Seems so odd that the thing that has terrified me so much for longer than I can bear to think about is now the event I'm rushing to with open arms like one thirsts for water in the desert.  I want it more than all the trips, parties, fun trinkets put together.  Those things were only bought to slate the pain anyway.  I have freely admitted for years now, that I bought like mad in Italy to try and feel normal most of what we have now was bought in a quiet, unspoken desperation to feel something, and it worked, that day anyway. But the morning's light would bring it back to me again and so on want the sad spree to fill me up again for another few hours.  It was like a fix, but it didn't fix anything.  I might have admitted to the world, but only now do I realize how sad it was.  Ken want along with the whole charade because deep down he was also quietly suffering.  Now he's better and I stand alone in this dark embrace.  I'm being held tighter than my husband or children could ever hold me, an insect in the wind trying to cling to the concrete, praying I won't blow away, knowing all the while that a million more dangers await when the wind quiets.  I am touched deeply by how much I am loved.  Everything that man does is a genuine attempt to shield me from my world and keep me glued together.  When one pedal wilts and falls it is quickly fitted back on with crazy glue.  I don't deserve it.  I've been a burden far longer than a help.  But this man keeps up his tireless efforts day in and day out none the less.  I owe it to him to be the woman he remembers, and I try desperately to be normal for his sake.  Though I have never been worthy of such and exhausting efforts, without him and the kids I would die.  Those children have the innate ability to bring a smile to the cracked shell of a soul.  A hug from them brings a warm rush of feeling back to parts of me I thought were dead, and I would live a million years frozen in this cage before ever letting them see an ounce of sorrow.  They are the breath left in me.
I feel like I'm glued here.  I have realized that the most fascinating parts of my appeal and personality were either caused by my depression, or an attempt to hide it.  What if I am not the same person in a few weeks?  I'm enthralled and terrified.  I hate this space, but it's home.  What will I do if not embraced with this strangle hold around my neck?  Can I even be free?  Or am I so far into the system that I cannot function, like a man getting out of prison who then realizes they can no longer mingle in the crowd and be like their fellow man because they haven't the skills?  I'm scared.  Then again, right now it seems peaceful to be a robot, with a smile held together held together with strings of pills and doctor's visits.  No one realizes that when they grow up they won't be an astronaut or a famous singer, but will be contented by the idea of trading in their overly complicated personalities for a shallow happy husk, the heavy grief transformed into a speck, a dull ache easily dealt with.  A robot never feels despondent, weak, self loathing, useless.  I am sitting in the eye of my own personal tornado.  I'm so lonely but all I want to do is be alone.  Shut them all out.  I cannot function around them properly and with that smile anymore.   I wish that I could disappear, unzip my skin and leave it here, so I could be no one again.      

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining?
Is it snowing?
Is a hurricane a-blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a-glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes, the danger must be growing
'Cause the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing!

