Crazy Blood

I spend most of my days in slippers, scuffling across the broken tile in my apartment speaking in soliloquy. I don’t really talk about anything interesting and I bore myself as a companion, in fact most of the time I just repeat what I need to do or complain. I spend a lot of time rehearsing things I want to say to other people, or rather, I spend a lot of time having arguments with others by myself. “No, like I said, you’ve done too many things to make me feel bad and there’s no going back now! I don’t want to have sex because I’ve given up, it’s pointless, you could get more enjoyment from your hand. Oh I’m sooorry I’m not twenty-three and I don’t like to have sex in public places that smell like pee and hepititis.”

My dog, thinking I’m talking to him, often stops and sits in front of me waiting for a word that he knows so he can follow a command. When I realize that he can hear me speaking too, I feel like an idiot. I can’t figure out why I do it since I never feel resolved after. Instead it pisses me off more, I become angry because the other person didn’t respond. “No use in talking to her or him anyways they clearly never have anything to fucking say.” Though I never actually gave them a chance since they weren’t physically present during the conversation. After, I realize that I’m angry at a person for not participating in a discussion where they weren’t present, and the fear that I’m going to become schizophrenic sets in. Then I start to worry that I’m hearing voices and I listen for them and pray that I don’t hear anything. So far I haven’t.

In a psychology class in high school I learned that a lot of mental “disorders” are genetic. Shitfuckdamn. My uncle was/is schizophrenic. He was fairly normal until I reached junior high (as normal as someone related to me could possibly be) and then one day, BAM! He was bananas. I felt bad for him both of the times he had to go to the crazy house. The second time I even called my grandmothers house to warn him that the people were coming with a straight jacket. I was punk rock. I was anti-establishment. I was worried they might shock therapy him to death. I didn’t find an institution fuckcunt to be necessary even if he was parading around the house with a loaded shot-gun in his underwear. Somehow at the time, “loaded shot-gun” was like “christmas tree”, the idea seemed silly but non-threatening. He seemed fine after he’d been given a mix of seretonin uptake inhibitors and a few months at Benchmark Mental Hospital. After he didn’t threaten suicide anymore, and he had less freak outs, though from time to time he would occasionally still call me and demand I hack into his girlfriends email address or to tell me that “LIFE IS FUCKING BULLSHIT”. Ballscunt. I didn’t know how to hack things, so I’d say I couldn’t and that would get him going and he’d scream hysterically while I slowly lowered the receiver thinking, “oh that uncle is really somethin'”. Being related to a schizophrenic was kind of exciting though, like finding out one is related to a unicorn.

It seems a little less novel when you catch yourself having tea for two, for one, in a dimly lit living room due to some kind of agoraphobia. Sometimes I think really horrible things. I think, “it’s really not so difficult to pick up a knife and stab someone repeatedly. I try to imagine what it would feel like. Like stabbing a steak? Shutter. What stops me or anyone from doing it, is it because in my core it’s morally wrong or because I don’t want to live in a cement cell with someone named Laquita for twenty-five-to-life? Fagwhoreslut. The motion is easy. And then I get nervous that I’m thinking about it and avoid knives for the rest of the day. But what about possession? How could I stop myself from stabbing someone if I were possessed by say, a demon?

“there is a wide variety of possible symptoms of demon possession, such as a physical impairment that cannot be attributed to an actual physiological problem, a personality change such as depression or aggression, supernatural strength, immodesty, antisocial behavior, and perhaps the ability to share information that one has no natural way of knowing”.

It’s clearly more common than one thinks. My boyfriend says I watched too many scary movies as a kid, he says I just have an artistic imagination when I develop random fears-my dog’s head popping off in the elevator, for example.  He might be right or it might be in my blood.

My mother was on zoloft for manic depressive something or other when I was a kid. In high school she had her girl guts removed to try to even-out her moods to save her marriage. I read once that estrogen injections make lab rats homocidal, so if we’re anything like rats it was probably a logical move. My great-grandmother, a lovely woman with hair the color of strawberry lemonade, was institutionalized for a nervous breakdown in the 50’s, leaving my grandmother, then sixteen, to care for her four siblings. My grandmother grew up with a dependency on both whiskey, and bad men. Addiction. Vafanculo. All cycled to my mother, my uncles, my aunt, and me. Genetics, or maybe the fact that for generations we’ve been recycling bad parenting. Every generation repeating the mistakes of the past. We’re so smart, we think, so observant but we fail to notice when we become everything we hate, and then pass it to our offspring like a sexually transmitted disease. fuckshitdamncuntballswhore! This is why I think I’ll be an unfit mother.

As a witness to my own private workings and generations of those like me I worry for anything that might free itself from my womb. After watching the movie Damian, I was pretty sure I was going to be the unlucky bastard to have satans baby. But realistically and with paranoia aside I just don’t want to have a normal baby and then spend a lifetime sprinkling it with either inherited or learned insanity until it eventually drowns, or buys a clown outift and starts burrying people under the house. I don’t know about John Wayne Gacy’s mom, but I would be really embarrassed to be it’s mother. I might be okay now but who knows where I’ll be in ten years. On Zoloft, institutionalized, wombless, fuckdamnshit. Or not. I might be fine.

Oftentimes it’s the people who hold things in that you have to worry about, the ones who bury things deep, who don’t vent. My boyfriend is that type, he holds it all in, silently keeping score in his head of who has crossed him, he hates a lot of people but you’d never know it. He’s well versed in how to appear well in public. He’s gonna go nuts for sure. In Human Development I learned that having a mid-life crises is fairly predictable, it’s the ones with over-bearing parents, straight-A students, people who always do what other people want, who one day say, “I want to do what I want”. And that thing might be the secretary. Fuckduckdick. But maybe it’s like osteoporosis, or gingivitis, where knowledge is half the battle. In that case I’m prepared for mental health.

