Mr. Lady
My story is not an exceptional one.
It ends the way most of these stories do, with me standing over a steaming hot sink full of suds scrubbing the remnants of the past few nights’ wine out of the bottoms of stemmed glasses, sweating out decades of re-directed anger that I’m not supposed to feel, not allowed to voice. How I got here now is a twisting road of heartbreak, of rage, of disgrace and stubbornness. Here is no longer the thing that defines me, those suds in the sink turning red and oxidizing are no longer my enemy, nor is the man that I love who slowly destroys himself in the adjoining room as he looses his nightly battle with shadows he can never expose to light, as he bears the weight of his own ancestry and the projected reel-to-reel videos of mine. He sits in that room, after we’ve all turned in for the night, destroying himself, but he no longer destroys me, too. Every empty bottle that I get to return for deposit is $0.05 I get to put back into my soul.
My story is not an exceptional one.
It begins the way most of these stories do, with a boy and a girl and a bottle and a car and a plus on a stick. How I got here now is a twisted road of violence, of abandonment, of violations of mind and body and soul by friend and family and God. It’s the tale of divorce lawyers and custody disputes and worn photographs and rock bands and psychiatric wards. It’s the story of mirrors that are all cracked, reflections that will always be askew, of mistaken identities and overblown fears. I have followed the blackened roots of a withered ancestral tree to bring me to the place I stand today, and I greet the demons that hide in its shadows with nothing less than measured dread.
His story is not an exceptional one.
It ends with salvation brought about by little more than dumb luck and hopeful courage. The plot is full of upward climbs and downward slides, of demons that reach of from the depths of his own personal hell and pull his tattered shoes back down with them, of secret ladders and hidden weapons he’s stored away just in case he might need to use them to claw his way back to the surface. His story is a beacon, a fire in the lighthouse calling all of us who are still lost as sea to his shore. He’s lived to tell about cruelty and torture and abandonment. He’s learned to tell it with love and understanding and forgiveness. He is the person most people will never become.
His story is not an exceptional one.
His story begins by re-telling the story before him, just as mine does. His story bears the same footnotes as mine, develops the same characters and follows the same outline, yet his tale is of a nightmare that, though I witnessed, I can scarcely bear to recall. It’s the re-hashing of deceptions and omissions, of misplaced rage, of experimental anti-psychotics and perpetuation of victimization. It’s the story of creating and propagating vulnerability, of the ways nurture can take nature, smother it in the middle of the night and replace it with something that is almost similar, almost real, almost living and forever altered. It is filled with visualizations of humiliation and shared agonies and helplessness in the face of monsters. His story is that of things that go bump in the night, that which take and never give back, that which bloody and bruise but refuse to break.
Our stories are the same stories. We are the same person, he and I, born of common ancestry and into shared madness. I am the bone of his bone, and he the flesh of my flesh, the footprints of ourselves etched into the walls of the same womb. At our microscopic core, we are identical in every way. The lines of delineation are drawn simply at the titles we have been given in life, labels provided us by that boy and that girl in that car with that bottle in 1967.
Mine was first born daughter, his was first born son.
Our stories are exceptional. We are exceptional. We beat odds before we knew how to multiply with nothing more than a cherry blossom tree to hide in and a hole in a wall to whisper to each other between when no one else was listening. We unleash the ghosts and reveal the mirages in the story of our lives, our history, our family tree together in whispered tones over international phone lines in the middle of the night, and he continues to show me the way to not live in fear, and I continue to try to give our secret pain a public name.
Our stories are exceptional, and I am going to tell them for the whole world to hear. I am no longer afraid.
***
Mr. Lady blogs at Whiskey In My Sippy Cup. She asks that you kindly keep all comments here on VU, rather than at her blog.
39 Responses to “Mr. Lady”
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well done. you are no longer afraid… this is so beautifully written and painful.
the beautiful ache….
well done.
OMG, S, chills, goosebumps and tears. This, this was beyond exceptional.
You are a fighter. You are amazing.
Thank you. This was beautiful. Thank you thank you thank you. xoxo
You, my friend, are a poet, with the tortured soul to go with your talent. That you survive and thrive is an inspiration.
