Here is My Real Head series Pt. 4

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

7. Being Honest with My Parents

     While reluctantly listening in on a phone call, a light bulb flickered above my head. 

     Everyone's parents should know who their children really are. My parents know who I truly am, as far as they allow themselves to see. My life and emotions are an open book, there's nothing left to wonder. If there were an uncertainty, I would gladly answer any question asked with one hundred percent honestly. However, I know that they cherry-pick what I proclaim like Christians do the Bible, or Muslims do the Qur'an. At least, they have in the past.

     So to practice this new idea, I'm going to share two more things with you and my parents to air out the things that have recently been on my mind. I hope this can inspire you to be honest with your parents, and most importantly yourself about your most 'shameful' opinions of things. I have been ashamed and scared for a very long time to tell my parents things, some I am still nervous to utter. But I have forced the time to arrive for me to push through my web of fears. My words are like razor blades, but I'm not trying to cut anyone. I'm trying to cut myself open to show you my real head.

"I am so tangled in my sins that I cannot escape.
Pinch the head off, collapse me like a weed
Someone had to go this far."
- 'Man That You Fear' by Marilyn Manson

     I don't feel a pang of guilt or urge to help out around the house as much as I could go out of my way to anymore because I am sick of being the only one that does anything. My dad's girlfriend would rather rip her skin off with pliers - hmm, wonder how that feels! - instead of lift a finger over something besides a television remote, so I know if I leave something to be done my dad will be the one to do it.

     But wait, I have a brother, right? Indeed I do, and he is eleven years old. My brother has two chores that he carries through with complaints. His two chores are feeding the dogs and and doing a half-assed job of vacuuming the kitchen on a barely weekly basis. Activities such as cleaning his room or putting away clothes are very rarely done alone, and never done without a smart alec remark.

     Like I said before, I don't feel guilty anymore. I did for a long time, but not because my dad's shitty girlfriend sent me harrassing text messages telling me how lazy she thought I was for not doing every little thing around the house so my dad didn't have to. (Kettle, you could have gotten off your ass and helped him if you really wanted to. In fact, you still can! Maybe if you spent less time attempting to belittle everyone and feeling sorry for yourself, you'd find a lot of time suddenly freed up.)

     I know my dad works long days and comes home to deal with this undeniably fake household, and that sucks. I'll repeat it again - I know it sucks, really hard. But I realized that my situation isn't exactly beautiful either. His girlfriend might be under the impression that sitting at home alone all day is positively wonderful for me to experience, but I'd imagine she could only be deluded by that assumption because there are five televisions here that she'd love to be watching in the time I could be, but don't.

     I refuse to do more than I feel is necessary for me to do to avoid being classified as lazy on an unbiased scale. My brother's life is perfect compared to what my home life was at his age. I don't see the fairness in being orally raped equating to doing all of the chores my brother could be helping with, later on in life. There's not a single, plausible reason for him to not grow up. I'm not going to be another ingredient for him not to, not anymore. My only hope and point for not helping out my dad more, is that one day - my hope - he will get sick of doing all the things I don't offer to do and ask 'someone' else to do them - my point. It's nothing personal against him, but asking why my brother does nothing while I do everything has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

     This next one's shorter because it's very simple. I'm not making an effort to talk to my mom as much as I used to because I don't want to be around her. I never thought I'd arrive at a point in my life where I truly didn't want to spend time with her. Honestly, I don't want to breathe in her second hand smoke because I value my life more than she seemingly values hers. Spending large amounts of time with her isn't worth dying a premature death, and it never will be ever again for anyone. When Nietzche said we have to kill ourselves many times while still alive to become immortal, I doubt smoking our lungs out is what he meant. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why she thinks she's invincible. Truthfully I don't even care anymore because it's grown so old.

     I'm disappointed that my mom's respect for me isn't substantial enough to cause her to not smoke in my presence. I've always been told - by smokers, no less - that if I don't want to be around it, then don't be. I take carelessly tossed about comments very seriously. Sarcasm applied equals results, as a result  of not spending as much - really none at all - time with her, I'm not coughing and feeling sickly as much as I did before. Much less, absolutely disgusted by how little someone can care for themselves.

     What I've never understood though, is why infants are more important to most smokers than someone only a few years older. When did I become unimportant to my mom? What age did I turn for it to suddenly be acceptable for my mom, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc., to assist in collectively killing me? My honest nature would love to see the looks on their faces upon delivering them truthful news of having just discovered I have lung cancer and will likely die because of their lack of self control and my stupid decision to be around them.

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     I ask that no one thinks for a moment this is easy to share with the World Wide Web. It's not. I feel reluctance every time I post a blog describing how I feel about specific people or situations, angry or not. I know why I feel this way more than a normal person does. It should be pretty obvious that a victim of sexual abuse feels like everything should be kept inside to protect whatever is leftover of them. But I am no longer a shell! I refuse to be a decoratively painted hermit crab. My insides are beautiful, every last bit of them, and I will never be consciously ashamed to show you no matter how scared I am.

     I have learned by writing this and thinking it over that one of the biggest fears is something I was too scared to even admit to myself until this afternoon. Now I will admit it to you, but I'm sure it has been obvious for quite a time: I am scared to be honest with my parents about my feelings.

     Fortunately I know where the roots lie.

     So now I ask - do your parents know who you truly are?