Letting Go

Uncategorized | May 18th, 2012

That’s the real key to everything. Learning how to let go of everything that is beyond your control…people places, things. Look at the world around you, the more power one man tries to possess, the more the castle crumbles.

So many doors are open, especially at night…like the leaky faucet that drips despite all efforts to tighten it to closure. Drip…drip…drip, and it doesn’t stop, it won’t ever stop until you replace the piece that’s broken, but still you try as hard as you can…righty tighty, lefty loosy, and it won’t turn right any further…drip…drip…drip.

There’s a leaky faucet in my brain, constantly pouring out all that I take in around me, leaking into the cracks of my soul, affecting my movement, affecting every aspect of my core. Drip…drip…drip.

Time stops for no one, until the moment you fall in love.

My anger, my pain, my love, my apathy, my happiness, my everything sits in front of me, guiding me, losing me, keeping me safe, destroying parts of me. So many pieces, and I cry for reasons only known to the depths of my heart that I try to avoid. We all do. We all bear our silent pains, because it’s not the spilled milk that makes you cry, it’s the realization that the cake has just been iced at the same time you realize just how big that cake really is.

There’s rarely a day that goes by when I don’t contemplate taking my own life. This is not a cry for help, it’s honesty. It’s part of the battle of self that is always running. Dan keeps me grounded on so many levels, and here I go again, stepping into the world. I have many thoughts…obsession is a constant. For the last few days I’ve been obsessed with Chili. I’m on day 4, with 2 left to go before it’s completed, and I do believe it is my best batch yet. The smells mingle with the many different flavors, but something is missing, I know I can make it better.

I want to research chili cook offs, and I’m considering entering one. I’d like to build it from scratch, roasting my own peppers to start the process. Becca mentioned it would be better if I just grew all my own ingredients, and she’s right. Now we’re digging deep. To be truly passionate about chili, to make the ultimate chili, one should travel, and try chilies from all over the world. Find out what the best soils are, and devout their life to making that perfect chili that takes years of preparation. This is how you pick and choose your battles. How you decide what’s the best course of action for planning out your day.

I’m going to jump in on the suicide topic, because it’s not something I wish to be bothered by anyone’s concern.

This is how I feel, at least half of how I feel. The outcome to the end of each day depends on what part gets fed.

My grandmother called me up yesterday. She wanted to give me a progress report on my uncle’s cancer status. I told her it wasn’t anything I really had concern for, and she said she knew, but because I had stopped by to see him, she felt she should call and tell me anyway. I stopped briefly for maybe 5-10 whole minutes of my time, because that’s all I have is my time. It’s not your time, or anyone else’s. My time belongs to me and me alone, to dispel as I choose, and it’s important that I spend my time as carefully as possible, because it does not come and go the way money can and often does. I told her that I only stopped by because he had called.

Now…when I stopped by to see him, it was more to get a feel for how he was, but instead of pointing out which trailer was his, she insisted on walking there with me. That’s how she is. She hadn’t seen me in a long while, and wanted to spend as much time with me as possible even if that time was appointed for another. I also see a selfish woman who will hold on to anything and everything she possibly can, because she’s so afraid that she won’t get hers. I told her she didn’t have to walk over with me, she insisted on it.

When I got there, it was kinda of what I expected. A picture on the wall of my cousin at the age when my uncle was somewhat still involved in his life hung on the wall next to another picture of family my uncle was close to. Other than that, the place was pretty much empty. A couple of chairs, a tv, and a sinking empty feeling. A man contemplating his own death was grateful for a visitor.

At face value, not knowing the history of my family, you could say that I am a cold hearted bitch because of the way I treat them. That’s one of the nice things about denouncing Christianity as my religion, I no longer have to turn the other cheek. I do go at great lengths to bite my tongue so I’m not exceptionally cruel at times, because I know that being cruel for the sake of being cruel is a family trait, carefully crafted and passed down for many generations. It’s a way to lash out because the pain you feel inside is so great that you inflict it upon others because you want so desperately for those around you to understand what’s going on inside of you. Because maybe, just maybe if you can show others how you feel, they will be nice to you and take that pain away.

If an empty home and an empty life is all my uncle has to show for, he only has to look in a mirror. Becoming sober so you don’t die from scoriocis of the liver does not erase your mistakes or suddenly turn you into this great person. You are sewing the fruits of your life.

Back to the phone call. When I said that I had stopped only because he had called, mind you the first time in my life my uncle has EVER called me, she said she knew, but still thought I’d like to know. This is the point when I start shutting her down. If you knew, then why did you push it on me? When I cut that part of our conversation to a close, she said she was glad I returned safely from tour, and inquired as to how long the note had been up on the door that I had left her. Saturday the 5th.

