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Ranting Box Indeed

Upcoming after the rants, poetry.

The worst he told me was he had to “live in a trailer in the fourth wealthiest county in America” and “my mom and her boyfriend would wake us up in the middle of the night arguing and we’d go to sleep in the car and get up to go to school in three hours.” “So what? You had to move across the country. Get over it. My childhood was probably ten times as bad as yours. Get off your high horse about having a bad childhood.”

Is that the worst you got? Wanna try seeing your mom thrown up against the wall? her face stepped on or head smashed repeatedly in a doorjamb? her drunk and trying to climb out a window? a man passed out on your bed, thus forcing you to sleep in the living room on an exercise chair while she kept some else in her room? her slapping you across the face? telling you she didn’t want kids? a knife at her throat? lies, deceit, drinking, drugs, constant in and out, moving into hotel rooms and shelters and people’s living rooms (yes, living rooms! Not bedroom. Not “sleeping in the living room, keeping your stuff elsewhere”, but “keeping everything in the living room and sleeping there, where the cats excrete their waste”) and not having food? being so sick every day and managing not but two or three hours of sleep? crying yourself to sleep? medical issue after medical issue whilst caring for your two younger siblings? watching other people’s kids? being left alone all night? feeling yourself give up, pick up, give up? suicidal, alone, sadistic, friendless, failing at school, instability, hatred, abuse? And when I say sick, I mean so sick you throw up and shake and cry at the slightest thing. So pale the teachers grab your arm and lead you to the office. Seizures especially. Not having one place for more than two months. Not being able to buy essentials, such as soap or toothpaste or socks. Unknowing of whether you could die in the night and wanting to seek safety but comprehending your place as with your sisters, caring for them, because your mother is at the time incapable.

(Oh, and dig this: I also was wakened in the middle of the night by arguing, then had to go sleep in the car or suffer long drives, and the next morning head to school.)

And that isn’t a quarter of it. If you believe your childhood more detrimental of the two, I’d reconsider.


Character Notes?

I can’t think. I can’t write. He’ll be here next week, and I’m a mess. I keep feeling the need to escape, to pry out from under his thumb, to flee from him & find the other, the one I love, the one I need, the one giving me my strength.

After getting off the phone, my knees gave out and I fell on the carpet in the hall, bruising my shoulder and scraping my elbow. I began to sob and kick the walls and door and yank my fingers through my hair, saying loudly, “I hate you! You don’t understand!”

I’m a bit disappointed. All you do is read and write. I see your age coming out in you. NOBODY has that many health issues. You’re being lazy. There’s no excuse; you’re perfectly capable.

(My lies are catching up with me.)

What’s in my heart and what’s in my mouth are incongruent.

I’m drawing farther into my own chaotic wake.


I fear this blog has turned into a ranting box, but meh.


Bent over to retrieve something I’d dropped, and my knee popped. It didn’t hurt. Within the next three days my knee had completely swollen, though the surface was smooth. It began aching the third day, when my mom had me to get into a warm salt bath. But why would it come on in this manner – suddenly? Did my bending provoke it? No previous joint aches beside my elbow, which was swollen six months prior to the incident, and would swell and recede – and I’d injured it a year or two earlier. And whilst I endure my arthritis flare-ups, I tend to get a faint – but sometimes very notable – rash on my nose and cheeks in the “butterfly” shape. And wasn’t the rheumatologist surprised when she placed her palm on my knee, and it was warm?

The shots aren’t working. It means…it means…I must have…Lupus. Early test results for Lupus are often negative – which, mine were. But so was my RA.

Let’s see:

  • malar rash – check
  • joint stiffness, swelling, pain – check
  • Raynaud’s phenomenon – check
  • psychological/neurological issues – check
  • hair loss – check
  • fatigue – check
  • easy bruising – check
  • photophobia – check
  • fever – check
  • mouths sores – check
  • chest pain and difficulty breathing – check
  • depression – check
  • chills – check
  • autoimmune disease – check
  • swollen glands/lymph nodes – check
  • trouble thinking – check
  • memory problems – check
  • vision problems – check
  • mania – check
  • paranoia – check
  • personality changes – check
  • bleeding gums – check
  • chest pain, worse when breathing in – check

among others.

A couple other distinctions:

  • whereas RA causes constant joint inflammation and pain, as well deformities, Lupus goes into remission and does not cause deformities.
  • far as I’ve seen, there aren’t any rashes specified in RA, and especially not concerning the malar (“butterfly”) rash.
  • muscle tenderness is more commonly associated with Lupus than RA.
  • RA doesn’t affect the nervous system.

