Guilt @ MindSay

This is an original work by Duncan Morley, please don't fuck with it.



                                                                   Personal Demons
    In a single sight you may see a man, sleeping with his eyes open, but a man nonetheless. You can never see him for all that he is while he is there. He will never even see you for anything. He is a man obsessed. He is no longer a human; he is but a man gone mad.
    He is lying alone in the woods of eastern Ontario. The bugs know not to leave him be, but the mammals and birds would rather devour their own offspring than take a step in his direction.
    His body has been all but stripped to its bones. All around him the aroma of pus is prevalent. His breath is rapid and rattling. His mouth is dry, and his body is absorbed with open sores. The maggots and worms are already ravaging him. He is a man embracing Death, but Death will not take him.
    He is a man who has stuck himself in time.
    He lived in a small tight-knit community near the provincial town of Cobalt. He was a man whom some respected for his duties and tasks about the community, but most regarded him as a stranger to them, even though he has lived in the same spot for upwards of twenty years.
    He was a reclusive man: he kept to himself. He would never have dreamt of leaving his home if it were not for his job or if food were not a necessity to him.
     He worked as a wilderness guide in the Canadian forests; more commonly, a canoeing guide for the few local tourists. Sometimes he would leave with a client, or even all alone, for weeks at a time. He knew he was never at peace with the fresh waters and thus, he had an uncommon dread of his profession.
    When he would eventually come back, he would go unseen. He would ride the river all the way to his cottage, and contrary to a welcome after up to a month alone, he would go unnoticed by the townspeople.
    On one occasion he returned by the route straight through the village center. Although not many people were out, and when most saw him they did not know who he was, the ones that did were at a loss for words at his sudden appearance. He was a strong sight. He was carrying more than his share of food, but alone still.
     It wasn’t a terribly uncommon sight to see him alone. The ones who knew his name figured he simply went out on a solo trip as opposed to business.
    Once he was just out of earshot of the town a barely audible mumble was heard to arise from his boat:
    “This… This makes no sense...”
    With this he promptly disappeared to his home.
    When he exited his boat and hung it upon his formal rack, as opposed to flipped next to his cottage. Despite the early time of 4:15 P.M., he hurried into his bed and soon fell asleep.
    During the night, he dreamt a nightmare. He saw a body rising into the air. It rose so high the height was beyond recognition. The body began to glow a demonic green, and a river of the same mist flowed from its body. With no warning it burst into an inferno of grey flame.
He woke the next morning to remember nothing of the night before. Contrary to his normal routine, he showed himself at the town’s only diner.  It was more of a chip-stand than anything else, but it served coffee. It served its purpose.
    He ordered the drink, but never moved even once to so much as smell it. He let it sit until it was as cold as the air around him.
    At about noontime, he was still motionless. A fellow townsman who sat down next to him, staring directly at him, greeted him. The townsman, Matthew Fraser, then waited half an hour himself before saying anything:
    “Why have you come back?” He asked in a serious tone. “You know as well as I do that the people who know you here want you out.”
    His first words in hours were spoken:
    “But I have nowhere else to go,” he replied with a grin.
    “ We don’t care about those things here, soon you too will realize that.”
    “You really are the only one here who cares about me. You really are my only friend.”
    With a smile, Matthew was gone.
    The waitress, Leona Smith, then came over for an inquiry to what Mr. Fraser wanted. He told her it was just an innocent exchange of words. She asked him if he would be paying for the coffee that was drunk. With a puzzled glance at his now empty coffee mug he said:
    “Yes.”
    With this he paid the young lady, leaving a generous tip, and left her for his home once more.
    A few days passed with no sight of him, but on the third day he was spotted once more at the diner. He once again ordered coffee, and he once again paid and left for his home.
    He would never return to the diner, or for that matter, the village.
    He laid down for sleep and entered yet another nightmare, from this one he would never wake.
    It showed him living in a world not unlike the world in which he actually lived.
    There was a small village near which a cottage sprung forth. The area was abundant in wildlife and had a moderate amount of people living in the town. But every living thing that was exposed to him in the dream would begin to decay. Some would bloat and host themselves to hideous parasites, while others would gain sunken features and seemingly wilt.
    There was a constant glow of twilight around the town and along the river, it could be evaded nowhere in the dream.
    The scene changed: it was now a portrait of the river that ran through the village. The river was not as he remembered it, instead of the crisp, cool blue he was used to, it was a cold and deep shade of black.
    He knew what was to happen next.
    In an instant the river went a pale white with a line of crimson waters flowing through it. With this he saw a spectral hand flowing through it. He only saw it briefly but he knew exactly what it was.
    He cried out in horror. With this he woke the dead.
    The body of Zachary Smith, recognizable only to him: the child he took on the prior trip, burst forth.
    A completely different entity than the naïve young boy who set out weeks before, the thing that stood before him was a demon. A demon conjured from all the evil thoughts surrounding the boy’s death.
    In a single swift motion, the demon brutally maimed him. The demon was to devour him.
     It rose up into the sky. With a flash of remembrance he exclaimed:
    “ At six miles up you will explode, I have seen it all!”
    The demon replied:
    “No one listens to the damned.”
     But this man was not damned. He was an innocent, never taking more than he needed. It was an accident that the boy died. Leona knew this, Matthew knew this, but he did not.
    The demon rose, to a total of what was now six miles, and burst apart in an inferno of grey flame.
    With a moments hesitation he exclaimed for joy, for he thought he had defeated the demon.
    Little Zachary began to form once again out of the ash. The man wept when he saw the boy again, but he knew it would not last. The boy began to grow wings, horns, black skin, and demonic eyes. He knew it was done.
    A moment before the demon pierced his heart, it all ceased. There was a flash of absolute nothingness, followed by an eternal repetition of the agonizing horrors he experienced.
    
