they_see_nothing_but_a_mess_of_hair
johnny west Here's something fun to talk about. I'll keep this relatively short and free of boring details, just in case anyone is ever unfortunate enough to read it. And away we go!

When I was four years old, my mother and father divorced. About a year after that, my mother met a guy named (ha!) John. He had a nose like a warped oboe and a hairline that was rapidly disappearing. He was an asshole.

From the beginning, John wasted no time in screaming at me for something stupid. He later apologized, explaining that his temper was like a "short fuse"; once he got pissed off, there was no stopping him. A year later, John became my step father. My mother took his name (Hewitt), his family and his bowling ball as her own.

He brought with him a family that was even more fucked up than he was: his mother (Anita), sister (Ronita) and his dead father, Ron. Put Ron and Anita together and whaddaya get? RONITA!

From here, things started to pick up. The whole family decided to use me as an emotional punching bag. For the next seven years, everything I said, did, didn't say, didn't do or couldn't do was a hot topic around the house. My mother had become a full-fledged Hewitt, throwing in a few jabs and the occasional uppercut for good measure. In a few years, I had no self esteem. I had learned to see myself through their eyes.

When I was in grade eight, everything came to a head. My penis joined the Hewitt family's list of things to "tease" me about. I was just discovering the art of masturbation at the time, and learned to develop quick reflexes; my mom or John had a habit of materializing in my bedroom without warning. Whacking off in fear, I was prepared to cover myself at all times. I was in hell.

When the family attacked me for staying in my room all the time, I called my dad and begged him to get me out of there. He picked me up from school the next day and I moved in with him.

I spent a few months dodging my mother's phone calls, but eventually decided to give the Hewitts another chance. Everyone seemed to have mellowed, and my two little sisters were more interested in beating the shit out of one another than determining how large my dick was.

The abuse returned so gradually that it took me a few more years to put it together. When I stopped getting my hair cut, the insults returned with a vengeance. The thing that really did it for me was when my mom and John talked about taking everyone on a cruise to Jamaica, only to turn around and tell me: "Get your hair cut, or you don't come with us."

That was exactly what I needed. A good kick in the head to wake me up. After confirming that this "cruise condition" wasn't a joke, I terminated my relationship with the family by writing a long letter that communicated most of the things I had wanted to say for so long. It was a nice little "fuck you" gesture, and a fantastic venting experience. It's now been three months since I sent the letter, and more than four months since I've had any contact with any of them. I've never been happier.

On the one hand, I'm almost thankful for the experience. I learned far more from my years with the Hewitts than I could ever hope to learn from any other supposed form of education, and I can look back at their stupidity and laugh. I think I might even be a stronger person because of what I want through.

On the other hand, I'm still carrying around some of the things that I was told or had done to me by them. It's something I'll probably never be entirely rid of.

So how do I stay sane? I write and record messed up songs that would never get any radio airplay. I talk to my dad about a lot of things. My friends are always supportive, and most of them are almost as crazy as I am. If I ever have a girlfriend (me? a girlfriend?!Bullshit!), maybe I'll talk to her about some of the things that are rolling around in my head.

Here's the sad thing: I feel like I could go the rest of my life without ever seeing any of the Hewitts again ...and it wouldn't bother me at all. My sisters are the only exception. I hope that, one day, they'll be able to see how sick their parents are and the three of us will be able to have a relationship.

FUN! FUN! FUN!
Hope you enjoyed my little autobiographical segment.
For those of you asking, "What the hell was the point of that shit?"
There was no point. I just felt like sharing. Although I didn't refer to a lot of specific incidents from my years with the Hewitts, I'm sure that there are countless others who have experienced things far worse.
For anyone who has gone through something similar to what I have, you should know that the people who say things to hurt you are only trying to make themselves feel powerful. If they can make someone (i.e. their child) feel like shit, then their goal is accomplished.
NEVER LET ANYONE CONVINCE YOU THAT YOU ARE STUPID OR UGLY OR WORTHLESS OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. Life is far too short to be spent miserable.

I should stop now.
I've taken up too much blather space. 		010309
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johnny west One last thing ---
I made a spelling mistake. "...want through" should be "...went through". Can't even get that right, can I? AAAAAAAH! 		010309
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florescent light Ever since I as small
I would fall asleep thinking "I wish I had a gun."
So I could shoot my brothers.
To put them out of their misery. I know
they would be better off.
I know.

Even though I am the oldest, both my brothers now have exceeded me in height.
I can no longer kill the youngest, he has proven to be the most resillant of the three of us. But he is still only 14. He still has time to fall.
The middle child. His fire is gone.
I partly blame myself for beating him up when I was younger.
I remember distinctly taking my frustrations out on him.
Maybe that was the determined factor. Maybe it was the extra push to kill his spirit.
I have no way of knowing.
But there is no fire in his eyes. There is nothing there but darkness. He has resigned himself.
That is what he was taught. He knows of nothing else.

I have some fond memories of gowing up with my friends.
But the older I became, the more self aware I became, the unhappier I felt.
My two brothers and I spent our lives learning to lie. And who taught us to lie?
My father mostly. But my mother did as well. For our entire existence revolved around avoiding daddy. I don't remember a time where I didn't walk on eggshells in my house.
I can't remember a time, during my teenage years, when I didn't cry myself to sleep at night.
I used to lie in bed crying, praying that my parents would stop fighting. Then as I got older, I prayed they would divorce.
In junior high I recall even asking my mom, why won't you leave him? I'd beg her. Trying to convince her to leave him. She only hears and sees what she wants to.


