This mostly consists of compiled autobiographical pieces and memories of what I hope to be a published memoir. Confessional poems, in several different forms that I also use for Zine work. You may stumble upon a few short fiction stories.
Enjoy the Madness, Savor the Sense.
With love Truth & Scars
-Mary Catherine, Cowardice! Queen of the Ants.
Yes, Of course... By all means, please do! Pour your loathing all over me,
I want it all. Just look at you, dear Gods!
It is seeping from every orifice of your body. I can smell it and it smells like rancid meat. I can taste it and it tastes like a rotting tooth. But that's alright, I will take it.
That is more than fine with me darling. Keep it coming, pour some more!
Yes... See now that's what I'm talking about! I know I am doing something right.
I am on mother fucking point when you lay your malice on me thick and spread it!
I understand you and your need. I wasyou once.
She is a ghost now. Wishing I could have what someone else did.
I never was quite as malicious. I had my own way.
The singular difference between you and I is that you can actually possess what you hate me for.
I could show you but you would have to open more than your eyes.
Do you never wonder why you feel that impulse to spew that vicious poison?
Once you can understand that, you will already be on your way.
From rust have we all succumb- Then something happens-it becomes a choice, one we all can make but only for ourselves. To fester and decay? To run and hide in the shadows of our fears? Not I, No more, I have seen both sides of the sphere. I lived as both. I have sat opposite of myself at the table of existence and watched her carefully. I got up slowly and switched seats. With a precise keenness, I watched even more cautiously. Only then did I make the choice. At long last, barely able to walk, the mirror a loathsome creation i braved- and I have become the excelsior- one foot in front of the other, clutching at surfaces to remain upright at first, like a babe beginning to walk. At first it was much more stumbling in the dark but then I worked harder, fought bravely. I looked behind me once, maybe twice at the decomposition- the decay and from what I saw and I knew well enough. I was assured by this that I wanted no more of it.
It pains me to look upon those that I love, the ones who have yet to make a choice and by default make a choice every moment that they refuse to make one, they to stagnate in their own unique misery.
It came so close for me to no longer have that power to seize that choice.
Another comrade fell this week.
This is not child's play.
I knew that when I chose to become what I was. I did it anyway. I feel, unfortunate as it may seem that it was absolutely necessary for me to put my face in front of a rabid dog and be bitten in order to understand the unfathomable repercussions.
I open my eyes in the morning around a quarter to eight. I climb still farther away. One foot at a time sometimes with agility, sometimes treading light and steady during waking hours. I close my weary eyes at night. They have seen and understood enough for one day. Tomorrow the voyage will be waiting. Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen
Written in N.Y.C street diction in retaliation. Talking about me again yo? You mother fuckers have nothing more interesting going on? I know you do so why is my name flying out of your mouth?
" Damn, have you seen Mary?" "Yeah! She looks fuckin' good yo!"
"Word, she's doin' good too."
"Yeah, but how longs that gonna last?"
"Yeah i dont know, aint' she on only like five mg of meth now?"
"Yea yo, that aint' shit!"
"Its just a matter of time till she's back out here with us." Just. Stop. Right about there.
No mother fuckers. It is not a matter of time. It is a matter of choice. My mother fucking choice. Yes I do look good. Damn good. Tomorrow, I'll look even better. What? Oh because I'm not slurring my words and I speak articulately and carry myself differently. Well I'm sober remember? Almost nine months. I'm also housed up, single and I'm doing my own thing and I'm pretty satisfied with my existence. That may be the vibe your picking up on. This is what I think you are speaking of when you say to me "Damn you seem so different now!" Staring up at me like I just stepped out of a mother fucking spaceship. What the fuck were you expecting? Better question, the real one, the only one. How would you have me? What would you have preferred sweethearts? Me to walk up and ask if you could score for me?! Me, piss drunk again. Or worse, me rollin up to the row looking for Maverick saying the ol' "Have you seen Maverick?" Fat ass chance bro, a real fat ass chance. There is actually a better chance of my stepping out of a space ship. To be honest. Yeah it is like that, and no I don't care if you tell him I said that. Even more sick, were you hoping some morbid shit? Like permanent damage to my motor skills due to (openly discussed, dissected and rumored) my near death experience from liver failure exactly one year ago?
