Retroactive Decontamination at the Strangling Hands of Desperation in Stuff about stuff

Picking through 33 years day by day hour by hour blow by blow with the precision of an epileptic sloth and the focus of an unmedicated uneducated not unmotivated but uninterested in feeling the pain and the fear and the shame and the fear and the pain and the empathy and the sympathy for the abuses doled out by my own self and almost everyone I used to care about who I thought cared about me when really they just cared that I was a tool or a toy depending on the situation and the person pulling the strings my strings making me dance like the lonely goat herd layee yodelayee yodelay hee hoo dance puppet dance hurt and scare and abuse my little sisters so I’ll wrap that shame around me like a warm comforting straight jacket and pull this mask over my head and resist the urge to pull it off because the need to keep it tight over my face is intensely overwhelming like the need for a regulator when I’m 20 meters under the sea because that’s where I am I’m under a sea of pain and fear and shameshameshameshameshame and if I pull off that mask I’ll drown in the pain and fear I myself have inflicted they didn’t even need to keep pulling strings after a little while after I’d convinced myself the mask was the truth and the only real question was what is this nagging in the back of my skull that something isn’t quite right that there’s something wrong with me why do I feel like there’s something wrong with me I’m a nice guy (YOU’RE NOT) I wouldn’t hurt people (YOU WOULD AND YOU DO) why do I hate myself why am I so angry why why why why why why why this why that why why why all of it well now I know why I hate myself and now I know my judgment is sound when I take the time to think about things instead of reacting reacting reacting to the immediate rush of pain and shame that comes with being confronted by the RESULTS OF MY OWN ACTIONS by the PAIN I’VE CAUSED the people I claim to love by the pain I’ve been carrying by the fear the fear the fear the fear the fear the fear the fear the fear is always always always there and it’s always been there or at least since I was born which to my limited self-absorbed little ego is exactly the same thing samesamesamesamesamesame as it ever was same as it ever was same as it ever was I wake up in physical pain and I’m immediately blamed for reacting to it for manipulating for shaming with my pain and I react to the blame and we begin yet another day with blame and anger and fear and confusion and andandandandandandand and I want to go back to sleep but my head won’t let me my body won’t let me my keepers won’t let me my victims my keepers not a great combination not conducive to rest but even if I could fall back asleep the dreams would be back in full force the dream of the seven year old covered in blood holding a knife in one hand and the severed head of his nine year old cousin in the other while his mother my sister SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS and it’s my fault they both know it’s my fault and he’s looking at me and he’s smiling and he’s waiting for me to tell him good job buddy and part of me desperately wants to tell him that because the hope and pride and expectation in his eyes is too much it’s looking in a twenty-five year old mirror face to face with my own demons in the form of my seven year old nephew who I don’t know how to save no matter how much pressure I put on myself and how much they’re convinced that I know I know I know I know I know I know there will be other dreams too like the one where my father and I are fleeing through a maze with high clean pure white walls being pursued by unseen armed men and gunshots and he’s against the wall and the red is impossibly bright blindingly vivid on the porcelain wall he slumps against while looking in my eyes and gurgling “help” and I can’t help him and he knows I can’t but he said it anyway why would he say that why would he use his dying word to instill even more shame and guilt and fear and I’m awake again and I’m sweating and on the edge of the chasm again teetering and my chest is spasming and the tears flow silently and the shame suffocates the sobs and the pain stabs slashes my guts and my hands are clawing at my chest and my belly and I can’t breathe and my eyes burn with tears or sweat or both and how can I express any of this to the people I’ve hurt why should they care how much pain I’m in how utterly fucking terrified I am to fall asleep when I’m even more terrified to face reality and all I want to do is sleep and when I drift off I hope I don’t wake up I hope reality stays away and I’m being held down by three five ten whoknows how many frat boys while they take turns raping my sister over and over and over and over and over and over and over and their hands are on my neck and their breath is hot and wet on my ear when they ask how I like watching that whore get what I don’t have the balls to give her and my struggles are nothing more than my muscles contracting and releasing and contracting and releasing because there is absolutely no movement possible and I’m suffocating and I can’t breathe and I can feel my mind tearing itself apart and I want it to be over I want them to kill me I want my mind to finally give out to shut down to sink blissfully into insanity into unconsciousness into any fucking thing but this and she’s looking me in the eyes and pleading for help but she’s not she’s not asking for help she’s looking at me with sympathy and concern and love and I want to die I want her to blame me I want her to hate me and she’s looking in my eyes with fear but it’s not fear for her it’s fear for me and that stabs my heart more than anything else possibly could and I’m awake and my hands are clawing at my chest and my stomach and my eyes are burning and I’m falling into the chasm the void the black emptiness of despair and fear and hopelessness and I’m shaking and I’m coughing and I’m sobbing so hard I have to stumble out of bed to the door fumble with the lock and the knob and try not to slam the bathroom door and fall onto the floor as it all comes rushing out of my guts the gushing bile slamming me back to reality the burning spasming all encompassing purge and I hope it kills me this time if I die I might as well die fully aware of what’s physically happening to me tasting every sour bit of the shame and the fear and the hatred and the fear and the guilt and the fear and the guilt and the guilt and the fear and the shame and the loathing and the fear and the guilt and the shame and the guilt and the hate and the pain and the pain the pain the pain the paingthepainthepainthepatinthepaintahtinepaingthatopasdignthepainthepain