The Man in the Mirror

I guess that is an interesting title, the man in the mirror. It is a song that was made popular by the late Mr. Michael Jackson.

I'm Gonna Make A Change, 
For Once In My Life
It's Gonna Feel Real Good,
Gonna Make A Difference
Gonna Make It Right . . .
 That's Why I Want You To Know
I'm Starting With The Man In
The Mirror
I'm Asking Him To Change
His Ways...

I did a post a few years ago about looking in the mirror. Never gave a thought about the Michael Jackson song, but my brother had it used in a power point about abuse/domestic abuse/wife abuse. The lyrics should resonate with me and others that have caused conflict or hurt in their lives. You know those sayings like "be the change you wish to see in the world" and other good words. Its not enough is it?  When do we say that we have really changed? 

Today I had such a rough day mentally. I struggle sometimes to maintain  or control the rage that is inside me. That rage is not to anyone but is meant for me. But who sees that rage or who feels it?  It is the family, the grandkids. It is the tone of voice, the short bursts of "enough" and the occassional "Jesus Christ or fuck sakes" that is poured out. Then it hits the feelings of ugliness about oneself. How I hate that person. That arse who can't even change. Didnt' he cause enough sorrow?

Then the other feelings rush in. The tired of life feeling. The thoughts of its over. No more!  The thoughts of living a legacy of hurt gets muddled. You think of leaving despite the hurt that it may bring to your family. You spiral into many thoughts of regret, alienation, sorrow, anger, repulsed by your own head. The deeper you go the more insane you feel. Your anger had always been the default position. Now it tries to take lead again. It goes from one extreme to the next, from not really feeling anything to feeling eveything.

You try and make an earnest attempt to change your ways. Every single day you think "I am changed" but you know that it is one slip away from being the same old shitty arse you. One quick outburst and you know you are still that fuck up who couldn't control his anger. His immature behaviour. Anger the mechanism to deal with fear. That fear turned to anger and anger gave some type of control.

People think you are doing well. They think that nothing is going on there. They think you are doing fine. "I am good"... "mino ayaa".  But in reality it is a constant never ending battle just to live. Sure it is not every single minute and you do really truly have good days. But you know that you shouldn't be having good days. You know that you should not say out loud, I am having fun. You know you don't deserve to ever be truly happy. You know you should have been the one to die and not your boy. You know its not just about the boy and the mistakes you made there. It is ALL the mistakes, the hurt, the lies, the trouble, that you are that compounds it. You wonder will I ever be able to function. To really be able to contribute anything meaningful?  It was never just about the boy. He was the breaking point. The ultimate mistake that you made. Not him but the way you were with him. Your love didn't matter because it was your actions that were at fault.

So you think you know depression eh?  Well I don't.  I just know that I am on a borrowed time here. Some days you think no more, I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. 

I see alot of fucking crazy ass people on the social media. Drama this and drama that. Being all benevolent and stuff but at the same time just feeding misery and spreading it around like manure in a farmers field. That stench sure travels, eh? All the time they want others to see them as the kind one, the good one, the hero, the activist, the defender of rights,  the victim of others' wrath or jealousy.  Shit anyway. They are just no better than me, and I am a piece of fucking shit. 

As my deceased Uncle used to say ... "fucker John your moneys gone" ...

SCO Suicide Prevention and stopping Family Violence.

A new tune by Vince Fontaine's Indian City.  

Restoring Ojibwe Language.