The You I've Never Known(84)

Gaslighting


A quick search on my phone reveals a lot of information.

Gaslighting is:

a sophisticated manipulation tactic used to create doubt in the minds of others.

Check.

The word comes

from an old movie

(and earlier play)

where:

(paraphrased) a shithead husband tries to convince his wife she’s going insane.

His tactics include isolation and making stuff disappear, then telling her she’s to blame, though she can’t remember it.

Check.

There are many

ways to create

said doubt:

create self-doubt through intensity of conviction; if that fails, toss in a little self-righteous indignation; skew actual facts with distortions that can’t be proved or disproved.

Check.

Check.

Check.

At least until

someone who

might very well

disprove them

appears on scene.

And overall:

the best liars deceive by repeating stories that are mostly true, while leaving out (or adding) a fact or two that represents truth.

That’s my fucking dad, okay.

My father, master of lies, who raised me with affection.

Except when he reminded me, with sharp words and the occasional slap across the face, that I was, in truth, little more than his possession.

What all this gaslighting information neglects to mention is the power of warping love to accomplish a goal.





Which Begs the Question


Does anyone truly love anyone else, or is every supposed love relationship fueled by some messed-up desire to achieve or conquer?

Will I ever have a legitimate answer to that question?

How long must I travel to find it? Can I just start right here, right now, or will today’s revelations make me forevermore toss aside chances in favor of assurances?

Would I even be asking these questions if I still believed myself to be

only seventeen, with a dad who sacrificed everything and a mother who left

me in her lust-fueled dust?

Goddamn it, I’m only a kid (with or without the proof of eighteen), so why is any of this relevant to me?

Why can’t I just

be?





I Fall Back Again


On Monica’s pillow, only this time I’m crying.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What good has crying ever done?

“I’m sorry.”

Not sure why.

Not sure who I’m really talking to.

All I know is I’m sorry and it isn’t enough for Maya

or Zelda

or Monica

or me

or anyone

involved in this insane bullshit created by my dad.

“Will you tell her I want to talk?”

I can’t do it myself.





Apparently


Monica and my purported mother have been communicating today while she and her partner, Tatiana, traveled back to San Francisco.

Maya McCabe is actually some

hoity-toity network news anchor.

Which means she has weekday

commitments in the Bay Area.

Monica sets up a meeting here

in Sonora next Saturday afternoon.

In other words, I’ve got an entire week to meander through, semi brain-dead. I spend this night in Carolina’s bed after almost getting busted seeking consolation in Monica’s arms. Good thing Carolina was anything but quiet when she came in, looking for her pajamas. I hope one day in the not-so-distant future I won’t have to disguise the integral truth of who I am.





As I Lie Here


Listening to Monica’s soft, even breathing, I wonder if I’ll ever really know the truth of who I am.

Is there truth in being two people, all wrapped up in one skin? If I accept that I am Casey, what happens to Ariel?

Now that I seem to have

become fatherless, do I invite a stranger in, embrace her as my mother, when before today resentment for her infiltrated every waking moment of my life? Does reconciliation require forgiveness when maybe, just maybe, she’s done nothing at all to forgive?

Perhaps an even bigger question is what about Dad? Is it okay to keep loving him despite everything? How could I believe all those lies? How will I ever completely trust anyone again?





Sunday Morning


Gabe’s right on time, honking

from the curb in front of the Torres house. Monica’s still drowsing

when I kiss her good-bye.

“Talk to you later. After work

I’ve got to go home, see if

it’s still home or if Dad deserted the place. Love you.”

I dare to slip my hand beneath

the covers, cup one breast

and then the other, circling

her attention-seeking nipples

with one finger. “Wish we had

more time, not to mention

privacy. Te quiero, novia.”

I do want her, and very soon.

Ten cuidado. You be careful.

Horses are big. Don’t fall off.

And stay out of your boyfriend’s backseat in case he’s changed his mind.

“Cross my heart. No backseat, and no spills off sixteen-hand horses.