Before I Returned to Prison

I don’t know what time I got up this morning. That’s unusual, because I always happen to notice the clock display on the cable box that my brother forces me to keep in my room, but, today, I just happened not to see it.

 After going to the bathroom and cleaning up, I made my way out into the kitchen. The coffeemaker had just been turned on, but it’s even slower than the one we’d had before it had stopped working and my brother had bought a replacement. I knew I’d have to wait 15 minutes for the coffeemaker to keep making noises to itself while it finished brewing the pot. It’s a house rule imposed on me not to pour the first mug of coffee until an entire pot has finished brewing because my brother feels it “ruins the taste.” There are, in fact, times when I wait an hour and a half for coffee, because my father sometimes insists on making the coffee, and he still lollygags at everything he does like he’s getting paid by the hour the way he was from age 15 to age 65. He wasn’t a lazy worker, just ridiculously methodical. He’s also always had an unconscious sly streak, so that, if someone is waiting for him to finish doing something, he’ll unconsciously take an extra-long time about it for the unwitting purpose of aggravating them. He drove my late mother crazy a number of times that way, and it was the cause of a significant number of fights in which my mother wrongfully looked like the bad guy for raising a fuss because it wasn’t evident that my father had unconsciously, deliberately provoked her. But I’ve trained myself not to be affected by that and am just patient when my father drags things out. This morning, however, it was the coffeemaker itself dragging things out, and not much could be done about it.

 I weighed myself and was 185.4 lbs. My weight has been up and down over the course of my existence. It reached its peak in the spring of 1986, when I was 230 lbs. Over that summer, my mother assisted me in getting my weight down, so that, when I returned to Ottawa for college in September, I bottomed out at 158 lbs. Then I got in the habit of devouring multiple pizzas for dinner and went back up to about 200. I was between 190 and 205 for most of the time since then, but my mother died in November 2011, and by December 2012 I was back down to 170. Then I went back up to about 200, and since then have managed to get myself down to 185. The doctor says he wants me at 160, so that is my goal weight, but it’s a goal I don’t pursue with too much enthusiasm, as I know that the powers that be would thwart any goal I did actively pursue, simply because they are spitefully perverse toward me.

 Then there was what I call a Question Period moment. It’s named after a silly charade that occurs in the House of Commons for the benefit of the TV news cameras, when the elected politicians (who are, by training, lawyers) make silly, pretentious, and false speeches for the sake of putting on a performance. My Question Period moments occur when the powers that be are clearly falsifying the appearance of what happens in this household for the sake of deceiving other people about those things. My father materialized behind me and asked whether I had “nicely washed my face” after getting up. I told him to stop parenting me. He replied meekly that he had addressed me in a nice way. I pointed out that I am nearly 50 years old. He buried his face in his hands and went away for a bit, then came back and repeated to me that he had spoken to me nicely. I told him that it was inappropriate for him to keep parenting me. So he went away again, crestfallen, clearly obsessed with the fact that I had supposedly been rude to him after he had been polite to me, because he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. No doubt the powers that be want to make that look like elder abuse. I content myself with the fact that, even if they fool everyone else on earth, they cannot fool ME, because I’ll always know the truth, and it will have to be enough for me to know the truth even if no one else does.

 So the coffee was finally ready, and I decided to stay away from my prison of a desk for a while, and just sat on the edge of my bed with the coffee on the radiator beside it, gazing out the window at nothing in particular. Eventually, however, I had to return to the prison cell that is this desk and this computer, and decided to tell you a bit about my adventures before I returned to prison.

