« on: January 02, 2014, 02:13:44 pm »
Fuck the bit about the gun. It was a lie. The fact is, the man didn't need a gun. He didn't even need to make a threat. Not a direct one, anyway. He was a salesman, so he did it all with deals, bargains, arrangements, allusions, and jokes. That last part really fucked with me. I still have a hard time laughing at anything. He knew exactly where my handles were, and which strings to pull, and I was young enough that he could install some of his own, and so he made me complicit in my own abuse. I guess that's why I see myself the way I do. I was a kid, and I raped myself, and who rapes a kid? A monster, that's who. It isn't really rational, but these are the terms in which I view myself. An abomination that needs to be put down. I guess this is how I justify a good part of my own evil: It's simply in character. Mind you, I've never done anything along the lines of what my stepdad did to me. I do at least have that. But I still have a hard time feeling anything for other people, even as I recoil from hurting them. I find the idea of exploiting or abusing other people repulsive on an abstract level, but I don't think I actually have any empathy, and that scares me. I never miss people when they're gone. I never feel anything when they die. I find myself in the unusual position of lacking a heart and desperately wanting to have one.
Half the reason I moved across the country was to get away from the man, and the other half was that I got fired and there wasn't any more work on that end. I got fired because they were afraid of me, more or less. They talked about me behind my back. They said I'd shoot up the place. It's a shitty position to be in no matter who you are, but I think the worst part for me was that they were only off by a few years. There was a point in my life at which I'd seriously considered it, but I was a teenager in Canada, so I couldn't acquire the weapons. There's no way I'd do it now, but the fact that it was ever an option makes me want to bash my head against something until I stop moving. If I could kill my former selves, my history would be an abattoir. The only explanation I can offer is that when you're in the midst of that degree of despair, violence becomes nothing more than a medium of expression. There was a scream building up in me to which a voice could never have done justice. It's one hell of a shitty reason for murder, though. I guess I'm past the point of actively wanting to kill myself, but I do genuinely think that I deserve to die, for that reason if nothing else.
Speaking of murder, the man used to taunt me with it. He'd get me to help him with his work, which I guess is pretty common for a stepdad and his kid, but the whole thing had an incredible tension to it that would have been invisible to anyone else. He'd get me to hold his power tools when he wasn't using them, and I could never tell if he actually needed me to hold them or he was doing it to mess with me. I'd have a reciprocating saw, and he'd be bent over working on something with his back to me. It was like he was daring me to off him once and for all. I guess if it was deliberate, he knew I wouldn't have the guts to do it. It had looked like he was doing it just to demonstrate how much he owned my ass. Though I wouldn't have had to anyway. The fucker tried to kill himself eventually. Not out of remorse or anything like that, of course. It was over gambling debt. I remember showing up at the hospital and being told by the cops what had happened, and I was glad. Finally, I knew that I was stronger than him. Except that then he turned it around and used it as leverage, because of course he did. I ended up basically working a second job for free because of that. He said a few times that family's just a source of cheap labour. I'll never question his conviction on that front.