***less Prick

DISCLAIMER: This work is a piece-of –shit satire. Any attempt to find serious meaning will be laughed the fuck out of town. Or I could be lying so you don’t try to talk to me about this. Either way, just don’t. Read, accept, move on.

If you would like to discover the root of a forest of fuckery and self-abuse, look no further than the person’s parents. I believe Philip Larkin once said “they fuck you up, your Mum and Dad”. What he really should have said is “your parents will wilfully find a cast-iron dildo the size of an elephant’s wang and impale you on it, and will spend the rest of your life pulling you slowly towards the base as you are painfully ripped in two”. Of course, that is not nearly as poetic and profound, which is probably why I’m yet to be published.

I am at a stage of my life where although there is a sorely tempting option to flee and live on the sides of roads, moving up the highway with a well-worn thumb and my pants around my ankles (because seriously, how else does a girl get a ride? I don’t have any fucking money or weed), I am bound to finishing my education and unfortunately must coddle the whims of my substance-addled parental units for another few months. I know I’m kind of dropping you into this, so I’ll address that question you’re dying to ask right now. Yes, my parents are both alcoholics- one high-functioning, one slipping. And when I say “slipping”, I mean she’s careening ankles-over-her-head down a vertical slope. Yes, that bad. Do I want to talk about it? Not particularly, but I will probably end up going there.

I will give my parents some credit- they have taught me, probably accidentally, how to be self-sufficient and how to avoid being manipulated. Unfortunately, this has had the side effect of making me a very difficult person to negotiate with or love, seeing as I’m now constantly scanning my surroundings for an emotional ambush or betrayal. To the boy that attempted to take all this on when no one ever had before; thank you. You managed to soften my edges and tame my temper. I’m sorry that all I could do in return is rip your heart to tatters. To the man that is currently attempting to take this on; you’ve got it easier. Be happy about this. I’m okay, you’re okay.

I do not respond well to being manipulated. Or being told what to do. Frequently, for me, they can be used as synonyms, which is hell for my poor mother. However, it can be argued that she created her own hell, so I don’t lose too much sleep over it. My father had a role in it too. He’s what a psychologist would call “emotionally abusive”. I’d rather keep it simple and call him “a dickless prick”.

Rule one of my household, before we split it in two and called it a day; do not, under any circumstances, piss off Dad. Pissing off Dad on purpose was equivalent to deliberately running over your own dick with a steamroller. Pissing off Dad accidentally was more like a natural disaster; you see a huge wave looming over you, have barely enough time to think “oh shit” and the next moment, your face is wrapped around a tree and you can’t breathe.

It went in cycles. Phase one: make an innocuous comment and watch the world burn. Phase two: hold your fucking breath, because Dad just went quiet, and when Dad goes quiet, all is not well. You can practically hear the ticking, he’s about to destroy everything. Phase three is too unpredictable to be documented. It’s like a lucky dip that has a bear trap in it. Hopefully you’ll pick out the piece of paper that says “ONE SLEEPLESS NIGHT: Your father is going to temporarily ruin your love of music by playing Led Zepplin far too loud until three in the morning and shouting at the walls”. Or the other piece that says “Dad will ignore you for three days and hiss at you like a fucking lizard whenever he sees you”. That, while a little emotionally destroying for a thirteen year old girl, was not so bad.

However, once in a while, I would not pull out any paper. Instead, I’d pull out objects. A glass bottle, soon to be shattered against a wall next to my head as I ran for my fucking life. A couch, the one I was thrown over at age ten; my first concussion, which I endured while lying on the floor as the travesty that is Shanghai Knights played on (I am very critical when it comes to films). A backhand to the head. My foot caught in a vice. It goes on. The last one especially had a lasting effect- if anyone tries to touch my feet, I get a flashback worthy of a Vietnam War vet from Jacob’s Ladder and try to kick them in the face. So, what I’m saying is… don’t touch my fucking feet. If I ever let you, congratulations, it means I trust you, but you’re the one risking losing your front teeth.

Funnily enough, I still wouldn’t admit to being physically abused, because those memories are faded. They could belong to any overactive imagination. I don’t have scars. I can sleep through the night if I desire. I can breathe, swallow, speak and shit normally. Perhaps I am being a big baby; there’s no lasting damage, so how does one tell? In a stomach-churning way, I find it infinitely more hilarious that it is the emotional bullshit that has fucked me up more. I’m psychologically a paraplegic. Crippled on the inside within my healthy bright-eyed façade.

I’m just shitting you. I’m perfectly fucking fine. Don’t even consider that load of wank.