"I was going to visit you but..." "We went to visit you but security said you weren't allowed any visitors" What dude, really? Okay. First off it doesn't even matter if you did or didn't. I was coherent enough to be vain and probably would not allow anyone to see me looking like a month old corpse with tubes and wires in and out of me, like one of Dr. Frankenstein experiments. So fuck it. I am aware that a pretty big chunk of you really wouldn't be effected if I had lived or died last year. With all the people we know droppin' like like flies? Nah aint 'happen bro. It would be a week at best of "Whoa, that's so fucked up yo! While Maverick was fucking that one dumb hoe, Mary was fucking dying. Now that's fucked up. Shit, I'm not even that fucked up." That would be the end of it. Maybe two weeks of chatter and it would fizzle out and another will fall. Then it will be the same plot with different dialogue. I get it. That's how it goes. That's why I was like, I'm out. I don't want to be remembered for the dumb, drunk, junkie bullshit that I did for a little less then a decade of my life. Fuck all that noise. That's just a few chapters in a fairly thick memoir. Sorry to disappoint, but yeah. I'm still here.
We will have to fast forward about two and a half years later to nail her in for good. The Forbidden never more.
I'll start by saying there is nothing so fierce and binding as a mother's love for her first born son (think of Cersei when King Joffrey dies in the fourth season of Game of Thrones). My son is nearly three and my second child, a daughter is only six months old and was still breastfeeding. I told "Max" that I wanted to be their mother but not his wife, in so many words. I could not stand to live with him under the same roof any longer, I loathed him. I felt like a prisoner and a slave. I would look at him and feel genuine nausea come over me. when I tell Mr. Statutory rape how I feel He says, "Okay, my sister, (Aunt Martyr) in Long island has no problem at all taking in me and both the children and her husband can help me find a job up there. Unless of course, you can figure something else out..." What breed of homo-sapien would do this? So basically he is taking my blood! my children, that I carried in my womb and cared for 99.9 percent of the time from Florida to New York. Okay, keep in mind: he knew damn well that I had no one, nothing, no home (other than his), no job experience, no car, no drivers license, no college education. He new I was powerless to stop him. I digress, The point is, that my mother was aware of the predicament I was in. Since it was her choices and arbitrary, foolish decisions that were the causation of most of them anyway.
Why my mother is already in her coffin as far as i am concerned. It is April 2006, I gather up all the strength I can and phone this biological mother of mine and inform her of the situation. I had already racked my brain trying to think of anything else I could do and no ideas came. After the end of my futile lament and pleas, I end with one final attempt; "Mom, I don't think you understand, if you don't let me and the kids live there, or at the very least just the kids, if you don't want me around; he is going to take them all the way to New York!"
Pronounced dead. All she did was list insignificant and selfish problems as they came to her mind. trying to find a reason that would justify the "No" Anything she could think of; Her relationship with her fourth husband, her old age. All horse shit.
It is now nearly September of 2015. She has been dead to me for quite some time. I've cried over the loss of a mother already, I'm dried up. So, No Mother, I will not cry when your body ceases to function. What difference does a heart beat make?
You did the best you could. The best you were capable of, only the best of intentions, I hear you; But right now I am not a wise old crone. All I can say to you in order to remain true to myself and stay honest is that when I was told my biological father died, all I did was shrug my shoulders- take a drag of my cigarette- contemplate him a for moment- toss my cigarette and say, "I hope he suffered".
So, for your sake, go on and pray to your God that you are forgiven for being the mother you were and that I will have more feeling for you then I did for daddy. "Mommie Dearest".
Another memory that bolts your coffin. To this day thinking of it brings me a pang of resentment and confusion.
I was eleven years old; mother says, I 'm disobedient, disrespectful and talk back too much. In other words, my character and my opinions must have inconvenienced and clashed with her idea of what a daughter ought to be. She sent me away to a behavior modification program. I had to leave my baby brother my neighborhood, my friends all that was familiar to me. It was called Sheridan House run by Christian fanatics we were to address only as Ma and Pa. a strange and secretive elderly couple there to guide us back to our lord and savior. A very strict schedule regime and rules and still more strict consequences if you slipped up. Running timed laps for hours, pulling weeds for hours, all in the hot Florida sun. I was gone one year.
When I return Mother is remarried to husband number three and his daughter lives in my bedroom.
No biggie Right. Adapt, adjust; I could have done that. fade into the background, be erased? Really bitch, me? Not so much.
