Post by CAROL JOSHUA-SULLY TAMERLANE on May 30, 2012 17:08:50 GMT -5
carol joshua-sully tamerlane
22 ● MALE ● CALIFORNIA UNIVERSITY ● THE HARBOR AREA ● CHRIS DREW ● STARBUCKS
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[/td][td]Affliction and self-medication; was I ever cured? Did they ever love me; did they ever see my suffering? I sat awake at night, looking out the window but all I saw liquefied; puddles in my hazel eyes. I festered from an unripe age. That’s what happens when your parents die, and you’re adopted by a pair of strangers. I’ve seen the look of love – buoyant and convivial; memories of affection come very hazily, but hollowness, vacancy and meaninglessness. We all became very well acquainted. It started as an idea, a tumor of indignity, swelling. It was the seed of a demon planted in my belly. I tried to force it out, and that didn’t work, so I tried to compromise with it and that didn’t work; instead, I fed it, and beamed wildly. I understood it, and it understood me. I sheltered the bond, refuting any philosophies that threatened to unveil it. It had no name, it didn’t need one. Like when children pour a cup of Joe, the familiar (laughable) quote, “would you like some coffee with your creamer?” I was quickly overpowered by this demon, who whispered such sweet and tempting assurances; “I will save you from your pain” so I surrendered.
It’s like honeysuckle vines, how they cultivate; ascending slowly. I felt the weight deepening, forgetting weightlessness – it grew inside of me, until we were no longer two separate souls. I subconsciously fabricated my own monster and I had allowed it to suppress me with its tantalizing promises; I felt it was pain. It was my addiction; the remedy I had thought would salvage my mind. When my health began to decline, I realized, much like the honeysuckle vines, this demon had consumed me. I was the house in which it grew along; it lived in me, now, as one being.
I couldn’t remember my life before it filled me, only the contemporaneous. What confused me most was that I had believed; what I viewed as redemption was only a stirring, a craving for an answer. In my weakest state I had not succumbed to any demon; the seeds of my childhood were unconditional. They were always doomed to bud, but I let them emerge the wrong way. I let the pain of my youth fester, until my actions became damaging.
That world as I knew it lessened, but the process was slow. While I could recall every erroneous decision, I kept away. I am the father of a dead child, a forgotten lover, the son of disenchanted parents, a heroin addict, the rapist of the girl I wanted to spend my life with; knowing these things are true, I find it difficult to cope. I had escaped the tremors of my broken mind, but I would never really be free. It threatened to come back up, like a bad dinner, but I kept it down. I kept it down, but just barely. Watching the news and hating the people who slaughter their children, and shoot their neighbors; what does that make me?
[/td][/tr][tr][td][/td][/tr][/table]It’s like honeysuckle vines, how they cultivate; ascending slowly. I felt the weight deepening, forgetting weightlessness – it grew inside of me, until we were no longer two separate souls. I subconsciously fabricated my own monster and I had allowed it to suppress me with its tantalizing promises; I felt it was pain. It was my addiction; the remedy I had thought would salvage my mind. When my health began to decline, I realized, much like the honeysuckle vines, this demon had consumed me. I was the house in which it grew along; it lived in me, now, as one being.
I couldn’t remember my life before it filled me, only the contemporaneous. What confused me most was that I had believed; what I viewed as redemption was only a stirring, a craving for an answer. In my weakest state I had not succumbed to any demon; the seeds of my childhood were unconditional. They were always doomed to bud, but I let them emerge the wrong way. I let the pain of my youth fester, until my actions became damaging.
That world as I knew it lessened, but the process was slow. While I could recall every erroneous decision, I kept away. I am the father of a dead child, a forgotten lover, the son of disenchanted parents, a heroin addict, the rapist of the girl I wanted to spend my life with; knowing these things are true, I find it difficult to cope. I had escaped the tremors of my broken mind, but I would never really be free. It threatened to come back up, like a bad dinner, but I kept it down. I kept it down, but just barely. Watching the news and hating the people who slaughter their children, and shoot their neighbors; what does that make me?
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