Just Me and Mr. X

"Family" is a loose term where I came from. I wish It wasn't so. 

Wish your way to fluffy clouds in the sky- Hold your breath.... and you'll get there. Keep holding. Fight your natural instincts, always! 

You will get your marshmallow sky. 

Did anyone else notice my mother always has and still to this day, 

in her wise old age:  SAYS DUMB SHIT: 
For Instance-

"YOU'RE MY LE - LE GIRL!" and "VOTE TRUMP!" 

But it's all forgiven because the "DUMB BROAD" means well.

That was Father's pet name for her. 

So Sweet! 

"YA DUMB BROAD!"

Right. She did the best she that she could...

Must forgive, you must.

Now, wait just one second! 
Perhaps it has always been a ploy, 

a manipulative skill she developed as the result of having a 

BIG STRONG DRUNKARD, 

U.S ARMY DADDY.

"Steady as stagger Frank."

My Grandmother said real cool shit. 

She was Sharp. A Sassy Dame. 

She would have been a real gun moll if...

Frank didn't come back from his helicopters! 

Salute! 

 Heil, Mein Führer! 

GOD BLESS AMERICA! 

Ahem. 

Excuse me I seem to have been choking for some time... 

My Grandmother was a real WOMAN. You know what I mean by a real woman? She had Jazz: Like Marlene or Bettie Davis. That jazz. 

She is laughing with me, she laughs at fools & she laughs at the absurd. 

She, however, is polite so you can't hear her... NOT ME!

So- Where were we? Right,

FRANK the "man" man (a father) and one-two-three older brothers, 

then out leaks this weak and sickly little squeak toy, squeaking 

"Don't hurt me! I'm so very small, Help me! I'm Powerless!" 

The Child that is my mother. 

She didn't even earn that title "Mother"

I AM CESARIAN!!! Brother is too 

The Titles.

Upper !! Mother Fucker.

He sawed her open to let me, a full grown fetus, out of that fucking uterus. 

Oogie boogie boogie! Hey, would ya look at that! 

I'm still bloody and pissed the fuck off almost thirty-one years later. 

Phew! (PRO-LIFE. WOOHOO!) 
Thank you Doc!

"God Bless" the U.S ARMY and all our fathers, my father, ghost man, ash man, carbon man, ( Shhh, they say I've got a wicked tongue...) 
My mother told me as much when I was a small child. 
Evil, mean, wicked; some of her favorite terms of endearment for the 1992 space-time version of me
Oh and lest we forget; Trump. yes, yes, we're all forgiven. 
Go Play With The Control Machines... 
Poor Mitchell. He is lost to me. You have kidnapped his personality too. 

For What??!!

All the family you had, the years you lived for free, warm, safe, with tons of spare time, more than one free sitter to choose from, like your brother in law in New York. 

(Who, I think is a good person. I hope I'm right for Mitchell and Devin's sake) 
He offered to help you get into a trade or go back to school... tsk, tsk! 

How do you look my children in the eye? 
I've been Wondering that. 

 I know I could. 
I know what the Fuck I Did and didn't do. 

Some things are impossible to forget, such is the pain...
 

 While you sat smoking pot,crunching  Lay's potato chips, drinking Coca-Cola: 

 A living advertisement for Everything I Hate. 

A putrid infectious growth from the furniture or the woodwork; your sibling's couches and in their basements.
What a shame. What a waste. 

Living as if you were the teenager- but you weren't, were you?
 

WHAT A SHAM you've got going!
SOME FUCKING LIFE THEY HAVE. 

The father provides, the father provides. THE FATHERS DIVIDE! 

You like math, providing much? Certainly not financially, but the real deficit in your provisions; 

You Neglect Them. In every way that there is a name for. 

Wikipedia that you pathetic monster.

 Go see what a great job you're doing. 

There I go again, damn. Silly me, I must get that from my mother. 

These useless thoughts.  But hey now! They say I have a way with words! 

That's real nice. Some say words like Forgiven. I gave up. Forgiven? 