Less than a year back I foolishly confide to my mother that I smoked weed for the first time. What does my mother do? She gets rid of me at the first opportunity. She sends me to a juvie rehab called The Starting Place. Yeah, starting place alright. not exactly what you had in mind right mum? I ran away from the facility with a crack smoking 16-year-old prostitute about two weeks in.
Yet another reason I WILL NOT CRY UPON YOUR DEATH. I show up unwelcome and shunned on her doorstep. tattered mentally and physically, I had been learning the sex trade. apparently, it's not uncommon at all for a sexually traumatized child to become extremely promiscuous during their youth. I was sexually abused from approx age six to twelve. also, disassociation during sexual acts in the future is common as well. of course, I did not know that was what I was doing then at 15 years old, I just knew my body was doing one thing while my mind and soul were on a vacation. I learned all this much later. The book "The Courage To Heal" - I highly suggest you do not read, not if you do not have the tools and support. Trust me Speaking of vacations I had been staying underneath the Deerfield Beach pier and 'The Hansel and Gretel Motel' up the road from the beach.
Alright, Ma- don't get all worked up now. we are at the second to last nail now.
After having me incarcerated under false allegations of domestic violence, and having been "Baker Acted" 13 times in one year. Yes, you did mom; I fucking counted once.
Munchausen by proxyin the psych department much? When my release date comes and my mother refuses to come and get me. by default gives me to the state. She managed to dodge abandonment charges by convincing a judge that I was too unruly and she felt it was in my best interest if I was in the states care. That's right.
Either she didn't do the research or she didn't care. Either way, she got what she wanted at long last. To be rid of this impostor of a daughter. This Foul creature. this Wicked girl, A devil. Me.
I remember sitting by that one-way telephone, that cold dorm, a red foamy chair, waiting for a phone call that never came. I imagined her in the courtroom, doing her victim thing, those forced tears, and contrived sobs.
Off I go multiple group homes (A.K.A. an orphanage ). One of which was a locked down mental health facility, thanks to the gigantic amount of crazy on my juvenile record. That was where I spent my oh-so-sweet sixteenth birthday. A couple of foster homes later I am impregnated. We will call him Max. He was twenty-seven years old when I was Sixteen, It was winter of 2002. I was about to close up shop about three months after meeting him at an A.A meeting on a Sunday night, down the street from my second foster home. I maxed out his credit cards, he tutored me back to my straight A's and he started to complain about the pack of Marlboro reds I smoked. that of course, he would buy for me. then he started using the word love and I was like; I'm Out.
Next thing I know my foster sister Jay (Javiera, amazing girl) is holding my hair back while I retch, gag and vomit uncontrollably. the same hands that had stitched up my wrist a few months back, the same hands that tossed me a vibrator when I confessed I had never used one before. I loved that girl. I think I asked her, in total disbelief, What the hell am I going to do? Dumbfounded. See, know we know, What kind of God would give me a kid?
I know the answer to that now. The only God that there is; God that didn't choose to use protection at a very fertile age. Yours truly. Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen
I was asked several years ago to write a few things I had never done or allowed myself to do. after some contemplation I came up with a very short list. "Forbidden acts" is what the instructions were titled. Telling my mother the following was one of them.
Dear Mother,
I do not think your death would cause me any anguish. I do not think I will even cry. I will not even visit your ailing body upon your death bed, or the morgue if your already dead. Unless I had to by law to identify your body. I would glance down at you nod my head to the mortician and walk away with the same cold apathy you showed me throughout my life. I think you will appear the just as cold and uncaring on that slab as you have always looked to me, since before i can remember.
Almost never being held, kissed hugged or praised. I suppose the first memory that arises is when I was a child (perhaps eight or nine, not sure). I had two first place writing awards in the only two you let me involve myself with.I remember we were driving in that blue mini van,with the sliding side doors. The one that GrandMary almost fell out of while the van was in motion and the door slid open.
I remember much fear I overcame It and Asked you with a much courage as I could muster, "Mom"
"Yes, What?" She didn't even glance at me i the rear view mirror.
"I was just wondering...ahh, What could I write that hasn't been written?"
a pause, then "I don't know..."
"Well with all the books in the world and all those people that wrote them and all this time, what could I say that no one else hasn't said already, (embarrassed, I finish the thought a little more quietly) and said it better 'prolly'."
Silence, then- "Alright! Buckles off! Tim, Mary we're here."
