It was impossible to breathe in that hell hole. The stench from all the dog and cat shit, the dirty dishes and laundry, the rotting trash filled with maggots, the millions of cigarette butts filling up ashtrays, empty dishes and even the potted plants all contributed to the toxic air inside my childhood home.

It actually pissed me off and I hated being forced to live like that. I looked and smelled as though I came from a dumpster and was treated accordingly by my peers. My little heart burned with anger at them for making me go through that every day. I knew it was my parent’s responsibility and fault, even at a young age and I hated them.

Before I learned to sneak out at night to breathe in the fresh air, I did what I could to survive. Praying didn’t seem to help so I figured out ways to save myself. Every minute of every day felt like a battle of will to just live.

It’s funny the things a kid will come up with. When I got lice and they refused to treat it and mocked me instead, I doused my head with pesticide I found in the garage and took care of it myself. It worked.

I also used to steal dryer sheets and put them over my face at night just to try and block the barrage of odors filling my nostrils and burning my brain. Having a seizure disorder meant that every sense was heightened, including my sense of smell and hearing so combined with all the loud music and chaos it was like living in hell for me every day.

No one else seemed to notice that I was struggling, either. I guess they got bored with me being sick by that point. If I brought it up they just told me I was attention seeking and wasn’t sick anymore because the Mormon’s had healed me ahahaha (I’ll write more about that later).

Nights were the worst, especially in summer. I never had a screen on my window – usually the cats would tear them up soon after we’d move into a new place – and I’d sleep with it open to try and get some fresh air in there so I could breathe.

Soon the june bugs and moths and other flying critters would come, buzzing around me all night, keeping me awake as I tossed and turned.

When I did fall asleep, invariably I’d be woken by a whisper in the dark. One of my brother’s “clients” was always lurking nearby, peeking into or knocking on windows looking to score some meth. Twenty four hours a day they came and they went but at night it was especially scary for me.

They were like demons lurking in the shadows just outside my window. A living nightmare, really. Speaking of that…

Now, dear children, pay attention
I am the voice from the pillow
I brought you something
Have ripped it out of my chest
With this heart, I have the power
Blackmail the eyelids
I sing until the new day comes
A bright light in the heaven’s sky

My heart burns

They come to you at night
Demons, ghosts and black elves
They crawl up from the cellar rows
And will take a look under your blanket

Little children listen now
I am the voice from the pillow
I brought something to you
A bright light in the heaven’s sky

My heart burns
My heart burns

They come to you at night
And steal your small hot tears
They wait till the moon awakes
And push them in my cold veins

Little children listen now
I am the voice from the pillow
I sing ’til the day awakes
A bright light in the heaven’s sky

My heart burns
My heart burns
My heart burns
My heart burns

With this heart I have the power
To blackmail the eyelids
I sing ’til the day wakes up
A bright light in the heaven’s sky

My heart burns
My heart burns
My heart burns (My heart)
My heart burns
(My heart burns)
(My heart burns)

Rammstein

I love how he embodies that persona of our worst childhood demons and then how he kills himself for us. That was nice of him. 😄

Till is so damned good at working through, or at least acknowledging, his own trauma with art and I envy him. Since I can’t paint and I’m not great with prose and while I do have musical talent, I don’t have the energy to play anymore. I am happy just to simply blog my experiences and put them out into the ether.

My heart isn’t burning anymore. It has settled into a simmer, which is good because I am still angry but I’m not full of hate or vengeance anymore.

That’s a good thing.