Saturday, March 27, 2004

E Pluribus, Unum.

I came downstairs and set the cleaning bleach on his bed. Without my intention it spilled all over the bed's comforter and I looked at for a moment thinking I was so very screwed. I cehcked the bottle as if I had never known what was in it and saw that it had bleach. I took some paper towels and began soaking the cleaner up and knew I should just tell him. I gathered up courage, knowing what was coming, and yelled up to my dad, "Kill me," and explained what I'd done. He came tearing down the stairs in perfect fashion as to the way I saw him coming in my mind.

The way my father will act to certain stimuli is so certainly predictable that I had already played what was about to happen all in my mind like a well-thought out actor might see his co-actor acting upon their part needing to be fulfilled. In my mind, my father came down, his 250-pound girth flying freely down the stairs as fast as he could, his belly coming at me first then him seeing the bleached comforter and scowling and exclaiming curses, and telling me I was such an idiot, and that didn't I think?

That is exactly what happened. He came down and scowled, exclaiming that inner noise that is of anger and supreme annoyance. He told me couldn't I think? Didn't I know what I was doing?

I simply told him to calm down. To learn to control his emotions. I told him, why can't you just come down here and say: "Mitch, I know you didn't intend to pour that bleach there. I know you're human and I know you're beating yourself up over doing it. And I would like to say that it is all right, we all make mistakes and although this comforter is expensive, we can replace it and it'll all be fine."

But instead I had what he was telling me now. And when I told him that, as he was running back upstairs, he probably wasn't even listening to me. He told me to get to cleaning and I did that. I went in the bathroom and was wiping the counter and the sink when he came back in.

I began trying to explain things to him again, how he could have better reacted instead of being the usual way about it. He simply told me he didn't have any use for my "psycho babble", he'd had enough of me talking about Micheal Moore and all this other stuff.

I felt like I would just throw down everything I was doing in frustration. Emotion flooded into me. It was not anger, it was bitter frustration. It was a wonder as to how he can't even understand me.

I walked out and explained it all to him. I yelled in to the bathroom where he was that he didn't have to scream at me like he always did. He could've just told me it was a mistake and that was okay, be more careful next time. I told him, almost crying, tears touching my eyes but not able to come through because I wouldn't let them, that when I was speaking in my "psycho babble" I was speaking from my heart. I was telling him like I felt.

In Cracker Barrel, where we'd gone to eat, I had talked to him about Bowling for Columbine and how I wanted him to see the movie. I talked eloquently about it, I told him about it, I said every American should listen to it. He didn't seem to be listening then and when I said I'll just shut up then he said, no, I'm listening. I went on then but I doubted he was even listening to what I said. He told me he already knew about all these issues, and that he wasn't going to see the movie because he hated Moore.

Him saying he was sick of my "psycho babble" as a left the bathroom was like a slap to my face. A very hard slap to the face which hit me in the heart and made my veins bleed for him to understand what I was trying to do. I was simply trying to tell him how I felt about things.

It is too bad that when you speak your heart to someone, they can't even fucking hear you. When you speak to someone you love and tell them what you want to tell them because you love them, and you let yourself be vulnerable to them and open and let them feel you, it is just too fucking bad. It is too fucking bad that when you do that they don't even listen. They sit there and don't understand you're talking about what you're passionate about and what matters to you.

I told him, yelling into the bathroom from outside his room, that this is why our relationship will never go beyond me just loving him because he supports me. I said it all and I was almost in tears. I just wanted him to fucking understand. And then he walked out and I said did you even hear what I had said? All he said was that he couldn't hear me, he was under the toilet cleaning it. I felt even worse then but got control of myself. I now felt it was useless to tell him anything. That our relationship would be the same. That there was nothing I could do. That he had been like this ever since I had remembered him. That he'd always gotten me down when I did something wrong.

I remember being a kid and because I sat in the chair a certain way he'd tell me to sit in it right and yell at me to turn over in it right. I remembered that when I don't clean my room he would yell at me. When I didn't make my bed he would yell at me. When I told him I didn't really want a job in honesty he had yelled at me.

It's pointless. It's stupid. It's too frustrating. I'm sick of it.

Whenever I do something wrong I always hear some form of his voice yelling at me in the head. Especially if it is something small. If it is something insignificant. I beat myself down over it because that's what has happened so many times to me from him. And so I end up thinking I'm so stupid. I'm so worthless. I'm an idiot. I can't do anything right. I don't think. It goes on and on in my mind and it gets me in a terrible mood because I seemingly can't do anything right.

He means doing these things for the best, but the best is far from what it gives me.

When I continued cleaning the house I thought the whole time about how I hated the world and how fucked up it is, and how I wished people would actually listen to you when you speak from your heart. It's too bad that you can't even speak your heart. I decided it's useless to ever say anything to my father that I feel because he doesn't understand. He was once a teenager but he is a different person than me. He isn't as openminded as me and he doesn't understand. He just doesn't understand how numb with fear, with anger, with hate, with love, with every brim of every emotion I am and am feeling each day. So why even tell anyone how I feel?

It's just the silence of the lambs. It's just shut the fuck up and drive. It doesn't matter a fucking bit what I think about something. It doesn't matter to fight it. I can't topple anything. I can't even make someone understand how I feel. They can't even listen to me when I'm telling them something I feel passionate about or something that I feel always gets in the way of our relationship growing.

Just keep myself to myself. Just shut up and do what I'm told. Just be a slave. That's what it's about in this world today. There's only in intimate moments that you can fucking really be yourself. Otherwise no one else gives a shit about you.

To your boss you're just another slave for them that they pay. To your teacher you're just a student that needs to learn meaningless shit. To the politcians you might as well be fucking nothing, because that's what you are to them. What they care about isn't the people but it's putting fear into you. Melding you to what they think is right. Bush's war on Terror. What shit. What bullshit. We've got fucking more important shit to worry about than some stupid fear bridgade and crusade. We've got a lot of shit that's wrong with this country and the way this world works.

Sadly there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. The best way is to just go along with it and not speak my heart. My heart has no premise to anyone but those who will hear it. And those who will hear it are few and seem to think I'm just blabbering on about some dream or doing some "psycho babble."

Does it piss me off? Damn right it does. It makes me want to beat my head against a wall, it makes me want to just turn my back from all the shit that is in this world. It makes me want to see it all gone, annihilated. I don't give a fuck about it anymore. It'd be better if it wasn't here. It'd be better if things were simple and just living.

There's nothing I can do.

You think I ain't worth a dollar, but I feel like a fucking millionaire. I'm worth more than some George Bush or some shit.

There is not a thing I can do.

In God we trust indeed.

If there's a God I'd like to spit on him and I'd like to tell him how fucked up he made thsi world. I'd also like to make him die.

He's already died to me a long time ago.

This country is based on liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Yeah, that's fucking right. The pursuit of happiness is working your how life for this country I don't givea shit about. This liberty is working in some society that tells you how to live when you'd rather live yourself.

E pluribus, unum. From many, one.

From many one my ass.

We as Americans think we're so high and mighty.

We're not.
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