That was the end of the conversation a conversation I desperately needed and wanted to have-To her it was merely an audible passing whim of a child that has no thoughts of her own.
Later that night I remember (strange how certain things you can remember so clearly and others are pitch black like your life ceases to exist for a time) writing in my Journal this mad scribble "What could I write that hasn't been written? I'm only a girl once smitten, twice bitten."
Another memory comes. Mother did not read to me at night, or during the day for that matter, certain not often if at all. She purchased (with money she was always complaining she didn't have) audio book's instead. So, it was "good night" push button, walk out the door leaving my night light on. (What were you doing Mom? What was so important?)
My mother didn't keep an exceptionally clean house a slightly tidy pack rat, disorganized random thindgs covering seventy five percent of counter and table tops, at this time she was a divorcee and she was no cook either. In fact I think she might have been an employed microwave promoter
("So fast! So much easier! So convenient! Idiot.)
Which brings me to another point, another memory, another cheap convenience for her. "The McDonald's" almost every fucking birthday was at the play yard of a fucking Mcdonald's. This went long after I noticed the odd taste and texture of the "Mcnugget". that and the odd brown discs carelessly flopped between puffy bleached flour called a hamburger. They had long lost their novelty and disgusted me. Frugal and lazy? Could that be it? Yet still we went. I was demanded to eat all my food, told I was ungrateful if i didn't want to or just couldnt. between that, the microwave obsession and the McDonald's, It is astonishing I wasn't a chubby child. Then again, the fact that you had me on speed since five (or was it six?) years old might have helped. You never asked me where I would like to go for my birthday, or what I wanted or who I was for that matter. Did not once stop and think that I had a mind of my own, that couldn't be more different then the one you tried to enforce upon me? Why can't you be like cousin one or more like cousin two? How about this Mom, maybe if you were a decent and sane parent like uncle this or aunt that. that may make a slight difference.
What were you so afraid I would become Mother?! proceed
"I'm telling you Mike, trust me. You're wasting your time me. She won't let me in... I tried already I told you!"
"She has to, that's not even legal your 15 and that's your home."
"Fine see for your self."
We walk in near silence the three blocks from Mike Helfin's house back to mine on Grant street.
"Go on, knock and just ask her, I'll listen but I don't want her to see me."
I hide by the statue of the limbless woman in our front yard. She stands dauntless and defiant peering over her to the right. I always loved that statue.
He knocks. She answers after the second time.
"Who are you what do you want"
She demands. Words flew from her mouth so fast, with no pause between them.
"My name is Mike, I'm a friend of your daughter, Mary? She wants to come inside, its dark out and..."
"No,no. She can't come in.
"What? That isn't even legal! She's only fifteen and your daughter!"
"Get her away from here. Now. Is she with you?!"
I walk from behind the statue and grab his hand and tug him away from the door and she's yelling that I'm evil and not welcome in her house.
"I told you so."
We walk away, shuffling our feet, I'm staring at the ground.
"I know but I just cant fucking believe it man.."
He shakes his head.
"Where are you going to go?"
I dunno, depends, are you gonna stay with me?
"Aaah, (he smirks at me). - I smile big and stupid. I like him because he likes those parts of me I have to hide.- "I don't know if I can. I told my mom Id be back. Sorry Mary." - His Mom was a really great one, I had always liked her. She was the kind of mom that let you be exactly who you were, but still showed love and concern. I had never seen the like until I met him her. She was always trying to help me, as if she knew there was a big problem, some kinda trouble- and that it wasn't my fault. I didn't know then. She once bought me a Marilyn Manson tee that I wanted as a reward for not doing drugs or hitching rides. She said "If you don't do that, any of that shit, for two weeks, i'll buy you any T- Shirt you want, Cool?" Her name was Mary too. My Mom found my Manson shirt where I had stashed it on the front porch a month or so later. It was one of those ignore the banging on the door nights. My mother had thrown away. Perhaps she poured gasoline all over it and lit a match. Perhaps she bit down and shredded it to ribbons. Fuck it. -
"No big deal, Kidding anyway. I'm used to sleeping outside. Will you just walk me to the cemetery?"
"Sure."
I sat there for only a small while, then became restless. I walked back towards Sheridan Street and hitched a ride. Back to the Hansel and Gretel Motel by the pier on Deerfield Beach I liked to sleep underneath. It didn't take long for a man to pull over. It never did, I was fifteen.
