fearless autobiography: mea culpa

when visiting the great escape music and book store in nashville with my dad i would hole up in the autobiography section reading every celebrity's tell-all.

i have been informed by the non-dad members of my non-dad-family that i am not allowed to tell all.
that i must spend my days combing through the internet with a fine tooth comb searching for some true fact they want deleted.

dan diamond suggested i write a blog about the recent gag orders.
sometimes it's my brother michael eng screaming in my ear of the phone stalking device.

last night after ed kangas died, it was a request that i delete anything i wrote about my parents rocky marriage.
what marriage isn't rocky?

(plates smashed at my dad: delete)

then i was informed that i hurt feelings by moving to california.
so i apologized explaining the duress, which then started a slurry of attacks numerous: one most stinging: "that's why no one wants to be around you."

the nonsense of this statement, is that we were looking over genealogy documents.

i recalled two years ago i was looking at some of the documents and the drunk members of the eng family decided to start cursing and screaming at me and throwing beads like angry confetti.

angry that my bookishness was "inappropriate."

it was no charlie hebdo style killing, but a similar explosive energy.

then, my dear friend got death threats, and threats to attack him with a two by four and a gun, by the undrunk yet rather deranged eng.

in light of the death threats as well as similar foul statements from portland police about shooting my friend---there is no course of action but to file a restraining order to protect him from my family's violence.

i meanwhile can squeeze under the wire---with only the random "drive-by-mothering" or other verbal abuse attack from other non-mom members.

i panicked.
spent about 78 dollars on a spending spree of clothing for the Right to Dream homeless camp.

fearing conflict.

i thanked my sister for making me feel like a welcome member of the family. then i told her about the brothers horrendousness.  which all just must have made her amped to dig at me.
she apologized.

which was nice.
saying we have baggage.

apprehended with doom, the possibility that family member X would lavish the current mother-generated hatred towards me.

you see mum runs from sibling to sibling urging them to berate me for crimes 25 years old.
eager for love, they comply with her demands to abuse me.

i know it sounds absurd.

the most important message she seeks to convey through her children/henchmen is that i am unlikable and unloved and disliked and evil and domineering and mean.

so mea culpa.

i am actually cruella de ville eng, the actual witch of east nashville. i hang with the sharks and vampires.

i know it sounds so silly.
silly monkeys.

my family presents so friendly.
but when the glint their slivers of eyes and start spitting out their attacks on me, in chorus, or one at a time, the tag-team gang bang is quite a spectacle!
they bully me, then send in a fresh bully to bully me some more!

today my aunt even joined in calling me "domineering" and telling me to stop talking.

their outbursts come after a particularly dreary spell of house-cleaning---in which i am almost assured i am appreciated and loved---or at least noticed for the backbreaking toil.

after witnessing uncle die, last night, i wasn't allowed to grieve, but the vampires decided to suck my blood instead.
it's beginning to feel like a pattern.
death. abuse. death. abuse.

i will learn to stop putting my hand on the hot stove.

but the feminization of poverty starts young, with the burdening of the eldest girl child with the laundry and cares of raising the catholic bunny-style family for the working mum.

and conveniently after the twelve-year-old sister acting as a teen-mother is burnt out and used up, she can conveniently be burned as a witch.

i am encouraged not to be the victim, as i am screamed at.
i imagine most or all families are this messed up.

everyone should have a fearless autobiography.
admit their sins.
i kicked my brother when i was twelve. i feel horrible for it.
he wouldn't do his share of the chores.
it was wrong to have me delegating and overseeing.
it was wrong to kick.
it was too much pressure.

and i kicked ben, when he was panicked and screaming at me, slaving over my mom's house.

living in fear of being killed or beaten with a two by four puts a twist on exploiting disabled people's labor.
so he's working.
i'm sick of his temper tantrums.
he's telling me he's leaving.
i can't face my family without his support and protection.
i can't be left with the vipers.
i cant take his constant screaming, inspired by his own abusive family.
he threatens to scream, almost crushes my fingers, almost kicks a mirror.
i fear today is the day he becomes james chasse.
the silly police with their silly guns will come shoot him or me or both.
they have already volunteered to shoot him.

i could never make him settle down.
nor my mom.
the people are wild in the pacific northwest.
they're wild and mean.
you may still love them.
they'll try to gag your blog if you try to convey their rough ways.

you don't want to be them.
you may love them, but avoid them like a den of tigers.
there is something to growing old and mean.

