Yellow Roses.

Razorblades.

“Give me release witness me, I am outside give me peace.”

Triggered just like that back, way back, thirteen years ago to be exact, I feel damaged how would you know.  One always knows when they are given something, a hint of magic, a special insight to see things that most don’t or are completely unaware of.  It is that little type of something that you keep to yourself knowing that you are not suppose to talk about it until you are.  They are the voices that really do exist and not the ones inside the mind, the images, the terrors, the fucking real creepy shit.  Its not like I talk to dead people and all. . .except maybe one.  I am not a psychic nor do I have the ability to predict any kind of future, hell if I could I would have not gotten myself into half the shit that I am in. I would play fucking lotto and win.  That though, was not in my cards, ever.  I started seeing things as young as 5, hearing my name being called over and over again.  I was in bed but the bed was in the basement of a church and there were folding chairs, it was quite late, it was me and a man with a brim hat, staring at me, tapping his finger nails on a conference table … then just foot steps.  I went there every night for a long time.  I felt things way too much and I was far more frightened then other children but on the other hand, I was also drawn into things that one should never “play” with.  I believed in ghosts, spirits the afterlife, I knew not to fuck with it but I did.  I did Ouija with friends and not in the way that you do at sleepovers, there was no bullshit. It is real and I think by doing this I opened a door within me like a  porthole passage way for the scary shit to seep through and there is no filter.  I unfortunately can see things that most people can’t.  I wonder though if it always has been a bad thing and believe it  in many ways has severed me well.  I am incredibly open, open to it all.  That is why I become so  overwhelmed and sensitive to everything around me, the energy it is all too much.  I never ever misjudge when it comes to people I know immediately if they are of good character or not.  This I believe has kept me safe and alive in the years I spent in the strip club.  I just knew who not to fuck with.

It was Jane my mother and I  November 29, 1999.  The day that time stopped and stood still, she died as did a part of me.  It also was a day that gave me life.  None of us could keep going on like this, the constant degradation of my mother, the disease had eaten her beauty as well as her dignity.  She was yellow and looked like a monster.  Worse then any of the things I could imagine or that I have seen.  It ate her brain, and she kept on fucking breathing, a fighter that woman was indeed.  Jane and I discussed over and over for the past two years ongoing with the same conversation . . . “Janie is she going to die now?” Always her answer would be, “no not yet.”  I really hoped to never hear her say yes but secretly I did. . .but I didn’t.  I was making butternut squash for Thanksgiving, my mother days before her death went to have a painful root canal.  I was talking to Jane on the phone.  We had our usual “when is she going to die” conversation, this time was different, Jane asked me this time if I thought she was going to die.  I replied for the first time with yes, the tears silently rolled down my face in to mashed squash.  My mother then walked in up the stairs smiling at me holding the railing as my father steadied her and followed behind.  From that moment on I knew it was just going to be two.

There was always a very special bond between Jane and I, she knew my mother better then anyone, they were best friends.  Jane always said she would look after me, she has kept her promise.  Jane and I, after her death were able to keep in contact with her, it all has to do with that fucking Sarah Mclachlan song “Angel” that was played at her funeral . . . that first cord haunts me and forever will.  I came into contact this week with a woman who I immediately detested, she was at yoga no less.  She was cold as ice, this to me was strange for this kind of community.  Yes there are many kinds of people, and for the most part the majority are nut jobs.  She was different, she locked her things up, she walked around entitled she was absolute, negative, life sucking energy, as I soon saw  her I knew she lacked compassion.  I find out she is an oncologist, all my shit, I realized has been transferred on to her about my mother, how cold the death doctor was to my father and to her nineteen year old daughter. It is here right in front of me every time I see this fucking cunt as I am trying to practice my compassion and gratitude this fucking cunt is here in the space I deem as safe.  I told you I never read them wrong. God I hate this, I hate that I have not dealt with it. All the years that I have tried to make it go the fuck away and it doesn’t.  The stripping was the symptom to her death.  I liked that, denial.  I want to plant a rose garden, the one we were suppose to and never did.  Yellow, like the ones that were laid on her casket.

-ApplejAxe

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~ by applejaxe on May 6, 2012.

2 Responses to “Yellow Roses.”

  1. My sympathy for your loss. I feel like I can relate to a lot of your experiences and really enjoyed reading this post. You have a beautifully poetic writing voice. Thank you for sharing it.

  2. Hi thank you very much. It means a lot that someone is reading this. I find it comforting that we really do exist outside of the strip club, we all have these stories and it is nice to know that some others really do get it. Sometimes you think you are the only one. Be well.

    Warmly,
    ApplejAxe

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