-WW

It always spoke to me about being messed up, depressed, aware of it but unable to find the tools to fix it. About the person or people who normally help you cope are finally having enough, and pulling away, and how much that hurts, even though you understand why. But also, how annoying and frustrating those people are too, always saying things along the lines of (though not always as banal) "cheer up" or "it'll get better" "it's not that bad, could be worse,"
When you're in that situation, that emotional headspace, those sentiments get annoying, if cheering up is that easy, how bout you just "reach down your hand in your pocket, pull out some hope for me?"
You wanna say you're feeling fine but you  don't wanna lie so you just avoid answering the question or you just smile and look away.  Always comment on your children in turn, it's not lying the kids are great.  Sometimes you enthusiastically reply great!  All the while you're thinking maybe if I can just say I'm great in my head a hundred times I'll believe it, remember to smile, remember to hug, try to answer the phone more, it might be true if I lie to me enough.  In a breath I can lie to everyone and it makes me ashamed of myself.  But my head is screaming "help me!  Don't fall for it, push me I'm lying and if you walk away I'm a little scared of being alone with myself!"  Sure enough most of my friends have drifted off.  I'm happy for them, they can't pull me out anyway, all I can do is drag them down.  I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs.  I can't grieve properly for myself, I have emotionally died and I can't grieve because then everyone would pity me for being like her.  I hate her.  She made me like this without the courtesy of taking my sanity so I get to strap in and embrace the pain, wide awake.  What a cunt.  If I don't say it out loud it doesn't exist, if I just leave it it will run it's course.  Please.  Truth be told I don't see a way out at all, I hurt so deeply every waking moment that it seems infinite, to my core, clinging to my ribs and dancing on my brain.  So sharp I imagine only the deaths of children would be more painful.  I've never dealt with it before.  I had no idea.  All of a sudden I have more respect for Max.
As the late sylvia plath wrote in the Bell Jar...
"The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces." "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my eyes and all is born again."
"The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence." "To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream."
"I am supposed to be having the time of my life." "And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long." "Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace."  Two am and I can't sleep so I'm looking up Plath quotes because no words can properly express the decay in my head and the torture it's been putting me through since the dawn of time I remember having these in Italy, these breakdowns.  I wrongly and crushingly believed moving home would fix me.  I lost any faith in god and I often wonder if the depression took that from me.  Puts Loosing My Religion in a new perspective.  But then I guess everything's already in a new perspective for me.  Like this world has been covered in soot.  Nothing's beautiful.  Everything's dirty.  It seems a shame that my poor little overtaxed brain should be rapid firing this shit off at me until everything freezes every few days.  Today I'm running rapid fire again and with not sleeping I desperately need the shut down but I just sit in the dark rapid firing pain, self doubt, guilt, shame, deep sadness and it feels like a cage around me that I will never be free of and will someday die in.  Do I even remember ever feeling real happiness?  I'm not sure... the results are in sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad, death.  What a waste, this is my life?  This is how it's going to be?  What the hell am I going to do with that?  Why did I sign up?  What do I have to learn?  Is it all chance?  Are tortured souls just dealt out at random?  I'm simply overwhelmed.     

done

I am so so done.  I hate this state, I hate these people, I hate this awful, mean, unjust world.  I'm not threatening suicide, that would be insane.  But I'm getting rid of my facebook page, turning off my phone, and am going to cry in the closet for a while. 

Mommy issues...

     My mother is a paranoid schizophrenic.  Textbook.  All the cool movies that you've seen about people who think the government is watching them, things being bugged, pulling weird symbols out of nothing like in A Beautiful Mind, yep, she exists and she's my mom.  The whole family has been trying to get her help for years to no avail.  After all "they" are in charge all things to do with psychology and the pharmaceutical industry.  I hear this is a common theme amongst people with mental disorders, especially my mother's variety.  About a year ago my father went on a business trip and came home to find all the joint accounts drained, and a bunch of her stuff gone.  A few weeks later we found out she was divorcing my Dad, and running all over the country away from "them."  We have no idea where she is to this day, however we receive about 6 emails a day full of conspiracy ramblings.  Every time I receive one I open it right up and read it.  Why I read the emails I'll never understand, it's not good for me.  I spend the first hour laughing my butt off, and the next hour crying my eyes out.  I need to just give her up all together, but I can't seem to let go, and I can't help her.  She's so interesting, but then it becomes painful, and I can't help but spend half the day thinking about it.  Mom thinks the government controls most of corporate America, so I get daily lists of good corporations and bad ones.  Just to warn you, if you ever buy products from anheuser busch, bp, general electric, etc, then you're funding government raids, shakedowns, and harassment, for no other reason than to toy with your mind.  Also, big brother can send a pulse from anywhere and zap you, or overload your appliances.  If you ever even put a finger into an unlit room, someone from China will grab you and abduct you on the spot, which is why you need at least 4 light on in every room at all times, and never ever go out at night even if it's life or death.  It is life or death.
     My Mom knows how she sounds to me and others when she says these things.  She won't tell just everyone, and she'd prefer not to tell even us.  But we're her children and it is her job to keep us safe and alive, even if we're going to call her crazy or drop off contact with her altogether.  These emails she sends are her way of protecting us, they're really the ultimate act of love she can give in her frightened crazy state.  But they make me cry, a lot.
     I'm scared for her and I feel so sorry for her.  I'm also afraid I will become her.  When my mother was young everyone just thought she was a little off, the older she got, the more off she became.  I don't want to slip down that scary path.  The whole thing is a frustrating, upsetting, loop with no end and I just wish there was a happy answer, there isn't.  Oh by the way, she can't be locked up unless she's either violent, or suicidal, neither of which I can prove, even if I did find her.