Wow, wow, WOW!. Thank you for sharing.
Beautiful, poignant, poetic.
I am amazed at your ability to understand his story, as well as your own. It seems as if a tremendous amount of healing has taken place already. Am I wrong?
Now, to tell it openly. More healing.
Wow! I can tell you I don’t have that type of courage yet.
Thank you!
You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to see your name on here. I’m SO proud of you for speaking up, dood. So proud.
Your words are so beautiful.
Shivering. Thank you for sharing. You are an amazing person, as is he.
Wow. Write this down — I am speechless.
Thank God you had — and more importantly, HAVE — each other. They say there’s a bond that trauma creates that almost nothing can destroy. (Ask a soldier how he feels about the guys that were in a foxhole with him during the heat of battle. I think the same principle applies to VU stories.)
Keep soldiering on.
I tend to think coming through something traumatic with another person would be easier but if I look at it – really look – it would be so much more difficult. because the compassion we hold for our siblings, the love and pain of seeing them hurt as well had to make this impossible and yet. here you are. Inspirational and touching as ever.
Sigh. I just love you.
Wow.. so beautifully written.
Yes, tell it.. and tell it again. Tell it to anyone and everyone who will listen.
God, that was beautiful and strong. What a way to describe the sure madness and pain. Thank you for sharing!
It is important to break apart the silence. Both of you need to be able to speak it.
wow. thank you for sharing.
Sorry, but funny cannot be brought back today, my friend.
Poignant and courageous, Mr. Lady. May it give you strength. Thank you for sharing.
Love you even more…
Amazing writing. Thank you for having the courage to share your (and his) story.
Damn girl, you produce the most beautiful creations out of raw life.
Wow.
Your bravery is as amazing as your gift of the written word.
Thank you for sharing and giving so many other people the courage to tell their story also.
Your courage is inspiring. I wish you more of not being afraid. Thank you for sharing…
The story may or may not be “exceptional”. In all likelihod, it is tragically common. But the way you’ve written it, the imagery, is more than exceptional. If I could capture images half this vivid with my camera, I’d consider a career change.
You’ve clearly come a long, long way to get to this point. A long, tortuously painful way to begin to crack open the shell that surrounds you and… your brother? Yes, brother. If not by blood, then certainly by shared experience.
And now that you’ve begun, can it be very much longer before you go the rest of the way? When that time comes, I hope you’ll favor us with the sequel to this masterpiece. But regardless, know that you have friends here, and that collectively or individually we will be here as you find your way free. To help, to guide, or simply to listen. We will be here.
Your story is as beautiful as it’s source is wretched. Your courage does you great credit. Thank you for granting us this gift. May we prove worthy of it.
I don’t know what to say. You’re a brilliant writer, do you know that? Even though this story is almost unbearably sad for me to read, I am so glad you shared it and I hope you continue.
This is brilliant- thank you.
I am so proud of you.
Thanks, everybody.
So heartbreaking and beautiful all at once. I’m glad you’re going to share and thank you for doing so.
wow. ((hugs))
Your story is exceptional because of your courage to share it and to no longer be afraid. God how I envy you. From the moment I started reading this, your words soaked into my heart and soul. How I wish that I had your courage to tell my story that is so similar. Oh sure I’ve share vague bits and peices of this and that but just thinking about telling my story with all the ugly shit and all, scares the shit out of me. I am glad that your no longer afraid. When I read those words, I cried. You have a beautiful voice and I hope that you keep on telling your story. Thank you!
I just found this blog recently and think it is so wonderful to have a safe place like this for people to express their voice. Maybe some day I will have the courage to find my voice and tell it my story.
Thank you so much for sharing. Your strength and your survival are inspiring.
you give hope.
Dude, you amaze me. I think you are an awesome person and brave too.
Wow, absolutely heartfelt and real…
You? Are amazing.
This post is amazing, Mr. Lady.
I hate when I recognize people’s names on this site!
You are an amazing woman!
((Hugs))
I think you just opened up something in my brain that had been stuck shut for a very long time, and I’m equal parts grateful and a little bit afraid (but not as much as I could be.) I don’t know enough to say I understand, but I feel enough right now to know I can relate.
Good, difficult, work.