I told her I stopped by hoping to use her shower because I smelled like earth, b.o., and gasoline. To which she replied…”well you still could’ve used the shower.” ME: How, when the door was locked. GMA: Well, you could’ve used your key. ME: I’ve never had a key to your place since you’ve lived there. GMA: Well I’ll get one made, you should have a key. ME: I don’t want one, it’s fine, I showered at Joe’s, I do have friends. GMA: I know, but we’re still here ya know.


This is where the guilt trip begins. This is where the old woman reminds her wayward granddaughter that she still has a family that loves and cares for her.

Fuck your words. Words don’t mean shit. Fill the earth and the sky, the sea and the stars with your “words”, but never stop to think why I feel so empty inside. Don’t accept the wrongs you’ve done, ignore the pain you caused.

And that’s the thing. I hate being treated as if the way I am isn’t warranted. Go live in your perfect fucking bubble where there are no flaws, and things weren’t “all bad all the time”. Like a day of baking cookies can just erase the pain and hurt I feel in my heart. Like every time I think of him, my brain doesn’t go to a hand on my knee and him telling me how pretty my nightgown was, but that it was getting too short for me. Why can’t I just hold on to a favorite nightgown without it turning into some sick game, where it’s my fault for a 14 year old to be tempting a grown man who knows better. I remember watching him fight himself, drunk as shit. Sitting next to me in my room, making me feel uncomfortable, watching his eyes as he fought himself. He’d take a deep breath…”honey, you really shouldn’t wear such pretty nightgowns that are too short for you.” Then he slowly stood up and staggered back out the door to the chair he would pass out in.

My uncle didn’t touch me, but in his drunken state, a part of him wanted to, and he fought it. I think that’s why he was so mean to me, because giving you noogies that leave scabs on your head or indian burns on your arms that leave rashes, or tickling you until you pee yourself and yelling at you to clean yourself up is much better than than sexually abusing you. Chasing her down the hallway as she locks herself in the bathroom, bracing her back against the door with her feet firmly planted on the doors of the sink cupboard as she feels every every vibration from your fists hitting the door is so much better than touching her in an inappropriate manner.

Neither one of them have ever acknowledged that it was their fault I left. Well a combination of so many things, but the day I locked myself in the bathroom was the day I gave her a choice. That’s the day I’d had enough, the day I said I was done. I asked her to make a choice, and she told me it was unfair of me to ask such a thing. “You don’t understand what we’ve been through.” she said, “choose my granddaughter or my brother?” and I said fine, I walked back to my room, I packed my bag, and I walked out the door. “Where are you going?” she said, “Idunno, I’ll figure it out along the way. Some place that’s not here.” And at 15 years old, she watched me walk out that door with words of protest, followed by silence.

My heart hurts, it’s shattered into pieces, and still I strive for more. But this shit gets to me sometimes. It gets to me when she has the audacity to hold over the word “family” like that means something coming from her. I heard it in my mother’s voice the other day.

I sent her a video, and told her what was going on with my current music projects, to which she made a comment, “it’s nice that you take the time to fill me in on what’s going on with your life.” I read those words over and over again, and all I could hear was my grandmother and her fucking guilt trips. You only know because I offered to tell you. It’s not a big secret I’m hiding from you or anyone else. If you really cared, all you gotta do is ask. This is another behavior I see repeating in myself, and one more thing that makes me glad I can’t bare children. It’s been a little over 7 years now since my tubal, and sometime I wonder if I did it because I hate my family that much. These genes will never pass through me, I’m ending this cycle of pain. When I die, it’s gone.

Sometimes I fantasize about killing everyone before I put a bullet in my own head, just to be sure it ends with me. The lies, the incest, the abuse, everything gone, an entire race of shit just wiped off the face of the world, in turn making the world a better place…but no.


This is the place where I take a long, deep breath and a good look around, this is the place I pour my heart on some strings, because it calms the hate I feel. This is one story of many from the building blocks that make up who I am.

I told Dan that my goal is to completely shatter the mold, and the only way to do that is become neither victim nor abuser. A task easier said than done. Every time I lash out in an attempt to make someone feel inferior, I am the wolf, every time the scent of a woman’s hair makes me want to pin her to the ground, I am the wolf. Every time I have drukenly abused whatever female or male came to my room, I was the wolf…and I’m working so hard to change it all. In facing my demons, I find myself falling into the emotions of the victim, which is where I have no desire to be either.

Bi-polar isn’t a disorder, it’s a reaction.

I remember begging my grandmother to let me go back to public school because I hated private school and homeschool, and one day, she asked me in a very kind, sing-songy voice, “Hey Becky, I was giving some thought, and was wondering if you’d like to go to public school this next year?” Stupidly, I got excited, “really, I can go and be with my friends! I’d love to.” Then she laughed, “I’m just kidding, I just wanted to see what you felt about it.” I was so hurt and so fucking angry…mixed feelings. This is why when I’m petting my dog, and he looks at me with those loving eyes and his tongue hanging out that I want to take my long, sewing machine screwdriver, and smash it through his skull, just to destroy his perfect moment of happiness he’s getting from scritching behind his ears.