Fillet em Friday

I hate to pull out the most depraved people first, but I just can't help myself!  When I think of cannibals the first person that comes to mind is one mister Albert Fish.

      When Albert was young he spend time in an orphanage, there he was frequently beaten, and after a period of time began to enjoy the beatings and become aroused by them.  By the age of 12 Fish had been introduced to drinking urine and coprophagia, he also began spending lots of time in bath houses where he could watch boys undress, and began writing dirty letters to random woman. 
     By the age of twenty Mr. Fish had begun to prostitute himself, and also began raping young boys.  Eight years later Fish was set up by his mother and married, having six children.  Can I just say messed up?  Now there are six more little messed up broken souls in the world.  But the dude was messed up.
     During his marriage Fish continued to molest boys (mostly 6 years old and under).  At one point Fish took up with a retarded man and attempted to cut off his penis.

     By 1917 Fish began to hear the voice of god. God came down from the heavens to send Albert Fish a message of the utmost importance, torture and castrate little boys.  It seems totally like god to say that, even the Catholics know that!  Those evil little boys, always being such boys.  Anyway, Fish also started inserting large needles into his groin, most of which went so deep they couldn't be taken out.

He began to make good on his revelations in 1910 and started attacking children, mostly mentally retarded and African American children because he believed they wouldn't be missed. 
     In 1928 Albert Fish abducted Grace Budd and killed her, later sending a letter to her parents...
On Sunday June the 3, 1928 I called on you at 406 W 15 St. Brought you pot cheese—strawberries. We had lunch. Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her. On the pretense of taking her to a party. You said yes she could go. I took her to an empty house in Westchester I had already picked out. When we got there, I told her to remain outside. She picked wildflowers. I went upstairs and stripped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not I would get her blood on them. When all was ready I went to the window and called her. Then I hid in a closet until she was in the room. When she saw me all naked she began to cry and tried to run down the stairs. I grabbed her and she said she would tell her mamma. First I stripped her naked. How she did kick – bite and scratch. I choked her to death, then cut her in small pieces so I could take my meat to my rooms. Cook and eat it. How sweet and tender her little ass was roasted in the oven. It took me 9 days to eat her entire body. I did not fuck her tho [sic] I could of had I wished. She died a virgin^...
     Shortly after, (thanks to the letter) Fish was caught.  In prison the mother of Billy Gaffney came to find answers about the disappearance of her son, fish told her the following...
I brought him to the Riker Ave. dumps. There is a house that stands alone, not far from where I took him. I took the boy there. Stripped him naked and tied his hands and feet and gagged him with a piece of dirty rag I picked out of the dump. Then I burned his clothes. Threw his shoes in the dump. Then I walked back and took the trolley to 59 St. at 2 A.M. and walked from there home. Next day about 2 P.M., I took tools, a good heavy cat-of-nine tails. Home made. Short handle. Cut one of my belts in half, slit these halves in six strips about 8 inches long. I whipped his bare behind till the blood ran from his legs. I cut off his ears – nose – slit his mouth from ear to ear. Gouged out his eyes. He was dead then. I stuck the knife in his belly and held my mouth to his body and drank his blood. I picked up four old potato sacks and gathered a pile of stones. Then I cut him up. I had a grip with me. I put his nose, ears and a few slices of his belly in the grip. Then I cut him through the middle of his body. Just below the belly button. Then through his legs about 2 inches below his behind. I put this in my grip with a lot of paper. I cut off the head – feet – arms – hands and the legs below the knee. This I put in sacks weighed with stones, tied the ends and threw them into the pools of slimy water you will see all along the road going to North Beach. I came home with my meat. I had the front of his body I liked best. His monkey and pee wees and a nice little fat behind to roast in the oven and eat. I made a stew out of his ears – nose – pieces of his face and belly. I put onions, carrots, turnips, celery, salt and pepper. It was good. Then I split the cheeks of his behind open, cut off his monkey and pee wees and washed them first. I put strips of bacon on each cheek of his behind and put them in the oven. Then I picked 4 onions and when the meat had roasted about 1/4 hour, I poured about a pint of water over it for gravy and put in the onions. At frequent intervals I basted his behind with a wooden spoon. So the meat would be nice and juicy. In about 2 hours, it was nice and brown, cooked through. I never ate any roast turkey that tasted half as good as his sweet fat little behind did. I ate every bit of the meat in about four days. His little monkey was a sweet as a nut, but his pee-wees I could not chew. Threw them in the toilet.
     Albert Fish was found sane and guilty, and was sentenced to the electric chair at Sing Sing, and was recorded as saying electrocution would be "the supreme thrill of my life."