I eat only because they say I must; but I can no longer taste the food, and have trouble working my teeth to chew. Realized today how introverted I’ve become – to a debilatating point. I don’t go to see my mom and sisters, though they’ve been gone for weeks; I don’t want to speak to her new boyfriend, and of this he is growing steadily aware. Riding in the truck, I relished the stereo being too loud for conversation…stared out the window and wondered, saw how living my loved ones were, and how very dead I appeared. No color in my cheeks, lips a thin, pallid line. And tomorrow will be the same…and yet they want to say “you’re going through a phase” or “it will get better in time” or even “aren’t you grateful for anything?!” No, I’m not grateful.

Today I decided for sure: eighteen is upcoming, and I am not ready. I don’t care about school; why should I? There’s nothing, for the world is a sphere, and on it are thousands and hundreds of thousands of social networks. This is the reason for existence – to rapidly cart knowledge from one place to another, from the mouths of one people to another – for survival, done in instinct. We NEED to socialize to live a fruitful life.

If we don’t share our ideas, they might well not exist.

That’s It

You know the saying “You don’t really know anyone?” It’s been taken to new extremes. And while I suppose I should feel comforted knowing I’m not the only one hiding something of colossal proportion, it makes no sense why every end opens yet more ends. I want to scream: “You’re not weak! You’re not weak! Suck it up!”, to both.

So. He drinks. The thought reminds me of the other, the one who must go nameless, lest I blunder and reveal something to rend a relationship. I want, I want: “Not you, nor him, nor him – (my selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) – to Paradise.” Ah yes, thank you, Sylvia. I want: the malignant and smoldering flames of hell to dissolve into those of heaven.

I am a liar, a cheat, a thief. I stole a heart, lied my way into many, and cheated one out of eternity. Why? I don’t know any better. I wasn’t taught any differently. I can’t separate the long view from now, which really sucks, because I want the long view. I need the long view.

And these, dear diary, are my options: after ruining my future, I see a window, a small opportunity casting light across the floorboards: “And I/Am the arrow,//The dew that flies/Suicidal, at one with the drive/Into the red//Eye, the cauldron of morning.”

I don’t mean to be melodramatic, attention-seeking, etc. What help my mother offers is so little as to be none. Love? It does no good. They love me more than I can fathom, yet it does nothing, nothing…The truth is, I haven’t finished ninth grade, seen abuse and violence and drunkenness, was victimized by lies, then dragged across the country, only to be dragged back – twice – and loved and hated and longed for one who wasn’t there, who couldn’t have been. A man drunk and passed out on my bed, forcing me to sleep in the exercise chair, while she lay beside a man unknown to me. Her gone for hours; resigning myself to her death. No food, no home, no shelter or comfort. 

…That’s enough for now. Needed to get it off my chest, that sticky, slimy tentacle.

Woke today in a better mood, and though the world tried to ruin it, I nearly finished my copyright file, downloaded work from the old and out-of-date Zip disk onto my laptop, wrote two poems (both of which require massive editing), and decided that, for the next three days, I will read and learn and NOT write.

Although NaPo’s over, I cull out one – two poems, every day. Figured it’s time for a break. Especially on reviewing my copyright file, which contains not-quite-all of my poetry. 71, 116 words. So far. Not including what I’ve done since NaPo, and all I’ve stashed into various random notebooks and boxes. (and the twenty poems on the computer in Vegas!) 

That’s not to say I like all I’ve written. Geez, no. Maybe 200. Maybe. Out of…600? Not sure. I’ve been writing poetry since I was five; those efforts are long gone.

Oh, before I forget: I found this awesome website by this awesome guy (poet), and figured I’d share it with anyone interested: He’s tough, he’s mean, but also he’s hilarious and insightful and a thrill to read.

Dear Agony

This is what happens when one is so frickin’ emotionally distraught and listening to Death Music:

Not at all fond of you,

terminal illness, freight

train heading now, and on,

at varying speeds – you

miss often your target, stop,

reconsider the origin, purpose,

point at which all is and

becoming more than

futility. O soul, world,

creature bearing

your triteness well! I lunge

for you: either gobble

me or be stilled.

I have a prayer, and it consists: I want more. Not only that – I want to be more. I want to do more. Why is it I never have the gall? Every day, I wake up, I don’t go to school, I sit on the Internet for an hour (sometimes twice a day), write little, read little, and expect to get somewhere. Snap out of it, Lynsey. You’re better than this.

What happened?

 It’s not a question of religious or moral values. Simply, how could one loathe one’s creation?