When I see innocence, I want to destroy it. Not always, but when the mood hits. I need music and I need to write. If I don’t, then all of this goes nowhere. I love Dan so much because he’s the only person I can openly speak with about this and things I won’t write yet, and he never treats me any different. When I tell him I want to snap the puppy’s neck, he says, “no babe, that’s not a very nice thing to say,” and I say, “I know, I won’t do it…because I would hate myself if I killed Bosco, it’s just a thought, and it’s passing.”

The difference now is that instead of locking myself in a bathroom while I punch myself in the head until I knock myself out is that I communicate and I write, and I sing. You take these away, and you’ve got a rapist on your hands. You take this away, and you’ve got a murderer on your hands…and no one wants to take the blame for that. Everything is fine and hunky dory…it’s all water under the bridge. I want someone to be accountable, but when I yell out and scream at the world, everyone runs away, and there’s only myself. I used to hurt myself so I didn’t hurt others. I let my sister hit me in the head with a t-ball bat, and leave bruises all over my body while I laughed at her, because if I didn’t laugh and take the abuse, I would’ve killed her. The day I never laugh or smile again is going to be a dark day for all, so I do my best to find reasons to smile, reasons to laugh, reasons to live each day to the fullest.

I travel, because there’s something in watching the tree lines as we drive by that soothes me.

Negativity is a part of life, just like positivity is. They are both a part of me. I acknowledge it, I don’t try to hide it, I don’t pretend it’s not there. I gave him an eye to see, which made him happier and a lot quieter. I walk a fine line that coincides with both evil men and beautiful souls. Sometimes they are one in the same. I write because it makes me feel better. I sing, because it purges my soul, I live because I won’t let him win. My demon, he wants to destroy, but I won’t let him win. I thought he’d go away completely if I backed off of drinking, but I found he’s still there. It’s just easier to control his actions with a sober mind.

What I’ve realized is the only difference between you and I is that I admit it publicly. Inside of everyone is a monster. Add a dash of trauma, a few deaths of loved ones, or whatever other random spices life throws in to the mix, and it’s Falling Down for any one of us.

My family brings it out in me more than anyone, I’ll destroy myself faster within’ a few moments of speaking to them or being around them than any other time. I couldn’t handle shit in Santa Cruz the last time around, so I got fucking wasted. Not the correct way to deal with it. Apparently I ended the evening by blacking out, telling the whole bar some stupid sob story about my fucked up family, and then pissed on the tree just outside the bar door in downtown Santa Cruz as the cherry to top it all.

I avoid most of my blood whenever possible, because it’s not a healthy reaction, and blood or not, if something is bad for you, stay the fuck away from it.

So in these conversations I have with myself, the ones where I look at my .357 and the box of bullets next to it, there’s a huge long process I go through. First there’s the argument. There’s the side that haunts me from my past, and there’s the other side who’s accomplished almost every goal she’s ever made mentally bitch slapping the fuck out of her…and this is where Sam comes into play. Sometimes I don’t know where Sam ends and Becka begins, but it’s all me.


I don’t remember when she first appeared, or when I first acknowledged her, but I was an only child for the first 5 years and 11 months of my life. I was passed around a lot. When Gramma approved of Mother’s life, Mother got to have me. When she disapproved, she came and took me away, and these are my earliest memories. Moving from home to home, living with this relative and that until I was 8 years old. 8 is when we started living with Gramma all the time, but there was still a lot of people coming and going, and us getting dumped on various babysitters or whoever else was down to carry the burden a few hours, days, or weeks at a time.

In all of these, I found a friend in my reflection. She was always with me no matter where I went or who I lived with, we’d hang out for hours, her and I. Everyone thought my obsession with the mirror was just early signs of vanity, which I rolled with to disguise what was really going on throughout the course of my life. But it wasn’t vanity, she was my friend. I used to beg her through tears to pull me into the mirror with her and away from my life. I’d cut myself in front of her to teach her a lesson, and she’d tell me I was being stupid, and she hated me for it, so I stopped doing it in front of her. Besides, she did nothing wrong and didn’t deserve it. I don’t remember when i first gave her a name, but I had decided that when I was old enough to change my name, I would change it to Samantha so I could go by Sam.

Now I no longer desire to change my name, and since my “vanity” has subsided, she’s been pulled from the mirror and put into my bass, where she helps me to tell the stories of everything that’s wrong and sometimes right with my life. I like her much better out of the mirror and here with me. That is who Sam really is…it’s my imaginary friend who was never all that imaginary.


I can breathe again now, feel like a weight has been lifted, and maybe I can sleep now. Sleep would be nice. So much to do, so little time to do it. Everything is down to the wire now, and I feel like I’m falling behind, but I will do my best to relax and enjoy myself at the party this weekend, not let my stress interfere with my fun, I owe that much to my friends.

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