It took two jolts to kill Fish which sparked a rumor that the large needles in his pelvis had short circuited the chair.

Albert Fish has to be one of the most twisted people I can think of, it would have been really nice to psychoanalyze this guy nowadays, so much to learn.  Though if anyone deserved to die it was him, sadly he lived a long full life until he was an old man, something he denied to so many children.
Anyway, tune in tomorrow for Spree Saturday!

Time for a midnight blog...

Funny how I only get around to posting in the middle of the night, it's a mom thing.  Today I think I'd like to write about one of my favorite serial killers, in fact maybe I'll write about a new one every few days, there's just not enough violence in the world these days, lol.  Anyway, today I'd like to spotlight  Dr. Henry Howard Holmes.

 

     This guy was fascinating.  He lived in Chicago in the late eighteen hundreds.  Holmes bought up a drugstore and then also bought up the spot across the street, there he proceeded to build a grand hotel.  The hotel would cater to mostly tourists visiting for the Chicago Worlds
 Fair.                                                                      

     This hotel was unique from others as it came complete with a maze of over a hundred windowless rooms, doors that opened up to brink walls,  oddly angled hallways, stairs that went nowhere, doors that could only be opened from the outside, and labyrinths.  Holmes changed construction workers many times during the building so people didn't understand the layout.  He then hired a staff (mostly female) and acquired insurance polices for said staff, and proceeded to torture and kill them.  And of course there were a good many hotel guests that also received complementary painful deaths. Some guests were locked in soundproof bedrooms that were fitted with gas lines so that he could asphyxiate them whenever he pleased.  Others were put into a soundproof bank vault near his office and left to suffocate.  Holmes set up a secret chute leading to the basement like Sweeney Todd to send down the bodies.  From there the bodies were further desecrated in twisted ways, and you know I'm gonna tell you how!  Some bodies were  meticulously dissected, stripped of flesh, crafted into skeleton models, and then sold to medical schools.  Others were cremated or put in lime pits.  The man thought up everything, he had two giant furnaces, pits of acid, many types of poison, and even his own stretching rack.  In one part of the castle Holmes also set up an illegal abortion ring, killing many woman and then selling their skeletons.

   
     Things went wrong for old Holmes in 1894.  He was tipped off by a former cellmate, the police also questioned a custodian who said he was never allowed to clean the upper floors.  Over the next month local police started to piece everything together, however a fire (probably started by Holmes) destroyed everything.  Death toll estimates range from 27 to 230, it's hard to tell because quite a few victims were only in town for the worlds fair, and some of the bodies were to well decomposed to tell.
     H. H. Homes was given 7,500 dollars in exchange for his confession of 27 murders, after first claiming he was innocent, then saying he was possessed by Satan.  Holmes was hung on May 7th 1896, though his neck didn't snap and so his death was slow and painful, lasting over 20 minutes from when the trap was sprung.  Holmes requested to be buried in concrete so that his body couldn't be dug up and dissected as he'd done to his victims, and his request was granted (assface).  Sadly, these days the murder castle is a U.S. post office.

I really wish he hadn't set fire to the damn thing so I could visit and take a tour.  I loves me a twisted killer with a murder house.  Goodness, maybe I could theme these with the days of the week!  Mental disorder Monday, Torture Tuesday, Woman killers Wednesday, Trapped in a box Thursday, Fillet em Friday, Spree Saturday, and Slow Death Sunday.  The only problem is that some killers will overlap by a lot.  Tune in tomorrow night for some tasty tasty cannibalism!