El Vampiro

I've wanted to call my mom all day, but I emailed her last; it's her turn. I invited her to come celebrate Thanksgiving with my "biological" dad et al, and am awaiting her reply. My sister hasn't spoken to me in over a week. She can't get her lense around the picture of me living in New York as a twenty-four-year-old college graduate who likes to go out with men. I got pissed off that she never shares in any of my excitement regarding guys, and she's not being the big sister about it.

But I'm not reaching out like I would have before.

It's like I savor the pain of lonliness until I can't bear it any longer. I'm not masochistic, but I am aware of the orgasmic climax that pain comes to when you just can't take it any more. I am aware of the trance that pain puts you in so that you can't walk away, you just focus on it with an almost masturbatory intensity until you taste blood in your mouth -- or whatever it is that happens to ::snap:: you out of it.

I'm in pain.

But I can feel it bringing me to a new level of awareness.

Like Dustin Hoffman in A Man Called Horse, when he went through the initiation ceremony. As the steaks ripped at his muscles he hung on the pain: allowed the pain the cradle him, because he knew it was transforming him.

I love this pain, with a firey hate.

When I go home for Thanksgiving, I don't want people complaining that I don't spend enough time with them. It's not my fault I have three sets of parents. I'm so much better off than they were at my age!

Let them come to me.

It is only my brothers and sister who need me justifiably: fortunate for Mama they all live around her.

This is my pain, with my blood, for my healing, for my scars, for my life.