Insomnia really, really sucks
I hope my sleep is back on schedule tomorrow night. School and all.
Another blog I read really reminded me of the person who inspired the balconey poem on my last post. I haven't heard from that guy in awhile. I wonder if he's okay. I got his mother last time I called, but this is the woman who used to beat him with extension cords, so she's not a really great barometer of his health and well being. That he still lives with her gives me the heebie jeebies. She actually told him that she had cancer to get he and his bro to move two states away to be closer to her, and once they got there "cancer" was never mentioned again. Some families actually make me feel better about mine. At least their controlling sadism is usually blunt.
I hate that there are so many people out there that I can't help. I hate watching people that I really care about toss their lives and free will because they don't even see what they have. I hate that I can't show them. A whole montage of people that I couldn't help over the years flashes before my eyes every time I meditate on this subject.
I think of J. All of us fourteen, knowing his cop dad beat the crap out of him, yet not being able to stop it. I remember the time he came around bruised black all along his rib cage and three times as wide as a man's fist, a solid bruise. D felt his ribs, they were actually soft.
That reminds me of D. My first boyfriend. He had a solid heart but the beatings he took from his stepfather helped turn him into a crack addict. Last I heard he tried to strangle the mother of his children while she slept. I remember the time he vanished for two days. We all thought he was dead so we went to his house pretending to sell candy, just to check on him. And then there was A, whose Dad controlled her every move and finally snapped, beating her face with a maglite. She got raped not long after and couldn't tell Daddy, so she told her church, and they told her to forgive and forget. And K tried to call CPS about his uncle beating him. CPS said that there wasn't conclusive evidence, so his Uncle tried to kill him and K never reported again. C's parents told her that she would never amount to anything. She always said that I was the one with the crazy dreams that could make them come true. I still have wall hanging with the poem "Dreams" on it that she gave me two years before dropping out, pregnant and married to an abusive spouse at sixteen. K was that spouse, passing the cycle right along into his new family. They may have killed each other by now. This list doesn't even cover half of it.
I grew up with these kids. I lived like them. I was hated like they were. But I'm here (college, good relationship, etc) and they aren't. Like I knew something I should have taught them. It bothers me. In theory I know the difference. I was "gifted". I could write at a pro level when I was fifteen. I caught the interest of my teachers and they gave me the positive feedback that I needed to survive. But I don't think that kids should have to be regarded as gifted to get positive feedback and regard. They shouldn't have to be considered "smart" for someone to think that they are worth salvaging.
I would probably become a social worker, but that would be much too much like trying to save the world with no hands, a stance that works for some bicycle tricks but not for life in general.
Another blog I read really reminded me of the person who inspired the balconey poem on my last post. I haven't heard from that guy in awhile. I wonder if he's okay. I got his mother last time I called, but this is the woman who used to beat him with extension cords, so she's not a really great barometer of his health and well being. That he still lives with her gives me the heebie jeebies. She actually told him that she had cancer to get he and his bro to move two states away to be closer to her, and once they got there "cancer" was never mentioned again. Some families actually make me feel better about mine. At least their controlling sadism is usually blunt.
I hate that there are so many people out there that I can't help. I hate watching people that I really care about toss their lives and free will because they don't even see what they have. I hate that I can't show them. A whole montage of people that I couldn't help over the years flashes before my eyes every time I meditate on this subject.
I think of J. All of us fourteen, knowing his cop dad beat the crap out of him, yet not being able to stop it. I remember the time he came around bruised black all along his rib cage and three times as wide as a man's fist, a solid bruise. D felt his ribs, they were actually soft.
That reminds me of D. My first boyfriend. He had a solid heart but the beatings he took from his stepfather helped turn him into a crack addict. Last I heard he tried to strangle the mother of his children while she slept. I remember the time he vanished for two days. We all thought he was dead so we went to his house pretending to sell candy, just to check on him. And then there was A, whose Dad controlled her every move and finally snapped, beating her face with a maglite. She got raped not long after and couldn't tell Daddy, so she told her church, and they told her to forgive and forget. And K tried to call CPS about his uncle beating him. CPS said that there wasn't conclusive evidence, so his Uncle tried to kill him and K never reported again. C's parents told her that she would never amount to anything. She always said that I was the one with the crazy dreams that could make them come true. I still have wall hanging with the poem "Dreams" on it that she gave me two years before dropping out, pregnant and married to an abusive spouse at sixteen. K was that spouse, passing the cycle right along into his new family. They may have killed each other by now. This list doesn't even cover half of it.
I grew up with these kids. I lived like them. I was hated like they were. But I'm here (college, good relationship, etc) and they aren't. Like I knew something I should have taught them. It bothers me. In theory I know the difference. I was "gifted". I could write at a pro level when I was fifteen. I caught the interest of my teachers and they gave me the positive feedback that I needed to survive. But I don't think that kids should have to be regarded as gifted to get positive feedback and regard. They shouldn't have to be considered "smart" for someone to think that they are worth salvaging.
I would probably become a social worker, but that would be much too much like trying to save the world with no hands, a stance that works for some bicycle tricks but not for life in general.
posted by jen at 6:36 AM
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