Mood: painfully plodding
July 28, 2004.
Time to bury the ashes of my sweetheart.
My father, his wife, and I arrive at the cemetary.
We are met there by the funeral director.
A statuesque, leggy, well appointed throw back from the nazi party stood ready to brutalize us into submission.
At 6'2, she towered over my paltry 5'6".
For my beloved husband, I purchased a beautiful vault.
Within, I had planned to lovingly place his ashes, before lowering him into the ground.
Suddenly I was seized by panic.
It didn't feel right.
He didn't want to be buried.
His family had coerced me into compliance with their wishes, that he remain here, in the cemetary of their choice.
That moment I knew.
It wasn't going to happen.
He was coming home with me.
The solid marble vault, for which I had paid $750.00 was now a write off, but I didn't care.
I advised Funeral Mistress of my sudden change of heart.
She screeched her indignation.
"WHAT ABOUT THE VAULT?"
I asked if it was possible for her to give it to a needy family that couldn't afford something like that.
"NO" she huffed.
I then suggested more alternatives, which only fueled her rage.
My father rushed to her defense.
His wife went along for the ride.
With my father safely tucked away into her back pocket, she begins jockeying for dominance over me.
At first, her agression is masked in cloying codescention, as she fumbles for leverage.
She throws off mask and gloves, bearing nashing, carnivorous fangs for me to point at, and ridicule.
The gautlet of confrontation crashes to the ground.
An explosive exchange poisons the subdued air.
She steps into my face.
I'm forced to look up at her.
I step even closer to her .
She glares in disbelief, and raises her hand to stike me.
I smirk defiantly, as her hand is caught in mid air.
She spins her heel in huffy retreat.
The ashes are mine.
Her ears are filled with the echos of my mocking refrain as she beats a path to her car.
With funeral nazi on the run, my spineless wiener of a father takes another look at his powerful daughter.
I feel a deep, burning hatred toward him for abandonning me all over again.
Through this lens of this re-visited trauma, I get a good look at what's yanking the ancestoral rod.
Father now unconsciously transfers his frustrated libidinal cathexis to me, in the hope of obtaining mothering,
When I was five, the leggy blonde was an ex-model from Paris.
His new queen.
It's appropo, I suppose, because she was always in 'drag'.
A state of massive shock rendered me completely unconscious of the poison that filled my psychic landscape.
The repressed, and unidentified pathenogenic affect generated by the trauma, finds another outlet for expression.
The result is disasterous outcomes in business and personal affairs.
An overall failure to adjust to the a culture in which I'm expected to heal my broken soul.
Re-construct the fusilage into a shiny new airplane.
Gather the pieces of my shattered mind.
If I am the ultimate master of my agency, then I am the author of all the misfortune that befalls me.
If I am not the ultimate master of my agency , then outside forces really kicked my ass when I was down.
Freud proposes that we are not aware of the lion's share of our agency.
It is a plaything, to myriad unconscious forces in search of gratification.
His ego structure theory gives an introdctory look at some of the forces vying for a bit of that pimp juice.
The Id, the ego, and the superego.
In my case, a Freudian would postulate, that an unconscious, masochistic wish for rejection plays into the avenging forces that left me bruised and broken on the outskirts of humanity
This point may be debatable.
I propose that Post Tramatic Stress Disorder is the cause of my failure to navigate the stormy waters generated by the sins of my father.
It would be a least a year before I uncovered my true, unfufilled wishes.
Did I really wish for a command performance of the original terror that paralized my five year old sensibilities?
The day social services whisked us away to foster care...
To the dog pound.
I should count my blessings.
Had it not been for them, we probably would have been shot behind the barn.
And now, he conferrs upon me the gift of his unresolved odeipal complex after handing my ass to that twitchy funeral bitch.
No amount of crying, whaling or lamenting is going to resolve the the logistical problems of staying alive in a world of dogs, without becoming a dog myself.
Although, I may be a dog already, and not know it yet.
There is a powerful constellation of stars in the firmement of my world, that has set the wheels of fate in motion.
I am carried aloft on a runaway train careening into the gates of the underworld.
I've repeatedly re-dedicated my effort towards a satisfactory outcome in my wordly enterprises.
I continue to fail in that endeavor.
Can I change old stars for new ones?
Psychoanalysis would advise us to de-toxify, and sublimate the psychic affects of getting our asses kicked by fate.
Successful sublimation had better guarantee a new look for my dark horizon, or I want my money back..