If I traverse back on this tangent I have taken you on, I will pick up the threads of my original topic and attempt to untangle them. Manipulation. There we are. The fucking golden goose that squeezes more golden-plated problems out its arse. There is nothing I loathe or admire more than a good manipulator. It’s very enviable- that detachment, the ability to become cold and calculated. To bend others to your will. An attractive yet dangerous prospect that I’ve had my own experiences of.

You know what’s truly ridiculous? When you are manipulated to become a manipulator. You are essentially made into a tool, something to further someone else’s grasp. If I told you that a child’s tears are potent, you’d assume I was talking about some New Age pseudo-hippy bullshit. Likewise, if I made the grand statement that tears can control a person, you’d dismiss me as a lunatic because that shit is stupid. But hear me out a moment. Just one moment.

The first time it happened, I was probably six. I say “probably” because I was at the sort of age where days were long, the seasons lingered and birthdays just happened out of nowhere. I used to wake up my parents demanding to know whether I was a year older yet. I had no concept of time, and this I honestly miss, because now all I can think about is how fast it can run out.

I remember fragments. The white halls and wooden floorboards. My fringe sticking to my forehead. The glass window above my door. A darkened splinter petrified under my flesh, slowly easing out of my foot. The sharp tang of unripened apples. The wasps, their little yellow-and-black jacketed bodies as they dove in and out piles of rotting fruit. Floury tarte tatin.

The suitcase. The large black suitcase. I can still hear the sound of wheels clicking over the bumps of the floor. No voices, not any more. If I close my eyes, sometimes I can still see Mum slumped over in the hallway. She was still frail even then, but in a different way. They say eating disorders are hereditary; I disagree and say they are learnt. At the age of six, the family motto was “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” (these days, it is “garde bien”, or rather, “watch your back”). Frequently we consumed diet shakes for breakfast. When I grew older and more insecure, she’d paste pictures of overweight teenagers on the fridge to stop me from snacking. It worked, clearly, because now nothing terrifies me more than food.

She was so thin. So fucking thin. It wasn’t fair. The whole wide media wages a war on healthy body image and I had to grow up in the same house as an ex-model. Her nickname was “Barbie” and I used to rip the heads off mine when I got angry at her. There’s probably a lot of analysis contained in that sort of behaviour, but I am too old for that shit.

She looked at me. I think she did. Truthfully, all I remember is walking down that hallway and noticing her sitting there. Crying, probably (this is selfish, but I cannot stand my mother crying. It’s the final sign that everything is too fucked up for you to ignore any more). She just looked at me. And then it began.

“Your Dad’s leaving,” she uttered tonelessly, pointing at the open bedroom door. “Go talk to him.”

Naturally, being an overly sensitive, emotional six year old, I burst into tears and ran into the room. And I fucking pleaded. I fucking pleaded my little heart out because you do not take a little girl’s Dad away. At that age, I could forgive anything. You could have knifed me in the chest and I would have stared complacently at you and nodded if you’d given me a good enough reason. I begged him not to leave. Freeze that image in your head and consider it a moment. A six year old, begging not for some lollies or a new toy, but for their family. It’s fucking pathetic.

It worked, of course. Our little unhappy family stayed unhappily united. Tolstoy would have had a field day with us. From that day, Mum learned a new trick that made her confident that she could control my wayward father. Having problems with your husband? Send your daughter in crying to force him to chain up his emotions and become a decent family man. If my shitty life story was turned into an Oscar winning film (where, naturally I am played by either the gorgeous Natalie Portman or Anne Hathaway), here’s the basic gist of how the scene would play.

[YOUNG PHOEBE is sitting in her room with her headphones planted firmly in her ears in an attempt to ignore the foreboding noises echoing down the hall. PHOEBE’S MOTHER, a glamorous yet weary MILF appears and drapes herself affectedly on the door frame.]

MOTHER: Darling… your Dad is acting up again.

PHOEBE: [Grunts. Turns up her music.]

MOTHER: Could you… darling, could you possibly go in and… well, could you cry a bit? For me? He might calm down if he sees he’s upsetting you.

PHOEBE: [Cue emotional scarring for life. Thanks a lot, parents. Make appropriate horrified expression.]

This plan was hardly fool proof. People tire of crocodile tears so easily. I may have been fourteen when I went crying to my father and he simply shrugged. Like, “what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”. To that, I have a few answers. Grow the fuck up, you’re in your mid-fifties. Ditch the crazy Asian bride. Stop pissing potential business partners off. Ease away from politics. Quit missing out on all my major life events. But I’m just a kid, what the fuck would I know?

What the fuck would I know?