Pam Curtis (pamc) wrote,
Pam Curtis
pamc

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{confessional} Men....

This is a ranty rant. Parts may be generalized, fictionalized, archetyped, whatever for shorthand. If you don't understand something, ask.

This is going to be long....



I was born on a Wednesday, November 7th, year of the Christian Lord 1973. Wednesday's child is full of woe. (Which is why the character from the Addam's family was named Wednesday.)

{I will digress a lot. get used to it.}

I was a breech birth. Induced labor. Feet or ass first, I don't know and I get conflicting stories from my family. (I always get conflicting stories from my family, but that's how I reshape my past into who I want to be.) {EMDR reparenting theory}. Either way, I didn't want to come out yet and they forced me. But that's always the way it was suposed to happen, one way or another. I didn't want to come back to this life, this world, this hell that we create for one another. I've done it enough times! I was in RETIREMENT.

And then came the call.
And I showed. {And I threw a temper tantrum to fit a 2-yr-old}
And here I am.

And here I am now.... on this date, writing this post.

I am broken. Have no doubt. But broken doesn't mean *helpless*. It just means that I recognize, more than most of you, how it is to thrive in a hostile environment. How to have vertigo and save yourself from the fall by remembering to relax and let your dancing instincts take over.

It's learning that, no... folks around you may express alarm, but never enough {all though too much is also your doom}. SO you plan. Always. Know why I can't think as well as I used to? Because I have to think about more than most all the time. Yes, it makes my ADD worse. I'm * always* robbing Peter to pay Paul.

But Paul always gets paid

I will try to drive you away because experience has taught me that the people who can handle even pieces of me can't handle all of me. Not even my parents. Not even me.

I lie to me all the time. It's called denial. It helps me function so that instead of just having a crisis, I really *don't* die.

No, I'm not fucking being melodramatic. They don't spend $50,000 on a patient for a fucking hallucination or self-induced, drug-seeking game....

Just because I watch House and my grandmother introduced me to the movie: "The Baron Münchhausen" does not mean that I think I have the DISEASE Münchhausen or Münchhausen's by proxy. I'M JUST CLEVER SOMETIMES! {Although anyone who knows me knows I'm really fucking stupid sometimes. But then, the Buddha said: "Even now I am making a mistake."

There's no avoiding pain, responsibility, heartache, complications, &ct. That's LIFE baby!

When he asked me to stay in the same house as Doctor Susan, he was telling me that he was okay leaving me in a position whereby I would have to stoop lower than her tactics to win. He couldn't just fucking trust me.

I'm a Shadow Lord Kinfolk. I'm not proud of it. I know what power, money, talent, fame and all those other things "people" "crave" for and I know what it does to people. To families. It was done to me.

Queen Margot. That's a good example of what happens when you get too much of a good thing. You start to think that it's okay to hurt people on a whim just because you're you. *That* is corruption. *That* is evil on the edge of the event horizon.

And he had the audacity to ask me to go there willingly. And then turns around and does the exact same thing to me.

Now the BIG question is.... what do I do with this cluster fuck?
Tags: 1, book of pam, juju, writing
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