With bitterness in my heart…

Today is Easter Sunday, a day of celebration for the Christian folk.  But I feel no celebration.  I did as I have for years, got up this morning and said "Welcome back boss.  Sorry it's the same fucked up mess you left."

That was this morning, but it is now evening and I can find little in my heart but bitterness, the sour sick taste of utter betrayal by three people a man should be able to trust: a mother, a wife, and a daughter.  At this moment all I can feel for any of them is nausea.  To think of them makes me want to puke.

They share two things in common.  Me, of course, that goes without saying.  They share me, and they share a common lie, a cruel lie of omission, a lie that negates, inverts, and makes a total mockery of any and every thing I ever offered or endured on their behalf. 

My mother.  An authority whore who gave me to her cult as a living sacrifice as penance for the sins she said I already knew.  What sins Mom?  I didn't have a clue, not then.  But now I do.  From all evidence on the table your sins were pretty fucking sick, it's looking more and more like you were in "the lifestyle" way back in the day, back in that decade when a sub was an underwater warship and slaves were the order of the day.  Yea, right.  Made it to the level of the down and outers and the up and comers in the Hollywood scene of the late forties, early fifties did you.  Was she good, the lesbian slut who was your door in?  I've seen her, I think.  Just a foggy vision, but still, a vision courtesy of a total sweetheart of a woman, a Russian model who accidentally hit a register that unlocked one of those memories you can't really recall when it was made, a memory that might not be your own.  One of those visions that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up and sends the adrenaline running like a river. Just like the time when I was like fourteen and you gave me the sleeping pill, and as you handed it to me I saw your countenance become Ra, the vulture faced god of the Egyptian people, their god of the dead.  Thanks, I did take note of the warning, I just didn't know what to do about it.  What did I do to you, besides have the bad luck to be your firstborn? 

Did you do to my father what my wife did to me?  Nah, Dad took a worse hit than I did.  He was a simpler man, a more innocent man than I, and yours would have been a blacker level of contamination than anything I've bumped into since.  Nah, you hit Dad a lot harder than Barb hit me.  It killed him in the end.  You thought I didn't know?  Oh yea, I kind of figured it out.  What was so terrible that his brother drove from Idaho to Southern California to spend three days walking and talking and then drive home?  Takes something pretty heavy to cause that.  Like finding out for sure where you'd been, what you'd done before you met him?  Like being twelve years into a marriage you believed was sealed for eternity before the truth came out?  Yea, that would do it.   Rest in peace Dad, you're not bound to a promise that was founded on a lie.

Barb didn't really lie, I really believe she didn't know.  Not until a decade of love and support had built her up enough she could begin dealing with her alter ego Miranda, the hate based buried personality that split off when she was gang raped at ten and her world did nothing for her.  Barb didn't lie, but Miranda damn sure did.  I look back now, and it is so easy to see when Barb and I made love, and when it was Miranda fucking me.  I think back on the things said by mutual friends from when we first met, and yea, that makes sense too.  Barb wouldn't have done those things, but Miranda when Barb was out of the game?  Yup.  Perfect fit.  It so totally explains the dichotomy in her, the contemplative woman of deep spirituality and the pain slut revenge queen waiting the chance to throw her deeds in the faces of the world that betrayed her into an existence she hated.  And me, caught in the middle, loving the one and suffering assault after assault from the other, assaults drawn from the most absolutely perverted forms of sadomasochism she could find as she tried to recruit me to her cause of destroying Barb so she could take over the day time hours.  Miranda would have recognized the taint left from my first encounter, of course she would, what Mom left loaded on my personality trying to make me a slave to her cult was directly from the same range of perversions.  I'm sorry Barb, I am so sorry.  I didn't catch on quick enough.

And the one I don't want to talk about, but I must.  The one who's betrayal was the most total of all.  All you had to do was tell me the truth once, just once, and it would have been different.  The other pieces would have clicked, at least in part.  I would have had enough facts to act from, to defend us all.  But you didn't.  Instead you took the road of ego and contempt, the road of arrogance and disdain.  You let Miranda mother you instead of trusting me enough to tell me the truth just once.  You slutted yourself out by the time you were ten, gone lesbian by fifteen, I have it confirmed you were in the bdsm community by the time you were twenty five, probably before.  And you just like Miranda turned your perversions on Barb, working her, tormenting her with what she almost knew while the slut whore bitch con artist you took for a Dom looked on and gave directions in how to get more money out of her so you could indulge her favorite pastime: tormenting the wait staff of any restaurant unlucky enough to have you two walk in their door.

You know, the day you came home from the hospital I was a happy man, so happy, a totally proud poppa.  I went to work carrying cigars.  And I saw my friend walk in with his face pale and streaked from tears.  I asked him why, and he told me he had a new baby at  home as well: heavy downs syndrome, many birth defects, little chance for a normal life.  I threw my cigars away, and went in the warehouse to weep.  But now?  Now I think maybe I shouldn't have wept, maybe he got the better end of the comparison.

I have a most definite grudge to settle with "the lifestyle" and their habit of lying by omission to those in the position of being hurt the most by the ignorance.  To know is bad, but at least knowing you can defend yourself, or walk away.  To not know is even worse.  It's a grudge, it may become a vendetta, I don't know.  I'd like to kill off say three thousand of them, go Roman scale revenge, and I could.  But... that would be Zoe Ann's and Miranda's and Amanda's ultimate victory.  They would have made me as low as they, and that's not going to happen.  I'll suicide out before that happens.

There, I've said it.  Yea, there's some heavy bitterness in my heart right now.  Terrible heavy.  Now... what to do about it?