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JWR 2.35 - The Sickness


Madness is the gift that has been give to me.


There are certain times when you need to stop simply going through life not listening, not seeing what really goes on.  Like that time when you realized there was no Santa, no Easter Bunny.  I used to really, REALLY believe in the Easter Bunny.  I thought I saw him once; he was golden colored.  It was most likely a dream.  Or the crack.


But there are times when they flip you; they flip you for real.  It can be something you see, something you realize, something that dawns on you, or something that is told to you...almost in passing, like you should have known all along and should have been aware.  And theyíre right.  You should have been.


Iíve heard some pretty horrific things in my time.  Iíve been in a high school class where a girl recounted in far too vivid detail the time she was sexually assaulted.  All this to a class that couldnít have cared less.  I sat there very still and emotionless, yet inside I was swimming, my perception shifted and made me fairly disoriented.  You canít, you canít look at that person in quite the same way anymore.


Another time a friend of mine told me that both her sisters were molested by their baby-sitter.  Can you look at them in the same way, John?  Well, no.  You can act like you do to them and to everyone else, but the truth is as soon as they walk away, you watch them and think of what they went through.  Will they flinch if you go to touch them?  If you were ever in a position to be intimate with them, would they shake before and cry afterwards?  Does that make you a good person or a bad person, John?


The thing is, I have no idea how many of you have been abused or assaulted verbally, mentally or physically.  None, one or all of you; I donít know.  I donít want to.  I care, I just canít know.


Recently, someone very close to me mentioned, almost nonchalantly, that her step father was abusive to her.  Hitting her and leaving her bloody.  At first it wasnít a big deal until I thought about it.  And not about the actions, rather thought about him, someone Iíve met, hitting her and her mother, someone I actually see from time to time, doing nothing.  No, sorry, defending it.  DEFENDING IT, John.


Iíve seen the mother since I found this out.  She and I talk a bit.  I laugh at her jokes.  Iím laughing now.  Sheís a funny lady.  How funny was she when her daughter was crying through puffy lips and a bloody nose, John?


Later that night I thought, why wasnít I getting off my ass and going over to their house and taking that iron length of pipe with the duct tape grip that I keep behind my driverís seat in my car and cracking his knuckles with it...to begin with.  Yeah, why not, John?  What are you, some kind of pussy?  Stick up for her.


I grew up well enough.  I kept pretty much in line, so there was little occasion that warranted a spanking or, at worst, a belt whipping.  Sure, Iíd get yelled at and talked to and sent to my room far more.  No whippings for insignificant things that did not warrant it.  Iíll still get yelled at if I do something dumb.  And Iíll still get that shiver run up my back because I do not like it.  Itís that respect thing for the guy whose dick I came from.   You know, my dad; Iím one of his sperm.


So, no, I wasnít abused.  I was cared for very well.  Of course I knew about abuse.  It was on TV and you learned about it in school.  There were images of the elderly uncle on a chair who made some kid touch him ďdown there.Ē  Or a parent who was quick with the belt.  I knew about it; I knew I wasnít exposed to it.


I never knew she was.  I feel guilty like I should have known or asked.  Itís a cycle of abuse.  Your parents do it to you, you do it to your kids, your kids do it to their kids...Itís the easy way out.  I have an urge to hit.  Kick and hurt.  Whatís stopping me?  Must be that reaction I fear my dad having.


I canít look at them in the same way.  She will now have pity from me.  Her father will hold a place deep down in my soul where I hate and do not forgive.  Her mother will be sitting right on top of him there since she wants to stand by him so fucking much.


Sheís and adult now, like me.  Sheís okay, but she holds a grudge, naturally.  Good thing she doesnít hold a gun.


You can absolutely ignore it if it does not affect you.  How many of us are ignoring the Afghanistan war?  Shit, is that still going on, John?  Yes.


Maybe you able to live oblivious to the kids next door who have black eyes and bruises all over.  Maybe you can ignore the shouting matches that culminate with something getting thrown across a room.  Maybe you can turn a blind eye, just like me.


Several years ago I was in a bookstore in the mall and this guy came in and started talking to the girl behind the counter.  Sheís obviously not happy to see him and tells his in a very loud voice to stop bothering her, to stop coming to see her, that she no longer wants anything to do with him.  Sheís nearly reduced to tears sheís so frustrated and upset.  Boom, she storms off.  Now the guy is left standing there.  Heís a lanky looking dork with droopy fitting clothes and a shaggy haircut.  Heís now standing near me and looks at me and says, ďWomen,Ē with a little smirk.  You know what I did?  I returned his smile.


My Christmas wish is to be able to relive that moment so I would have the chance to act differently.


Itís everywhere.  Open your eyes.


What would you do differently, John?






I can see inside you the sickness is rising

Donít try to deny what you feel

(Will you give in to me)

It seems that all that was good has died

And is decaying me

(Will you give in to me)

It seems youíre having some trouble

In dealing with these changes

Living with these changes

The world is a scary place

Now that youíve woken up the demon in me


Madness has now come over me


Get up, come on get down with the sickness

Open up your hate and let it flow in to me

Get up, come on get down with the sickness

You mother get up, come on get down with the sickness

You fucker get up, come on get down with the sickness

Madness is the gift that has been given to me




Copyright © 2001 John Lemut