SSSin like a snake... I Sin! Sinning and slithering my way to that ol' river. 

What river? The East River. East River Park, near the Seventh street bridge. 

Up and over- Timbo, watch me fly. 

My brother knows. He knows a great many things, I love him.

 I love my children, but far too much.

 Do You See? Do You Get It? 

GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR FUCKED! 

I digress, whoops. 

Words are only words, right? 

Tell them that their mother was sane, played the piano, she was in her second year at Smith through the Ada Comstock Scholars Program when she died tragically, 

the exact same way as Isadora Duncan. 

Give em that, will ya?

Then, I can have a little lie,

I really want one too.

There's my fucking Eulogy.

- Mary Catherine.

Invective Against Bourgeois Fleas

Woe to Narcissus -

Would you look at her Go!

This lesbian, American

thinks she's Arthur Rimbaud!

I demand you to speak!

Why come to my city?

You repulsive sycophant

from mediocrity!

You must Confess it,

For I know of your kind;

That's 'nostagie de la bou' -

You parasite of minds!

Kick rocks and farewell-

Have I made you that sore?

You'd already deduced us

to the folk of your lore.

You're uninvited.

My mind's not yours to glean. 

You can not know the filthy

with your hands kept so clean!

You're a bourgeois Flea;

A depravity fiend.

lowly me; my city's streets.

Cease! No time to be weaned.

Entrenched in my Docs,

You may find what you seek. 

Just come down from that high horse.

Then I'll kick in your teeth.

Welcome to New york!

Now that is how it's done.

Or, I suppose you could say

"Une juste punition."

- Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

-Press play-

Let that  soak in.

Dr. Brewster

The questions they always pose are 
arranged for sentence long an answer. 
Yet when I respond accordingly they look confused.
as if my answer was somehow causing
conflicting ideas and they do. 
He spoke of "The average person..." and "Typically a..."
 I glare into his eyes and say 
"Average? There is nothing average about me, in this regard, you'll find that out soon enough.
 The quicker you do - the better. 
And typical? 

If you're going by textbooks and trying to put me into some predefined category, you will not find one." 
I do not say these things to intentionally be cross or condescending, nor even defensive. 
I want help, I was not mandated there, I sought it out, but I do have a certain amount of self-awareness that is not common among people with addictions.
 I believe he was taken aback by all of my frankness, awareness, intellect. 
Combined with the extent of my trauma and experiences and the resulting personality sitting in his office. 
All in such a brief amount of time, he didn't know what to think. I expected as much. 
 visit number two, he says, 
"What happened to the smiling and friendly girl that was in my office last week? 
I want to see her." He thinks this is a humorous request. He smiles and it spells fool on his front teeth.

I put my head in my hands and wipe away my tears. 
I breath in as deeply as I can, look at him again and say, 
"You just asked me about very emotionally charged and triggering subjects. 
Was I to feign some kind of apathy or peace
 -that I don't feel-
 regarding subjects that cause me distress? 
Please, if you can just ask the next question so I can check this off my to do list! 
I have wasted enough time!" 

My little outburst left him wondering if I was bipolar. 
God damn head shrinkers.

 I knew going into it that I would have a hard time finding someone who after getting a glimpse of my mind, would willingly take me on as a client or patient and be capable of what I know is a challenging case. 

I didn't let that stop my pursuit. 

If I am "ill" of mind then I wish to seek treatment.

But please know that I am not like any other
chess game you have played and mastered.
you need to forget your previous strategies.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Forbidden, Nevermore. (Part Three)

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".

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Forbidden Acts? (Part Two)

Another memory that bolts your coffin. 

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 proxy in 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 

(Part Three)

Unsolicited Ten Year Affair

Ballet;

 An unsolicited, loathsome ten-year affair my mother inflicted upon me as soon as she knew my gender.

I was fucked on the deal, the bitch had deciced who I was while I was still held up in Utero.

I began at the ballet studio at aprox. age two. 

