Silence That Sickens

I hear the silence.

I hear the vast dictionaries and encyclopedia of his life left unsaid within that silence.

I hear the things he won’t say.  I hear the things he is lying about.  I hear the truths he refuses to face, to bring out into the light, to be accountable for.  I hear the denials and the lies and the excuses running inside his head when he needs to convince others of what a good boy he is because truth doesn’t matter, only what other people thinks makes any difference.


The topics he so elegantly sidesteps.  Obfuscates.  Minimizes.  Glosses over.  Puts on a pretty shell.  Deceives.  Denies.  Lies.  I hear the critical pieces he hasn’t yet built into his story therefore he avoids telling anything at all, if he can get away with it.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Loopholes and terminal exceptionalism and loopdeloop.  Whenever he says so adamantly how he doesn’t, then he does.  When he says he merely jokes, it is really truth about how he feels, thinks, needs.  When he deceives and doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to face reality.  Everything is backwards.  I had hoped this counselor wouldn’t let him get away with that BS, dodge the question, not be held accountable for answers.  But he is a master manipulator.  Addicts are.  If they weren’t, they would be held accountable for their actions long ago.  Masterful liars and manipulators are allowed to become uncontrolled, impulse driven addicts.  I heard pretty much the same old crap I heard over a year ago with another counselor.  In his time in therapy he did nothing to address his underlying thought patterns.  He has done nothing but add another air brushed layer over his underlying corruption. 

Dry drunk (liar).  False front (most definitely).  Empty shell (vampires all).

He is a ten year old in a big boy body.  He sees all women, for years and years and years, through a filter of undressing them, in an instant, he is so skilled and conditioned that every woman he sees is naked to him.  He doesn’t see their faces.  He doesn’t see their expressions, or their hearts, or their minds.  He sees only their bodies, and obsesses, and lives in a swirl of objectified, preadolescent lust.  Every woman is only there to fuel his addiction, to fulfill his masturbatory wishes, to fit into his stereotype of serving his physical needs.  Needs always unmet.  Needs which can never be met, not by food, nor sex, nor love, nor hate, nor peace.  His internal barometer setting is far too HIGH, high anxiety, high drama, high fear, high sex, high high high high.  And he manipulates and destroys and whatever else it takes to maintain that state of high, because anything less feels like unlife. 

He does not see the zombie in that HIGH.  He thinks that is what life feels like.  Fear.  Lust.  Orgasm.  Lies.  More fear.  Blame.  Self pity.  Hate.  Hate.

More hate.

Broke broker broken.

I really think he wishes I would be like my mother.  A combination of his mother and father all in one, just like he is a combination of everyone in my family all in one.  Critical, emotionally abusive, flailing my damage all over.  He would understand that.  It would feel normal.  It would distract him from his own shit, give him a familiar sense of fear to obsess about, drive the drama high.  He said he left to get away.  I left to get away.  He took his damage with him.  I tried to release my damage, to confront it, to become its master.  Obviously, I failed.  I suppose I improved in my choices over the years, but ultimately, when the most important relationship of my life came to be, I failed. 

Somehow, I chose this.  I chose a ten year old who cannot love, who lives in a fog of lust with every woman he sees, obsesses over those that really titillated him, who can never be filled, and who treats me with the deepest disrespect, blames me, and hates me in his heart of hearts.  Oh, he needs me.  They always need me.  But they don’t love me.  They need me to hate themselves.  They need me to hold up as a mirror of how they have failed.  They need me to blame for all their ills. 

I wonder.  I wonder.  I wonder.

It is hard to go there.  It is hard to see.  My intent slides off like oil, like slick sweat, like sliding on blood.  I wonder, what is hiding there.  I wonder, how much it will hurt.  It is so difficult, so painful to try and face.  How I let myself down.  How I failed myself.  How I don’t know what to do next. 

How sad I am about where I am, what I see ahead.

I wonder what silence is in myself that I haven’t heard.  How I obfuscate from my own issues.  How I pretend.  How I hate.

How I just get on with life, because you have to get on with life, and I just keep making those same mistakes because I don’t know how to fix the damage.  I was just fooling myself that I had escaped, changed, mutated, transformed myself.

I have been sexually-emotionally abused by every man I tried to be intimate with.  He is no different.  I just thought he was.  I was wrong.

I don’t know how to look at that damage and still function day to day.  How to go to work.  How to be there for anyone.  I am sick from his corruption.  I am sick trying to look at my pain.  I am sickened from cruelty and abuse.  I don’t know where to find joy, peace, contentment, compassion, love.


My cave.

Silence, in a cave.

Days alone, to face it all, all alone.

Is this all there is?

Words unsaid.  Needs unasked.  Accountability unmet.  Wounds untended.  Corruption trivialized, normalized, justified.  Sickness festering in the void.

Is there nothing more?

The silence is deafening.


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