And the monsters in the dark

The worst part is the nightmares, you know. I used to have a hard time functioning pretty much all of the time, but I’ve gotten to a place now where it’s only sleeping that bothers me. And just because of the nightmares.

The Torture Aspect Is Unpleasant

There’s this thing, where you do all the therapy shit, you know, and the recommended yoga falderal, and the processing stuff, and the freewriting stuff, and the talk sessions, and at the end of it, you wake up in the middle of the night with horrible nightmares because your subconscious starts to correlate repressed memory and integrate to do shadow dances and show you what your life was like before the therapy.

Because my mind, at least, has been doing contortions and flipping about in the land of denial, and I most of the time still think I had a pretty normal childhood. Ha ha.

Ha. Etc.

The good news, though, is that having actual experience with people trying to destroy your insides as their main goal in life means you have shit to write about. Like Long Day’s Journey Into Night, which is a pretty charming little piece. I don’t care for Ah, Wilderness! much, because there’s way too much sentimental shit thrown in on the part of the female characters. Especially that irritating maiden aunt.

O’Niell And His Fantasy Family

Have I told you that I have no patience with people who don’t just go out and lay hold of the relationships they want? I hate that, so much.

I knew a screwed up older woman a long time ago who literally spent her life making an elaborate show of how difficult it was to get a husband/boyfriend/suitable male attachment.

She Was Mean And Backstabby

She would talk constantly about what she was going to do about raising her children, and how she would run her household, but she never did a single thing to actually, I don’t know, learn how to be nice to people, or listen, or date.

Because dating is a skill that you can learn.

Speaking of Which

I’m really good at making people fall in love. It’s kind of like a superpower. I agree with Squire Allworthy about the immorality of jumbling people into permanent couplings on the grounds that they will be responsible for their behavior afterwards, so I’ve never meddled in marriage, but I have done a lot of casual hookup work (in the way of getting couples into dating, not sex shit, because that’s incredibly messy, yada yada).

I suppose I say this because my current form of night terrors make me think of my arousal superpowers.

Which Are Useful, In Theatre

You know how I stayed alive? It sounds pretty silly probably, but I am not dead right now because I learned how to flirt. I was a very attractive little kid. I figured out how to be charming, and no one ever quite could pin me down long enough to do conventional damage, in the blockbuster way. You know, being locked in the closet, or living on meager whatnot, or having secret incest crap going on between the edges of my life.

Though I Was Severely Malnourished, So

Even my violent handler thought I was adorable, and sort of endearing, and he didn’t mess up my face nearly as much as my parents wanted him to. He used me as a sort of wingman to cart around and lure in girls, because I was not an asshole, like he was.

And my relatives, the extended ones, many of whom are knee-deep in shit that I don’t ever want to know the details about, thought I was “taken.”

Which Violent Asshole To Hide Out With Makes A Big Difference

I don’t know if you know this, but a lot of predators, the emotional and soul-sucking evil kind, feed off of people who don’t seem okay inside. I watched my older cousins getting eaten up, and I read a lot (to gather source info on ways people get sucked into abusive scenarios), and I drew up sneaky plans and became the engrossing Victor Poole show.

There was a lot of benign drama.

And Free Flirting For Everyone!

Everyone, even my goddamned mother, thought I was having some sort of weird paternal bondy affair with my dad, but I was really just giving him relationship and career advice.

My life is ridiculous. Anyway, that part’s over now, and the only lasting horrible part, as far as I’m concerned, are the nightmares. Hopefully they’ll go away soon, too.

You’re reading Victor Poole. The parents in Harder Than Rocks are nothing like my parents, though the basement apartment that Samuel rents is somewhat similar to a place I lived in for half a year after I got away.

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