She began to instill this in me since before I was able to formulate intelligible thought. 

I was gonna be her LeLe Girl! 

Portraying the meaning with

asinine and spastic movements;

Outstretching her arms, turning them inward way above her head, creating a circular shape. Her own imitation of the fifth position of the arms. Then she stood on the tips of her toes (well, she made an attempt) and spun in graceless circles. Then a sing song would commence "Mary Catherine! You're my Le Le Le Le Le Girl!" With a shrill voice erupting with contrived happiness.
I recognized the falsity.God damn, I hated that shit. 

This continued, along with much more intrusive 

and boorish displays of 

totalitarian and provincial thought.

Then Virgin Shirley Temples became 

Virgin Bloody Mary's and 

I learned the word "Assertive".

(look out.)

My pubescent mind's understanding of this new word was performed at every opportunity act, in ways that only make sense to me and psychotherapists.

An example, a typical day, my mother frenzied, pacing and ranting in the kitchen; Somehow managing to accomplish nothing at all but perpetually moving. 

Like I said, the usual, going on and on I hear; Jesus, my soul, the promise ring I refused to wear any longer, the importance of waiting til I found a young man of the Lord, virginity, sin and my absence at 

His Place Ministries on Sunday; youth group Wednesday.

I couldn't bear any longer, not another word of this. 

I walked with intent around the glass coffee table, through the sitting room to my Grandmary's sofa. I climbed on top and chin up, chest out and stood as tall as I could make myself.

Looking like an albino Mowgli.

Legs taut and spread, fists clenched at my side.

Then I began to sing. 

See, my mother was always telling people my voice 

was so beautiful and had such power.

 I would become a true beacon for Our Lord and Savior.

My daddy always said she was "Bat Shit Crazy".

However, I don't think this is what she

 had in mind.

With all my might and all my will, as serious as Marie Callas wailing fucking Habanera;

"Yes, Satan Loves Me! (she stood still in shock) Yes, Satan Loves me. (she looks up and I lock eyes with her and then continued with even more vigor) Yes, Satan Loves me....(she's stomping towards me fast I have to finish it) Hisbibletellsme (shit.) SOOO!!!! AH! 

You Crazy fucking bitch! Get the hell off me!!" 

She's got me good; My betraying hair real tight in her fist and pulls me down. 

I stumble off the sofa and nearly crash into that deadly table, now I'm next to the hallway closer to my isolation chamber(my room). She has her angry thin fingers intertwined with my golden locks and now she's rocking that shit back and forth like a furious hairy ping pong ball. She is screaming some kind of exorcism or it's like, I can't quite make it out.

Finally, she manages to get my flailing gangling body to my confinement. In all her mad fear and rage, she tosses me against the wall storms out the door. Slamming it so that everything that adorns the walls shudders. Locks her possessed daughter in behind her. 

I am left there, leaning against the wall where she tossed me. Breathing heavily, scalp stinging like a thousand pissed fire ants, with a smile that's slowly spreading from ear to ear. A unique satisfaction flowing with my adrenaline. 

I had not felt quite like this until that moment. 

In her brutish attempt to shame me to Christ. In the end, it proved that my point had finally gotten across, creative yet self-defeating as it was

My point was made, the weight of the cross she put on my back was lifted- 

Mary Catherine VS. Fanatical tyrant: 

I Won by a sardonic Satanic improvisation.

If only she had read The Prophet 
rather than the bible, oh well.

I came across Gibran at Nineteen. 

After it was much to late.

I will quote a section for those who are unfamiliar with his works:

Kahlil Gibran's
The Prophet
-On Children-

"Your children are not your children. 

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. 

They come through you but not from you, 

And though they are with you 
yet they belong not to you. 

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 

For they have their own thoughts. 

You may house their bodies but not their souls, 

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. 

You may strive to be like them 

but seek not to make them like you. 

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday."

Translation;No le-le girl here.

Vivre

Sa 

Vie

(cue, door slam)

 Bitch.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen