Monday, March 3, 2014

"It was the 8th of December, for I do remember"

Interesting response to last post.  A reader wanted to know if that memory was the most painful from my past.

I had to drive to work last night and I figured a long dark commute would be a good time to do some digging into my head and see what the absolute most horrific thing that happened to me was.

Cause, I like to perform lobotomies on my self when I have no where to run.

I got in my truck and turned it on and posed the commute question to my self.

"What is your most painful memory."

And before I had fastened my seat belt my mind burped it up. Just like that.

Ugh!! damn it that is not how this game is played! its suppose to take me most of the commute to grill my soul and hold my self under the bare bulb to get the answer out of me.

Now what was I going to stew on for 45 min?

Feeling a little cheated I headed to work in silence.

Then a small quiet part of my brain spoke up. why. why out of all the hellish hell you lived through is this the worst of the worst?

And that took the full drive to and from work to figure out.

TRIGGER WARNING - you are stepping into my head TRIGGER WARNING

Shortly after Little House on the Prairie started on the night of December 8, 1980, the show was interrupted by a special new bulletin. John Lennon had been shot out side the Dakota and had been rush to a hospital with multiple gun shots. Doctors were trying to save him, the reported relayed to us.

then in a blink LHOTP resumed.

I got up and walked past my father and my mother and all my siblings and went to my room.  I stood beside my bed and starred at the four posters on my wall. John, Paul,George and Ringo. My boys.

On my phonograph was the Beatles White album.

I grabbed a sheet of paper and quickly scrawled a few lines down. please be okay please be okay, oh let him be okay

I climbed up on my bed and kissed each face there. pausing for a moment to look John in his eyes.

My heart was breaking. My soul was breaking. I was breaking.

I went back and walked past my mother, my father and siblings and slide under the chair waiting for the next news update.

It wasn't long.

He was dead.

I was 15 years old and one of the four reasons I was alive, had just been killed.

As the news caster kept talking, a lump formed in my throat and I fought back tears.

I heard my father say casually, "Someone should go get P."

I'm right here my soul said.

Parents know I eat sleep and breath Beatles. My whole family knows I am a huge Beatles fan. Can you guess who went to look for me?

no one.

a few seconds later, he repeated "Someone should go get P."

"I am right here." I said aloud for al the good it did. I have always been right here and it doesn't matter none of you see me anyways. A huge part of me just got murdered. This is a life changer. DAMN IT YOU ALL KNOW HOW MUCH THE BEATLES MEAN TO ME, HAVE ALWAYS MENT TO ME. I LIVE, BECAUSE OF THEM, I GO ON BREATHING BECAUSE OF THEM.

They had become my life. my therapists, my companions, my life line. my surrogate parents, my friends who were always there and would never hurt me...could never hurt me.

oh, gawd...oh gawd ...this I never saw coming. stabbing pain in my heart and in my soul and in my head. I had let my guard down, I allowed my self to love need them, all because I thought. they could never hurt me.

they could never hurt me

but life had a cruel twist for my poor damaged soul.

I slide back out from under the chair and stood up, both my parents looked right at me. I waited a few seconds to see if they would offer to comfort me. what the fucking hell is the matter with you! you know they won't help you with this pain! why are you torturing yourself!! stupid girl stupid girl!!

Like a hammer hitting a window I felt my soul shatter and fragment out into jagged slivers. To be conscious of  ones mind shattering and dissociating out into nothingness is painful. How did I allow this to happen, how the hell did I let my guard down and allow this much pain to hurt me?

Then my parents rushed forward to embrace me and mourn the loss of there daughters dear friend with her. They allowed me to cry on the shoulder as they rocked me and held me together.


Wrong. They didn't say anything to me. I walked past them and went into my room and turned on the stereo. White album still on the player, needle still where it was on the record. It made that draggy sound as the turn table ramped up to 33 rpm. And of all the FUCKING SONGS TO BE GREETED WITH THAT GODDAMNED NIGHT, I heard John's voice singing, Happiness is a warm gun mama...

I had to fight to stop from hyperventilating. I took the arm and scratched the hell out of that song on the album. Ground that needle down to nothing. Turned off the player, climbed into bed. Put my back to the wall, tucked Parker my stuffed raccoon under one arm and took my hunting knife Seven out from under my pillow and held it in my other hand.

Pulled the blanket over my head and pretended to be asleep. Waiting to cry till after the house was in bed and still.


After I had JUR and need to pay off my hospital debt, I sold my vast Beatles record collection. By then CDs were all the rage. I listed that copy of "The Beatles" (commonly known as the White album) on eBay. It was pressed in all white vinyl. I was honest I told them in the auction description that it had two skips on side one after younger brother had messed with it and that THAT track was scratched to hell and back and I had not tried to play it since I damaged it 12-8-80, and there was no way I would listen to it at that point, so I couldn't guarantee it could be played. It sold for over 50$ after quite a few people bid on it.

have to do this in two parts to not push me over the edge. Its been 33 years and it still stings, still has the ability to level me and reduce me to a triggered fucked up mess.

Rest of the story tomorrow.

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