    After two months since his last appearance the knowledgeable village people began to grow an uncertain concern. There was a buzz about the town of how he had fled without any reasons, or that the Ontario Provincial Police had found him living off the grid and taken him away.
    Mr. Fraser knew that none of these rumors could be true. He set out for the man’s cottage that very evening.
    After some ragged rapping upon a locked door, Mr. Fraser battered it down.
    He arrived inside the house and immediately smelled the foul stench of rotting flesh. He moved into the bedroom and saw the body of his friend. It showed glassy eyes staring into nothing, it showed a split mouth, with dried blood all over his face. But what it didn’t show would be the question to haunt Matthew. It didn’t show the guilt of a man. It didn’t show the key to immortality to being eternal repentance. It didn't show the insanity of a man who would confine himself to damnation for an innocent crime.
    Mr. Fraser simply closed his eyes and turned to leave: he could no longer save this man.

I walked out of the grocery store the other day and a man on crutches was standing next to my car. As I open the trunk to load my bags he says 'Young lady, do you know you're parked in a handicap parking spot?'

I find it oddly amusing, yet confusing, how somebody says, “You just don’t understand” but it seems that they never speak it from the heart. Somebody can only say words like that to such an extent before they can’t say it anymore before it eventually grows false and then everything washes away and they can start away.

It’s only those who are lost themselves that can say, “You just don’t get it. You don’t know how I’m feeling.”
I say that because most of the time, I can’t even describe how I’m feeling. When I say that I’m sad, and somebody typically asks why, I can’t snap to an answer. I can’t even think of an answer, except “I don’t really know.”

There are too many factors that could have lead up to my brutal mood swings, which have calmed down, but are still active. It could’ve been the loss of my obsession, addiction, love, care, and time that I had to leave behind the beginning of this year. It hasn’t been the same without them. I have a strong feeling in my gut that that could be why. I say “I’m over that”, and mean it at the moment. But in my heart I don’t really know if I’m speaking the sincere truth. Despite the fact that the thing I treasured for so long, for nearly three years, has been brutally awful for me – I still think. Despite the fact that I know if I go back, I’ll be damaged with scars that won’t heal, I know at least I’ll be able to feel the fake care and love that I was once treated with. That I once felt, despite the fact that it wasn’t true.

