Compliance II

In the late 60's, our lives in the country suburbs of Chicago were imploding during the years that my morbidly obese mother was dedicating her time and energy to the avant garde of the current anti-smoking propaganda. Is she looking down and glowing with pride over how right she is? Dunno. . . Donae much care. To my broken brain, the anti-smoking propaganda remains more about the too many sets of etceteras surrounding Daddy Rape than cigarettes. The flashbacks triggered by my dead son's morbidly obese, anti-smoking in-laws have reached an intensity which have me believing it is time to ^go there^. At present, her lectures are standardized and encapsulated by the propaganda campaign and opining hoards who support the campaign. Not so much the traumas of incest and pedophelia which danced through my psyche while she blew her fanatical propaganda smoke in my still cig-smoke-free face. At present, when the smoking debates begin and I canae escape before the flashbacks begin, I either fall into catatonic dissociation or hysterical fight mode. Put 'em up, my law loving mommy sound-alike. I ain't above running down a fat, waddling turd. . . Betcha dollars to wishes you run out of breath quicker than my smokey ass while I'm chasing you down.

Breathing. . . Puff puff. . . Plying therapy tools. . . Complying to the current set of rules. . . Let me know when you've finished compiling the next set of compliance demands. I reserve the right to ^Just Say No^ when you put spreading my legs for your newest client on that list. No blow jobs, either. Wrinkly old dick smells even worse than stale cig smoke. No "Shirley Temple in a G-String," either. While I am eternally grateful I no longer qualify to play Shirley Temple, trauma rooted flashbacks donae know I havenae qualified for over half a century.

Is my current compliance spot still compliant for being within 20 feet of an entrance to my own home? Well. . . Perhaps this new house will graduate to "A Home" with me in it. Possibly. I donae see myself here without the GKs. Sitting here on the sexy new porch outside the utility room, adapting to the chill wind blowing around me, my feral urges are craving a destination further. The biggest problem I find with smoking outside is that I seldom wish to go back to the Great Indoors with all its civil strife and industrial dander.

In the gory art of detangling the psycho snot knots of my broken life, a sign that I have reached the infected thread beneath the detritus of life since the base trauma is a calming of the psychotic symptoms of the flashback series. I doesnae know but I believe it possible I have found the infected thread of this series. Testing, 1, 2, 3. . . Leaning gently into the flashbacks with prayers of reducing them to ugly memories with minimal control over my here and now. Just praying.