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It seems all anyone wants to remember about Michael Jackson are the good things: his music, the love of his family, his charitable works. Laudable, to be sure; but we all know there’s more to Jackson’s legacy than that. Should it be mentioned? Or remain the unacknowledged elephant balancing on that beach ball in the middle of the room? Am I the only one whose attention continues to be drawn towards the center ring?
Every human being is a universe of complexity. We carry within the seeds of unimaginable death and destruction. Most make it through without tapping that darkness. Did Jackson? According to law, yes. The truth? Probably never be known. Elephant in aspic – icky, smelly; preserved forever – indelible and indigestible. So why look at it at all? Good question. Maybe it’s me – my tendency to pick at sores even if they sting - anything to make them go away. I’ve spent my entire life trying to understand the genesis of personal demons – those nasty elephants dancing ‘round MY room: Why did my mother hate so damn much? What made my brother so violent? Why did my sister kill herself? Around, and around, and around – addiction, abuse….. So why aren’t I as crazy as Michael? How did I emerge with my soul (and personality) intact?
I have to say I abjure the freak show Jackson encouraged and became part and parcel of. For every cliff I walked up to, looked over and decidedly moved away from – Michael seems to have jumped off willingly with both feet (or so it would seem). And there lies the rub. How many of those dancing elephants he consorted with were really real? To put it bluntly: Did he molest those boys? I cannot even begin to answer that question - because I don’t understand how something like that could happen in the first place. Under what mechanism does the abused become the abuser? What sours in the brain? I have never in my entire life ever intentionally hurt a single living creature. I couldn’t even force myself to – the empath in me begins screaming at the first sign of pain. Hell - I can’t even retaliate in kind when someone does or says something directly to my face. Creating pain is as alien to me as breathing water.
Hurt myself? Now that’s different. Oh yeah – I’ve hurt myself more times than I could count (there’s that inability to retaliate rearing its pacifist head). But just me. Only me. I don’t foist my bad choices (or destructive behaviors) on anyone else. I’m the only one who suffers. So how is that different for others? What satisfaction can be derived from experiencing another’s fear or pain? I can still hear my mother saying over and over that she wanted someone else to ‘understand’ the length, depth and breadth of her own abuse. She‘d tell me this while torturing me, by the way – my tears personal vengeance against her own vicious mother and sister. How on earth this assuaged any of her childhood pain I do not know. The harder I’d cry – the crueler she became. It was as if my tears drove her to be all the meaner. My brother? He’d just laugh. He really got off on it too – a died-in-the-wool sadist, that bastard (may he rot in Dante’s hell for all eternity).
I could never, ever, under any circumstances do anything even remotely like that. I’m incapable of it. So it’s hard to understand (or possibly forgive) Michael Jackson’s sins (if sins there were). Can I ignore them like everybody else and just celebrate the good? I dunno. I’m conflicted. It’s the same when I look at Bing Crosby. All four of the children he had from his first marriage are dead. Two of them committed suicide. All spoke of the dreadful abuse they suffered at his hands. He was a real son-of-a-bitch. Does that make him a bad actor or singer? Depends on your point of view. I look at the affable character he presented on film and wonder……had he injured one of his sons that day? Were they nursing wounds while he frolicked in front of the camera? How did that make him feel? The mind reels. It’s hard to turn off that kind of knowledge – to pretend there’s no elephant there; and as such it impedes my enjoyment of his work. It didn’t use to, by the way – but that’s changed as I’ve grown older. I understand more and tolerate less now. Same with Jackson. I look at his open visage, I listen to his music and I’m left terribly confused.
You see, there’s no denying the man was loved – and not just by his fans or those who depended upon his benevolence either. Jackson had friends, family – people who loved him for who he was and not how much he had. I was particularly affected by his daughter at yesterday’s memorial. Ask me at age 11 if I loved MY mother – and I’d have said no – no way. Feared and hated? You bet! Same with my brother. But Paris really loved her dad. It seemed obvious - though I’ll admit to being troubled at the way she kept grabbing the back of her neck while speaking (though maybe that was just a reaction to Janet’s playing with her hair). Odd behaviors like that often signal hidden emotions. I’d literally pull mine out at that age. Still - somewhere under all Michael Jackson’s Halloween makeup and Twilight behavior lived a decent human being. Can someone like that do evil? What if the answer is ‘no’? What if those elephants are merely constructs – creatures of smoke and fog, lingering because gossip keeps them there? One puff and they’re gone. Then why does the image persist? Why are my eyes still drawn to that center ring? If the accusations weren’t true – why pay twenty-odd million to make them go away? That’s fear talking – fear of exposure….isn’t it?
More questions than answers, I’m afraid. So those elephants keep dancing, beach balls in tow: around and around and around and around. What’s the truth here? Where’s it hidden? Will the real Michael Jackson please stand up? Thing is – he can’t – not any more. So I’m left with questions and a clinging sense of evil I just can’t ignore. That’s the problem with abuse. It leaves scars that color and affect every single thing. Maybe I’m viewing all this through a distorted prism – seeing things that aren’t really there (on both sides). Like I said before – I guess we’ll just never really know.