I take vitamins, drink wine, and write violently in my journal. I talk to myself.

Vacations

Despite the fact that I am a lunatic, my boyfriend continues to try and treat me like a normal person. Last weekend he arranged a surprise for me which included a night’s stay in an agritourismo in D’Orcia, a small city south of Siena. He referred to it as “our first family vacation” which meant we took our bastard poodle with us. When we first started dating he was full of surprises both the good kind and the really bad kind. We had a really beautiful weekend surrounded by green Tuscan hills in the middle of nowhere, it should have been romantic and perfect but I messed it up a little bit. And this brings me to the point of the story: I found the Italian version of the movie Deliverance.

I really had no idea that Italy was home to the same kind of hillbillys one might find in rural America. It made me happy that not only my native land can inbreed, and produce humans who go an entire lifetime without a dental visit. When someone says, “Italy” I would have never pictured a toothless man holding a Ukulele, until now.

When we arrived to our vacation destination we were greeted by one of Francesco’s co-workers whose family owns the small apartment we would be renting for the night. He was wearing hunting camo, and wading boots in a very Elmer Fud fashion given his tiny, tiny stature. I introduced myself and he flashed me a big toothless grin and then went about showing us the property while inserting random information about killing wild pigs. Because I was raised partially by criminals, perverts, and freaks I immediately started looking for weapons, and hidden areas where they keep the tourists they’ve kidnapped. “I’ll find you guys” I thought. He invited us into his apartment. The front door swung open revealing an entire wall of photos of dead animals, guts hanging out of wild pigs lined up in the road, animal body parts dangling from random sections of wall, and of course, a naked centerfold calendar with a busty blonde on the fireplace. Yep, he was definitely a seriel killer and his whole family was probably in on it. After having the privilage of seeing his home, we were shoved into his massive camoflaged SUV to take a coffee in the nearby village, and see his families vineyards. I sat behind Francesco and Elmer trying to keep an eye on him and wondering for how long I’d be kept alive as a human sex doll after he’d cut off Francesco’s head.

After our scenic drive, it was breathtaking I’ll admit, Elmer took us into a cellar under the grounds of his home to show us where his family makes wine. The musty, stone-walled room was lined with large tin vats of “wine”. While the boys talked I walked around tapping them to see if they were empty, or contained human remains. They all echoed that they were empty. Elmer was very nice, and he gave us a bottle of wine, and we went into our little apartment to take a nap, but not before I searched the walls and ceilings for hidden cameras and microphones while Francesco unpacked. I wanted to tell Francesco that this place reminded me of The Hills Have Eyes, but I was worried they were listening somehow and would be insulted then barge into our room with an ax. No, no, I thought, I’ll wait until we are safely out of earshot before saying anything.

“You don’t like the surprise?” Francesco asked while we cuddled on the bed.

“I think it’s great! You’re very sweet, I’m sorry I’m just a bit tired.”

Of course I would do that. My boyfriend puts together a surprise weekend for me, and I become freaked out and ruin everything by acting insane. But, if the guy WAS a serial killer, I would save our lives, so really being alive was just as important as having a romantic weekend.

After a short nap Francesco and I spent the day driving to small, nearby cities to check out the local sights, we drank some exceptional wine in Montalcino, and took a few dozen photos of us together. He looked adorable in all of them while I looked like a homeless person who had recently recovered from a ten year meth addiction.

Later that night we took Elmer’s recommendation to have dinner in a restaurant on top of a mountain where all of the locals go. Think KKK convention mixed with sports mania. Most of the other patrons were celebrating some kind of soccer victory with noisemakers and bull horns. All together they had about ten teeth so they mostly gummed their food. They took turns giving scathing speeches against other regions in between singing their teams anthem, and talking about immigration and how it’s ruining their “culture”. Frankly I think even a band of carnies might lend an improvement. We ordered a mix of food and then tried to hold it in as the chef’s came out one at a time to publically scratch their balls or smoke a cigarette.

We went “home” exhausted. Francesco fell asleep in record time, I stayed awake listening for strange noises and trying to decipher things in the dark. I tried to remind myself that I simply watched too many scary movies, and that I’m extremely paranoid by nature. I’m afraid I’m going to develop schizophrenia, and then thinking about it gives me an anxiety attack which I interpret as the onset of schizophrenia. But, the craziest thing about my paranoia is that I’m not afraid of anything “normal”. Monster under the bed? Fucking terrified. People who have been to prison for murder? No, not so much. I slept for two hours.

I awoke the next morning in one piece, and was relaxed enough to even have sex  nearly worry free. I did peak over his shoulder a few times just in case someone with a hockey mask and a machete tried to sneak up behind us. I packed while Francesco was outside talking with Elmer. “Babe, he’s leaving you better go say goodbye!”, I stalled while doing something “very important” and arrived outside just as he was leaving. “Damnit, well that sucks!” I said, shaking my head with disappointment. I at least wanted to give the impression that I was friendly, and hide that I was terrified that the man might make a lamp out of my ass. When we left I felt a rush of relief pass over me. Now, I had to make it up to Francesco.

We stopped in Siena on the way home and everything seemed to settle. We walked around admiring the city, stopped in for Mexican food, I jump at the chance to eat non-pasta dishes whenever I can, and we had an overall amazing day. I’m sure it wasn’t enough to make up for the fact that I ruined the romantic weekend, but I hope it was enough that he won’t look back and wonder why he ever bothered. For me, even with my paranoia it was worth it. But maybe I’m not that paranoid.

Just because he didn’t kill us doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. Maybe he knew that I knew?