i was told this might be the last time you see your sister.
i was positively crushed by her brusqueness.
but no one showed her love. she was just another neglected child.

sometimes it seems there is something deeply wrong with all of us.
i cannot comprehend their cruelty to me.
right before aunt began screaming at me, she said, now i hope you don't go and do something stupid, but  (scream SCREAM scream)

it was as if she was acknowledging that the bullying from my sister and mom together was enough to push ANYONE to suicide.

as if she knew she was jumping into the suicide-pushing Bully Mudwrestling Pile-On.

she just wanted to be sure---even though they were being horrible to me---i didn't do something stupid in consequence.

well i delivered most of my clothing to the homeless downtown.
i've gutted my files even more.
and

i may make myself as scarce as my brothers these days.


mother alleges they are avoiding me. but they might just be avoiding everything, including their own temper-tantrums.

now this not Islam, this is Catholic.
Catholic nitty-gritty dysfunctional man-worshipping misogynistic nonsense.

i was told the reason why my friend gets no kindness is i'm not married.

so basically if i dont partake of the heterosexist cocksuckery of marriage---i get the royal tar-and-feathers.
i mean at least they're not hiring killercars to assassinate me and drive me off the road at this point.

i could say my carjackers in LA were more polite.

so everything has a price.
and this is the current price.
not FREE.

the emotional pricetag.

free fearless autobiography.
i have fought off multiple deranged men with hands and my feet.
i may be small but i am not afraid to fight.

but with my family---why can't there ever be a place of love and peace?
there never was.

it was always blood-curdling screaming from day 1.
but that's what it takes to raise children in america.
right?

so in another creepy twist i found out i am related to the navy seal o'neil or o'neill who killed osama bin laden. grandma mary kangas's half-sister's grandson. it was.

the son of my mom's cousin.

he's a redhead.

so now: now: not being killed by my own family is the goal of all this writing.
i consider it an matter of life or death---not to mention a mitigation for any future victims---or to inspire others suffering similar ambiguous abuse.

it would be so much easier to understand if they were just hitting me over the head with blunt objects.
but i think the emotional and verbal abuse and attacks are incredibly painful, in a way that makes it hard to validate.

they love to gaslight me until i cry, then ridicule my tears.

Uncle Ed might tell them all to piss-off and leave me alone.

i could at least have a swig of his spirits.

dad has disowned them more than entirely.

dad strengthens me.
i realize his lack of interest in participating in the endless demands.

i had tea in the kitchen by mistake.
its all my fault.
you see, i cannot go in the kitchen, because that is like entering the boxing ring.

thus i starve.

i can only go there alone, in the dead of night.

no matter how kindly i cook, or what not, just standing there makes me a siting duck.

so i need a safe house from my safe house.
or a vacation from my vacation

zac goldsmith thanked me for my birthday greetings, and wished mum a happy birthday.

my tough love is real love.
if my family can't face their bad behavior in print---through my generous euphemisms---they might as well move to Saudi Arabia and offer to flog the blogger.

that's what it's all about.
i'm flogged too.
sometimes chased or swatted at.
things thrown.
curse words.
accusations.

you see, no matter how much my brothers abuse me, mother cannot stand me to mention it.
she explains it's her fault because she told them how upset she is at me.

but they get infinite leeway.  i get none. its sexist.

but you know.  dad might give me infinite leeway. to him i was always wonderful and perfect. so at least someone loved me once, though he's dead now.
i guess everyone can't love everyone else the way they want to be loved.

there was something elegant about ed's death last night.  he vomited profuse brown bile right before he died.  it was an overwhelming smell.
he looked quiet like dad before he died.

death has a look.
it's not my fault he died.

i'm barking up the wrong tree, looking for love in all the wrong places.

i finally get it.
loud and clear.
there is no love here.
year 2013 i admitted that mum's cruelty makes her about dead to me.

she alternates sweet with evil.
so i fall for sweet.

i keep collecting the cheese from her mousetrap.

why couldn't she just say: i feel horrible my brother died. and your brothers hate you. what a horrible thing. she whipped them into hatred instead of guiding them towards love.
i explained that is her job, to teach them to be kind.

not allow hatred to poison her whole family.

but she is not a natural leader.
hatred is the virus that runs riot.  no amount of bleach or patchouli will kill it.

but she never gets it.
maybe, like cannibals, she views me as the fresh meat she can fillet for an evening's bloody gorging.

mothers who cannibalize their young: it's a thing kids. beware.

that and the sharks, and your imaginary sister angela, and the witch of east nashville, and all of father's true lying myths.