Mental Death

Right now. I lie here. I think I have experienced it. Death. Mental Death. Physical deterioration. Lying here for days staring at the ceiling waiting to be carried up, or go plummeting down. My stomach tight with hunger. My legs cramped from malnutrition. My back aching from not moving. Hair turning straw-like and beginning to thin and fall out.

I remember I'm 25. Born in 1980. How did it happen this fast? I remember the first time I read Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and read the part about the lobotomy, and the way the protagonist was after it had happened to him, dead in the mind, unthinking, but still there physically. He sounded like the luckiest man in the entire world.

I envied his no longer having the torment of having to think, or worse, having to remember. Waiting for a nurse to come and do everything for you four times a day. Feed you, bathe you, empty your piss and shit, shave you. Watch NASCAR on the television for hours. Watch the cars go around and around and around and around the track, never stopping. There is no world around you. You are no longer aware of it. It is gone. You are inside of the safe brick walls. Not inside your head anymore. This is mental death and it sounds wonderful.

Cut to him. He's fucking your ass from behind while you're barely trying to cling to the wet, slippery walls of the bathtub while he slams your head into the faucet. Snot mixed with blood and shampoo drip down the side of the tub. There is no escape from this. There is no stopping this. It is raining hot water all over your back, which only makes the walls more slippery, harder to balance your two small hands on so that you don't go crashing face first into the bottom of the bathtub and break your face open.

There is already blood in the bottom of the tub, although you have no idea from where, it just exists and more is coming. Is it yours . . . his? Too hard to tell. Everything hurts and is wet and slippery. The stench of blood and semen is ripe and in the air. I was born for this.

His engorged cum filled dick slamming into me. I think about my organs moving in all different directions. Through this I am able to stop and wonder if he can actually alter the way that my organs are arranged in my body if this sick troll pounds me enough times.

This is not intercourse. This is not sex. This is not fucking. There is only one word for this and it is sloppy and disgusting and rife with hatred. I look at my legs and see streams of blood pouring down each of the already bruised wretched sticks. How did I get here? I wonder what organs are dying inside of me now.

I know what this is, what is happening, and I say it quietly. And when I say it I scream, and when I scream I scream over and over again until it becomes a horrible beautiful resonating song in my head. He shoves my bloody face into the shampoo again. The bitter taste is inhaled into my mouth while the fake strawberry stench mixed with that of the blood and the sweat and the semen and the genitalia and decay makes my body wretch.

I vomit a light pink color into the tub, followed by seemingly buckets of blood. I repeat the word quietly, over and over. For me, once a word is repeated I soon become numb to it for a time, but not this one. I rip it apart; scrunch it up; step on it; throw it; inflict endless violence to the memories and to this word, but everything is still there. The word, the memories, death is still in front of me staring me right in my bloody bruised face, giving me a sly wink because they all know that they will always be there and that I will never get rid of them.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I will not tell anybody what you have done to me. Just let me go home. I wont tell anyone honest.

I will never go home. I will live a desperate rotting life. A life of constant insufficiency. It will be ugly and demeaning to all those involved in it. Especially me. The small humiliating embarrassing and humiliated product of a wretched degraded and degrading process. My mind, my body, my fucking being. All the time. Everyday. Every fucking Minute.

(ADDENDUM TO ORIGINAL SW MATERIAL TAKEN FROM MYSPACE 1/31/08)

I wake up in another bed.... my stomach feels like something inside has exploded. I feel something dripping down my leg. I stick my hand into my vagina and it is covered in blood. This is not a period. This is not.... I know it. This is my baby. This has been my baby that has exploded inside me. He has come inside me too many times. I never bled this much. I am on enough drugs to kill a large horse each day. What I sneeze would kill a baby. And I did it. I wanted this one. I wanted to keep it. I knew it would be retarded. I knew it would be merely retarded from me and I don't know who the father would be. I wanted this one though. It exploded though. There was nothing to remain.

I barely stumble across the floor into the bathroom clutching my stomach and my baby bleeding out my vagina all over the floor. It hurts a lot. He has no idea. I wait for him to leave. I can't let anyone know this. I know this is the baby though. This is my fate. I want it. I wanted this one and I knew it was inside of me. I could feel it. I didn't think about how I was going to have to quit everything and drugs and substances and how hard it would be... well the thought crossed my mind... but I just figured I'd have to do it and that was that. I would have done it for this kid. I've never wanted a baby until I lost this one. It exploded. I felt it in my hand. It was liquid. I killed it. I killed it by drinking and falling and taking pills and fucking myself up.

After all the hurt and forced sex and mental death and suicide and cutting and bleeding and abuse why the fuck would I want this????? Why would I want this thing that was created out of pure hatred and loneliness??? It hurt. I wanted it.... As it spread across the floor and it's little guts went all over the paper towels I sobbed and convulsed.... at least no one was not here to see it. I knew it happened... and I never wanted them to know.

What the fuck can one do now though??? It's over. I have to continue to live this life... Nothing's inside me now... I'm barren. Will this happen again??? For the first time in my life I want to do that.... God I can't imagine. People can't fathom me being a mother but fuck them. I am the important one and no I can't imagine it, but it needs to happen. For only selfish reasons, then let it be for selfish fucking reasons. I am goddamned lonely.

I never understood why any woman would want to have some parasite growing inside of her and fucking watch it get bigger and uglier and turn into another faceless brainless ape among us. But mine would be different because it would be MY brainless ape. I WANT it to have down's syndrome. I WANT it to be retarded. I WANT to be able to relate to it. I'll take whatever I'm given. Unfortunately I can't raise a handful of blood. I mean I guess the most I could have done would have been to collect the blood in a jar and named it. It is too hard. There's too much to think about.

Turn over.
You fat pig.
You disgusting fucking whore.
What did your Daddy do to you?
What fucked you up so bad?
You are way to pretty to be so fucked up.
You could do so much more with your life.
Are you ok?
ARE YOU OK???????


DO YOU FUCKING CARE?????
no you don't.
if one more stinking piece of human garbage utters those three condescending ass STUPID three words to me as long as I live, I will shoot them. Well I would shoot them, but their life is obviously not worth mine getting in trouble. ARE YOU OK?????

NO ONE CARES.

I HAD A BABY IN MY FUCKING HAND AND IT TURNED TO LIQUID ON THE FLOOR.... I'M JUST FINE POPS... THANKS FOR ASKING!!!!!! LOL!!!!!