was filled with similar scenes (and scenes far worse), but somehow this one managed to penetrate my coat of self-defensive armor. I was very used to his cutting verbal abuse - - and even more used to his vicious physical attacks, but this was a new ambush. The words stung hard.

I still have that gun. And the bullets. 
I never want to grow old. I never want to be sick, feeble, and helpless. The glory days of my youth are far past. Someday.....perhaps someday.....the gun will serve a noble purpose.....

I had a serious death wish in my youth. In retrospect, I don't think I ever really wanted to die. My true goal was to expunge the abject pain and misery in my life - - to end the eternal chaotic nightmare in which I was ensnared - - the direct result of my father's insane abuse.

I had stayed under his suffocating shadow for too long, mainly to protect my mother - who was as emotionally wounded and physically immobilized as myself. Two emotional cripples, clinging desperately to the nothingness that was our existence.

I never wanted to die, but I wanted to kill the emotional agony that was devouring me.
One impossible night, after a terrifying scene, I locked myself in the bathroom. Grabbed a pair of scissors, viciously hacked at my wrists until the alarming amount of flowing blood brought me to my senses.
In truth - I was hacking at my father's evil soul.... 

I've written about that final night many times before, but I'm mentioning it again in a pitiful bout of beer drinking and remembrance.

That final physical scene with my father, when he tried to break my neck, choked me into unconsciousness, knocked me through the plate glass back door. I landed outside on hard concrete, amid sharp and bloody pieces of glass.
That night I got his gun, planned to kill him when he was sleeping, but lost my feeble courage....

And what, you might ask, caused my father to inflict such violence? We were having dinner. He was drinking too much beer. He started an argument about the cost of electricity. Warned me not to turn on any lights. I foolishly defied him. I got up and turned on the dining room light.

You don't dare defy my father. Ever. 

It took weeks for my physical wounds to heal. After that I took off for Hollywood and embarked on a long, slow death of self-destruction. It was my method of escape. Escape from the ugly bitch of reality.
Escape was always my main objective.

The freedom that I craved wasn't possible without becoming an entirely different person than I really was. Booze and drugs helped me abandon  my timidity, self-consciousness, fears and inhibitions, and aided me in becoming street-wise tough. I wasn't tough, but could admirably fake it.

Booze, drugs, one-night stands. Casual sex and back alley quickies. Serious "relationships" that never lasted. Lots of them. Copious amounts of malt liquor, washed down with whiskey or vodka. 

Soon the potency of booze worn thin. I started pouring whiskey or vodka into my malt liquor. Then, in an extended dimension to the lethal cocktail, I'd add pills - sleeping pills, tranquilizers. Anything available. 

I marvel that I didn't die. In fact, these many years later, I look back at my toxic youth in absolute jaw-dropping astonishment.
 
I played rough games with dangerous people. I thoroughly enjoyed endangering myself. The wild, shameless, unconventional, colorful, lurid, fantasy backdrop of Hollywood only served to enhance my unholy journey.....

.....and I learned how incredibly easy it is to lose one's dignity and abandon one's soul.



These were a few tiny glimpses of my turbulent past. It's a modified version. The expanded version would be too scary.
Most of my readers have heard this before (there are occasional yawns). I repeat things for the newer readers. 

THE HOUR OF FINAL SLUMBER

"Life dances wickedly
over the special hour 
I've chosen for slumber."

Jon V.
from Dreams of Escape




I was deeply upset to hear of the recent suicide of our fellow blogger, known as Jay in VA. His final post is moving and disturbing. 
His blog was called  Welcome to Jay in VA - - I'm sorry I don't have a link.

Since I didn't know him personally, and since I don't have full knowledge of the details, I feel that I have no right to divulge his real name or any tangible information.

I will say, however, that I read the local news coverage proceeding his death and have absorbed the gist of the story. It is a despicable and all-too common occurrence in America: 
these wild media witch hunts, in which self-righteous, hypocritical bastards (media and law enforcement) are intent on stalking and destroying others. Privacy is invaded, reputations are shredded, and the victims -  with little other recourse - choose death rather than eternal damnation from their persecutors. Guilt before proven innocence.

Enough said about this intensely tragic  incident. 
Pax Vobescum.

 *  *  *  *

I've always believed that most people who commit suicide, if given a second chance, wouldn't do it again. Yet there are times when a grim situation leaves no alternative. The well-meaning optimists always say that things aren't so bad, things will get better. That isn't always true.

There was a long-ago time in my life when a self-inflicted death at an early age seemed like an intriguing notion. In the infuriating naievity of youth, I thought it would be glorious to die at age twenty-five. While I was still young enough to make a goodlooking corpse. I even went so morbidly far as to plan my own funereal. I wrote down details: corpse dressed in white, white candles, white roses.....a recording of Billie Holiday singing "Gloomy Sunday".....

Now, in the sobriety of more mature years, I desire cremation - - as did my parents. No service, no eulogy, no nothing.....to ashes I return.

During the dramatically turbulent duration of my life, I have admittedly pondered the idea of suicide on many occasions. When I finally realized that 95% of my problems were caused by other people, I decided that it would be more productive to kill the sons-of-bitches who had made me miserable, rather than to kill myself. 
It's a delightfully selfish and satisfying fantasy.

Long ago, in my destructive youth, I made a few half-hearted suicide attempts. After a particularly fierce blowup with my father (one of very many) I locked myself in the bathroom and hacked at my wrists with a pair of scissors until they bled profusely.

My objective wasn't death. I simply wanted escape - - escape from the sheer agony of my situation. There are times when the detrimental insanity surrounding us is so overwhelming, that we seek an instant resolution to suppress the silent scream - -no matter what the price.

I remember when a potent bout of drunkenness and intense despair inspired me to climb an overpass above the Hollywood Freeway. It was late at night, way after midnight. I stood, poised, ready to leap.... then clumsily lost my balance...fell backwards onto the pavement.

Saved by the imbalance of Fate.

I pacified myself by saying that if I had jumped - with my foul luck - I would have probably landed on a northbound truck and wound up in Oakland.

 Here's the infamous overpass.

I don't know if it still exists.

Much more disturbing were the times my mother was on the brink of absolute desperation from the relentless agony of my father's abuse.

Mom was never suicidal, never truly wanted to die. She was normally very level-headed and long-suffering, but - much like myself - she could only endure so much. 

In a moment of absolute despair, she swallowed the entire contents of a bottle of aspirin (and I don't know what else).....and refused medical help. Those insane times of my young existence are often merely a blur. I stayed by her side for days, tending to her, until critical danger had passed. Her ears rang violently for a long time. I believe this ugly incident had a negative effect on her health in later years.

Why would I reveal these private things in a public blog?

Because mental anguish - no matter what kind - is devastating and can  induce abnormal behavior in otherwise normal people. We all have a breaking point.......and the fragility of others should not be judged harshly.