My cat Louie had to be put to sleep today. He'd become incontinent, spending all his time hiding under the bed. He wouldn't allow himself to be touched in the best of times; sick - he'd run if you so much as looked at him. That made treatment essentially impossible. You had to chase him all over the house just to take him to the vet. Grabbing hold of him to administer meds wasn't even possible. Never once had he ever allowed himself to be picked up, cuddled or petted. Louie was frightened of the world - and whatever paranoia that poor cat carried worsened as he grew older and his health deteriorated. In the end - we weren't even able to treat his diabetes with medicated food. He simply refused to eat any of it.
My husband had to bring him in alone as my physical restrictions (and unending pain) made going with impossible. That was heartbreaking. Louie only ever allowed me near him (he was frightened of my husband). I wanted to be the one to hold him in my arms - to ease and comfort his passing. The fact that I wasn't able just about slays me. I feel terrible: hurt, angry, depressed. For years (15 actually) I tried to help that cat become part of the family. Behavior mods, drugs, multiple veterinarians - you name it, I tried it - all to no avail. Then he became ill - and the choices (and time) ran out. I lost my kitty today - and it hurts like hell
So rest in peace, sweet Louie. If there's a heaven - I hope you're finally happy in it.
I'm getting really pissed over the tenor of all this media coverage - and I'll tell you why. It's the whole prescription meds angle. Michael Jackson likely died due to an overdose of pain medication. Christ!! Every time some celebrity either dies or gets sent to rehab for using prescription pain meds as a route to getting high - my doctors get squirrely over treating my chronic pain. I've a hard time getting them to treat the pain in the first place (why is it women are always told to just ignore severe pain? As if that were possible!). But as soon as the media gets in an uproar pontificating over all the supposed people lining up to abuse pain medication – doctors become loath to prescribe anything – no matter how badly needed. And I need them. Badly.
So I’m royally pissed. The only people I ever hear of using pain meds to get high are indulged celebrities. The rest of us barely get our pain treated at all. And I am always in pain. Always. Every fucking minute of every fucking day (including the last few, which have been a nightmare). The meds I am rationed only ease it enough so I can manage to walk across the room – they never really alleviate it. And that under-prescribing is not about addiction, actually. You don’t become addicted if the meds relieve real pain (or so my doctors keep telling me). It’s the Puritanical belief that pain is something to be endured. Just suck it up and move on. Well the people who believe that have never lain writhing on the floor unable to breathe because they hurt so damn much. Sleep? Pffft. Not likely – and when I do – I experience pain in my dreams. So I never really escape. My pain is always there. It greets me in the morning and I shake hands with it every night.
So now we have Michael fucking Jackson and his medicated trips in and out of Neverland. Great. Fucking great. I’ll be needing my prescription renewed soon – and I anticipate trouble. The last time Rush Limbaugh got caught with fake prescriptions – the pain clinic I was attending decided to cut patients meds in half. You’ve no idea what it’s like to sit in a hospital waiting room listening to some poor sonofabitch cry himself silly because he can’t get any relief for his cancer pain. Me? I weep every day. I weep every day 'cause I hurt every day; that's my life. So yes, it’s terrible that Michael Jackson died. Really. I’m sorry for him, for his family and for his kids; but this talk of policing Anna Nicole-like over-prescribing will not have the effect people are looking for. Wealthy celebrities will still be able to buy Oxycontin and Methadone any time they damn well please – while the rest of us (those who really need pain relief) – will have one hell of a time getting the occasional Vicodin.
But then I guess life is never fair.
Here's Michael in better days - when it was only about talent and ability. I've noticed something, by the way - as I've watched the endless streaming videos: Michael Jackson was one angry fella. Seriously. There's lots of violence and destruction to be had in every one of his mini films. I’d say Michael was mad at the entire world. Maybe he had good reason to be – I don’t know. Pity it got him in the end. RIP, Michael. It wasn’t your fault - not really. No one was ever looking out for you, I guess.
So that's it, folks - I'm screwed. No more pain meds for me. Oh - I'll call my doctor tomorrow and see if he will prescribe an alternative....but my hopes aren't very high in that quarter. Frankly - I don't know what I'm gonna do at this point. The chronic pain I suffer has spikes that are off the chart even with the pain killers. I cannot even begin to imagine how bad it will all get if I’m left to cope on my own.
What a fucking mess!
Hollywood justice strikes again. Singer Chris Brown was given no jail time after pleading guilty to assaulting his girlfriend. Rihanna turned up to testify (unwillingly) – only to learn it wouldn’t be required of her. The deal was done. The sentence? Community service. Along with washing graffiti off walls - Brown gets to talk about the evils of battering woman bloody to other batters who also got nothing more than a slap on the wrist. To make everything worse – the judge had to enforce an order of protection. Not against Brown as one might think; but to ensure Rihanna’s the one who stays away. Evidently she wants to re-start the relationship (she’s been calling him). How sick is that.
In a word? Appalling - just across the board appalling. Had Chris Brown assaulted a stranger in the street - he'd be going directly to jail. But because his victim was a woman he'd had a relationship with - he gets a freebee. So what's gonna happen the next time he does this - 'cause you know he will. Maybe not Rihanna - but whoever he's dating will feel that bastards fists, you can bet on it. I know. I've volunteered in women's shelters. They always do it again. Always. An interdiction now might have made some kind of difference (jail time + counceling) - but all this tells little boy Brown is throw money at any situation and you can make it go away.
I think I'm gonna be sick.
Me Singing!!
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