None of our scars were visable.
Which made it hard.
No one could look at me and say "poor thing, what happened to you?"
Everything that existed was inside, and I had no way of sharing with anyone.
And I remember in the 8th grade, telling my best friend at the time Julia, "I hate my Dad."
And she said "Everyone thinks they hate their father, but you really don't."
But I really did.
And I then realized that I was really alone. That I had no one to talk to and no one to understand.
I was trapped inside my own self. With my own thought corrupted brain.

And time went on, and time went on, and things at home just escalated with my maturing age and battle for respect.
And at 16 I lost faith in god.
I was giving up.
And soon thereafter I sunk into depression. And was plagued by nightmares.
And depression was an all consuming hole. One which I didn't want to get out of, because happiniess was nothing but a facaud.

Only a man who hates himself could hate his children and wife so harshly.
And I fucking hate my mother for letting it go on.
I hate her even more than my Dad, because she excused it, and wore a smiley face and told herself and told us that "it's alright."
She lives in her world of Tupperware and religious hypocricies.
And will still stop traffic on the busy yellow streets of NY to pick up that shiney copper penny.

I was never allowed to leave the table until I had cleaned my plate,
I remember sitting there till past 12 at night. Just sitting there, watching the gold pendulim inside the shiney oak clock tick tocking back and forth, back and forth. Tired as all hell, I had to wake up for the third grade in the morning.
And I would be yelled at. YELLED AT.
As if I was the worst daughter and the most horrible person in the whole world.
Because I didn't want to finish my peas.

My father would always return any Christmas and Birthday presents we recieved to the store. And he would keep the money.
I remember friends coming over, and they would say, "Lets play with that doll I got you for your birthday."
I told them I didn't know where it went.

My mom can't do anything with out his permission...and god forbid the coffee is cold, there might be conflict for weeks, months even.
They've been married 26 years and I haven't once ever seen them display any type of affection toward each other.
Sometimes I would see my mom try to give him a hug, but he would push her away.
And I heard him use the same lines after lines after lines to her.
"Get the fuck away from me"
"I want a divorce"
"You're nothing"
"I hate you"
"You make me miserable"
"You'll only be happy when I'm lying in the grave dead"
"Maybe if you weren't so fat..."
etc.


I could write a book.
But for lack of time, and interest,I must stop here. 		010309
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johnny west The one thing I can't get over is the fact that I can't cry. I CAN'T. I was taught by my mom and step father that "a man doesn't cry". I knew it was garbage, but I can't help feeling that I've somehow been emotionally crippled. I know that it isn't wrong to cry but, because of them, it feels wrong.

I fucking hate my mother, her husband and his family. Even now that I have nothing to do with them, I still hate them. They could die tomorrow and I would be relieved; I wouldn't have to worry about running into them someday in a restaurant, or whereverthehell.

I hate myself for not being able to protect my sisters. I watched them go through the same things I did, only they seemed to be buying into some of the shit their parents were throwing at them. They don't have a "real dad" to tell them that these things are wrong. Their real dad is a crazy man who once punched a bowling ball in a fit of rage and shattered his hand. So my sisters beat the shit out of one another all the time. That's their only way to get rid of the anger, fear, or whatever it is inside of them. I hope they'll be okay without me for a while.

I try not to dwell on it but, when I'm in the right frame of mind, it's impossible to avoid. I find myself trying to understand how my mother thinks when there is no logic to any of it.

Why could she tell other people something nice about me, but not ME? Because she didn't want it to go to my head. Why did she take all of my money and use it as her own? Because she was in control and, to her, the money wasn't ever truly mine. Why couldn't I leave the table until my plate was clean? And why were my sisters allowed to eat nothing for dinner and then have dessert? There's no logic to any of it.

Like you, I could write a book. But it would only be pointless self-torture. It helps when you see that other people have had fucked up family lives too. It helps a lot.

I guess the real challenge now is to live with it and, eventually, without it. Fuck. I wish it would go away.

But I should stop talking about it. Put on a happy face, and shit like that. Smile. 		010309
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florescent light crying - a soul escaping despair dripping violent chaotic numbing madness. 010311
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johnny west And, when the soul isn't purged, it collects too much "cloggage". 010311
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florescent light so I ask, my friend, what is your release? 010311
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johnny west Music, more than anything else.
I write songs about things that have happened to me.
Sometimes I improvise them, making up the lyrics and the music as I go along.
Sometimes I record the songs.
I don't know why, but I can always enjoy listening to these songs.
Sometimes I scream within the song.
Sometimes I don't need a song to scream.

Sometimes I use the word sometimes too much! 		010311
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johnny west I also try to do the opposite of what is "acceptable" to the people who have hurt me:

I grow my hair;
I get my ear pierced;
I don't run after anything with breasts with my tongue hanging out of my mouth like some cartoon character;
I refuse to judge others;
I stay inside if I want to;
I refuse to pursue a career that will leave me without the things I enjoy;
I share myself with others.

Pretty scary stuff, huh? 		010311
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johnny west blather helps too.
a-venting i will go.
ra-ta-ta-ra-ra. 		010311
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florescent light I want to sit next to you
on the porch
at dusk.
Listen to the crickes chirp, while I hear you speak of everything.

Then my hand will safely conceal yours.
And I will stare you in the eyes
and say
I understand

....then we will cry. 		010313
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johnny west After reading that...if I could cry right now, I would. I don't know how else to respond. Words fail me completely. 010313
what's it to you?
who go 		blather
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