I went down to see my mother and sisters in their new house Saturday night. I didn’t expect much, didn’t expect to be moved, and surely not to the point that I’d change my mind and decide to come live with them. (To give a bit of background information, my mom and sisters moved into a two bed/two bath nearly two weeks ago, and I didn’t harbor enough desire to go see it until, well, Saturday, when my excuses ran dry. They live with her boyfriend. Prior to the move, I asked her to let me stay in her room, as the “kids” room would be too small for three, but she said “no”, so I was left at my grandparents’, with whom we had been living up until that time.) And I wasn’t. Moved, I mean. I walked in and sat down the couch opposite my thirteen-year-old sister (who smokes regularly, come to find out; she begged my mom for two cigarettes as she was leaving) and her sixteen-year-old boyfriend, James. I could tell they wanted me to feel I was at home, but I couldn’t. The atmosphere was alien. She (Mom) ran about getting things together for dinner, popped the macaroni in the oven, jabbered about losing her job (she’d lost it earlier the same day), then her face puckered and she gave me a hug and shed a few tears. When I asked how things were otherwise: “Oh, they’re great otherwise. Greg said I can work with him for now.”Dinner proved an uncomfortable event. I quit eating halfway through, afraid I would choke if I kept shoveling it down. We watched TV, went to McDonald’s in his truck, then returned.

Standing in their kitchen under the unflattering yellow light, I thought: “The changes we’ve been subject to…they’re irrevocable. Mom isn’t your mom anymore, and your sisters are no longer your sisters. These people are foreign; they’ve moved on. This is the first step toward adulthood.”

I can’t say I feel at home, anywhere. Right now I’m focused on diagnosing my psychological issues, writing, and college. Not an inch of me remains to worry about being “at home”, because one can’t be at home where no home exists.

However, I did finish NaPo with a whopping sixty-three poems, having forged several breakthroughs during the process. Wrote three more today, one of which I’m very fond. These are my releases: writing, love. I needn’t forget.

Never. Believe. Them.

This morning my mom woke me bright and early (the old cliche) and I readied for a doctor’s visit. What for, Lynsey? Well, because I have arthritis, and because I find it difficult to live with, we’ve now considered all the possible routes to good health and thus made our decision: peptides. I would rave over how wonderful and miraculous these shots are, but I’ve limited time and mental muscle, so I’ll keep it short. 

So there I sat, in a chair in a doctor’s office – not my favorite place in the world, let me tell you; I’ve spent my fair share under harsh examination lights – until the doctor came in. His nurse readied the needle and set it out on the counter. It wasn’t as large as I imagined, which was a small relief. And I figured (trying not to flex or tighten my muscles) if I overanticipated the hurt, it would in turn be less than what I expected. Well. He told me to stand and tug my jeans to just below my hipbones, swabbed the area, examined the needle-

I’ve broken a few bones – my foot and collar bone, to be exact. I’ve had some guy in the ER dig into my knee nerves with a needle. I’ve broken the skin below my big toe and not cried at all. And much more. The pain today rivals any prior pains. Or perhaps that’s just my mind speaking, and after I endure a certain amount of pain I’m prone to forgetting how much and instead am left with the ghost of a notion of the pain.

The initial pain wasn’t as bad I expected. So I thought: Oh, it’s not that bad. (How we all like to believe in the greater good.)

“Is it stinging yet?” Yes, it was. More than stinging. First a surge down my right leg, then through my buttock, and then I was grappling for balance and trying deep, even breathing. After he’d disposed of the needle and the band-aid was on my hip, I stumbled toward the seat, paying particular attention to awareness. And this is was what my mind was saying: GOOD GOD WHAT THE HECK STOP STOP STOP.

“Are you okay?” – a concerned nurse. I love that question. It’s just like the “How are you feeling” question. What do they want you to say? Oh, yeah, I’m fine – I’m limping and gripping my thigh because it’s fun.

But anyway. No NaPo yet today. As soon as I get my head back I’ll be on it.

It is, it is

Happy April 1st, NaPoWriMoers! Haven’t yet started on mine. But I will. In a little bit. After I go pick up the bedroom.


As this day winds to a close, I thought I should close this blog entry by saying, yes, I wrote a poem (Shakespearean sonnet), and, yes, it pretty much stunk, but hey, I’m taking this time for practice, not seriousness. I figure, if I use it for free-writing and implementing new elements into my style, rather than stick to the usual blase routine, my writing will be better for it.

To all of you who wrote something: good job. To all of you who spent the day desiring the desire to write something: tomorrow’s a new day.