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14 thoughts on “Before I Returned to Prison

    1. The thing is that I feel sorry for my father. He had a thwarted life too. When he was still 15 years old and a carpenter’s apprentice, he had a potential future as a boxer. Then someone shoved him into a table saw and he lost parts of his fingers on one hand. He immediately condemned himself as “a cripple” (this was 1950s Serbia) and punished himself for being “a cripple” by choosing the most unsuitable wife he could find–a broken woman who’d lived through a physically and emotionally abusive childhood and the privation of wartime East Europe and, by her own admission, always remained “a scared little kid.” Both of them had miserable, unfulfilled lives, and how hers is over while he lingers the same way I do, simply because our genes do not permit us to end our own lives. He also views me as a “cripple” and therefore tries to “protect” me by concealing health problems and other problems from me except in the broadest generalities. But, as per his culture, he feels responsible for “taking care of me” regardless of what his wishes in the matter might be. My brother is not much different but has the same longing as I do to escape. Except that the two of them are trapped in a bad situation by their own flaws, while I am trapped by the powers that be, who choose to warehouse me here for their own convenience. It’s a miserable situation for everybody and the best thing that could happen is that some biker gang takes pity on us and barges in here and shoots us all in the skull. That, however, is unlikely to happen, so we’re all stuck just enduring the misery of unnecessary existence until we are released by the randomness of natural death. It can’t come soon enough.

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      1. Oh my darling girl! I am so sorry things are such a messed up soup for you all! That is unspeakably sad… there is a book in there, though it may prove to painful and personal to write. Still, I find writing to be cathartic in the extreme. Once the tale meets the page, I find it easier to keep pain from leaking all over the rest of my life. Even if no one sees it, it is OUT there in black and white and I can edit and protect myself or others from unnecessary pain. Please don’t dwell on thoughts of death by motorcycle gang. I shall never forget what the real life Marjorie once told me: “life is sweet at any age.”

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        1. Does it change anything that I’m not a girl? 😉 “Kheleya Fahrmann” is a pen name, but I’m male. Anyway, yeah, unless WordPress were to yield to pressure from somewhere to delete this blog, the truth is now out there for anyone to find if they care to look. That’s really I can do. And I have excellent reason to believe that no previously unpublished writer ever gets published and there is just a scan and fraud going on to exploit the hopes of vast armies of unpublished writers to spend money on supposedly increasing our chances of getting published, purely for the sake of outfits such as Writers Digest and Glimmer Traim scamming us out of money without giving us anything of true benefit in return. If I do write a book about my experiences I’m not going to waste time slurping the unwiped buttcracks of literary agents the way they want me to, because it would just lead nowhere.

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          1. Haha! No, it makes no difference you are a man…:-) Great pen name, by the way! And I also agree on the scam machine. The “pay us to publish you and subscribe” angle. Frankly, I don’t expect to ever earn from what I love to do. But having an audience to bounce off now and again is immensely helpful. I hope the coffee was worth the wait this morning. Here at my son’s house in the land of instant gratification, I had to wait a while 30 seconds for mine. Longest 30 seconds of the day… *cheeky grin*

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            1. The scam is actually worse than that. Glimmer Train appears to be an immensely profitable scam because it charges $15 to $20 in “reading fees” per submission and the flat $700 they supposedly pay for supposedly “accepted” stories lures in a lot of fresh meat as it’s far higher than what other small markets pay. And, of course, Writers Digest and their machine make a killing off giving unpublished writers bogus advice because their magazine is devoted to that and so are their “Writer’s Market” publications. Not to mention all the online writer fora that are populated entirely by unpublished writers and perpetuate the myth that it’s possible to get published for the first time. Self-publishing is an even bigger scam because Amazon and their butt child, CreateSpeace, set horrifyingly oppressive terms for self-published writers and pretty much make sure they never have to pay a penny in “royalties” while boosting Amazon’s search engine rankings and making themselves some kind of Sun Yung Moon that no one is ever allowed to question the honesty of among the Mooniedom of self-published writers. But never mind all that idiocy. I’ll see whether I can ever afford to get a Bluehost website and hire a web designer to make my fiction available free of charge under a non-commercial open source licence and have a small, discreet donation option near the bottom of the home page. It will require some cash and is not a priority, and in the meantime I’m perfectly content making the occasional blog post and having good people read my blog–with the fact that all of you are fellow bloggers not bothering me a bit.

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      1. Thank you. It feels good to not be on quadruple-pain killers now. The sun is shining today. I’m hoping for a good day! I will see what the letter brings. I’m considering a lawsuit. Woof!

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        1. I still think you should contact your federal senator’s office, because, f other vets are having similar issues, then the problem is systemic and the lawmakers need to be involved–not to mention the news media.

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