I long for something. I’m desperate for the feelings that are yet to return. That’s one of the main things I want. I want to feel safe in somebody’s arms, but they won’t come to embrace me and my tear-stained face.

Recently, I purposely trained myself not to feel. I was sick of feeling. Whenever I felt guilt or shame swamp me whenever I knew I did something wrong, I brushed it off – and eventually it stopped. Whenever somebody insulted me, I told myself over and over that it doesn’t hurt. No harm has been afflicted. And so it was. But unfortunately, it’s the same case with falling in love. I can’t even do that anymore. The only things that I ever can feel anymore are happiness, anger, and sadness. There’s no excitement, fear, or infatuation. Just happiness and sadness. I trained myself not to feel anything else, and, thanks to that, my heart is so used to that that I cannot get it back to the way it was beforehand.

And yet people still praise me. They tell me how much of a great person I am. I didn’t save the day. I never magically healed somebody. I never helped somebody who was in great need. I don’t get where they get the “great” from. Or the “inspiring”. I’m not in any way special than your next person, unless you want to count the special that means “I ride the short bus with a stick person on wheels slapped on it”.

I want to love again. I want this anger taken away. I want to fall asleep and never wake up. Not die - just fall into a sleep which means I don’t have to face my reality for another day. I want to live in my own dreams. I want to be standing there, in my own dreams, feeling the sweet bliss that rarely ever seems to visit me. I want to love and be loved. I want to stay happy without being haunted by the emotional scars that will never seem to heal. I don’t want to feel angry or hostile whenever somebody confronts me about something. Anything.

All I want to be is back to who I was before… At a time where I could feel, at a time where I was happy, at a time where I felt loved, at a time where I did feel accepted, at a time where I could smile without forcing it, at a time where I didn’t cry this much, and at a time where I wasn’t insecure.

“You don’t understand me.” And I don’t think anybody fully will until they have the condition of my heart beating within their chest.

So what is the basis of "mommy guilt"?  I've polled women and the majority do admit to varying levels of parental guilt.  Is it politically correct to admit to feelings of guilt regarding your children?  I mean what would we think of a woman who didn't experience guilt where her kids are concerned?  I think she would be condemned.  Perhaps seen as a bad parent or at the least not as involved as perhaps she should be?  So is this feeling of guilt really a way for us to feel better about our parenting?  Is it a badge of honor?  "Look at how invested I am in my children.  I obsess about them 24/7.  Don't you?  I'm such a better parent."  Is it just another way for women to turn on our fellow women?  Another aspect of being a woman?

 

Is this sense of guilt because we aren't adequately prepared to parent?  We know we're lacking, therefore, it's guilt inducing?  If we felt competant as parents, would we not feel guilt?  Does guilt wane with subsequent children?  I know we get less paranoid about cleanliness, germs, healthy meals, curfews.  Things like that.  Maybe guilt is assuaged when you have a child that has left the nest?  Let me know if this is the case.  That would be interesting.  Are you less guilt driven with the remaining children at home?  Hmmm. 

 

And what exactly is the "guilt"?  My guilt stems from a feeling that I'm not doing enough for/with my children.  However, I've rarely had the feeling that I am/have done enough for my kids.  So I don't know how attainable that sense is.  I could spend the day at Disney World, ride every ride twice, eat our way through the park and still walk away feeling like it wasn't enough.  Where does that come from?  It appears to be a universal feeling, not just some quirk of my own.  Is it societal pressure?  I don't typically succumb to "keeping up with the jones-ism" so I don't know that I buy that answer.  Is it a female/mother trait?  I know my husband doesn't lose a wink of sleep over guilt.  In fact, it's not even on his radar.  And I don't think he's unusual.  Do men suffer "guilt"?  Another interesting concept.  Hmmmm. 

 

Well, I have to go.  I have children calling.                    Will they turn out allright?...                                       Do they see enough of me?....      Was my tone too sharp when they came busting in the house after school?....                          I don't think we're eating healthy enough meals....                                        I really need to spend more one on one time with them................................................................................................................................................