Strange Connections: Good People in Bad Romances

Other than substance addiction issues, one might not think that Bon Scott and Amy Winehouse have much in common. However, both of them were involved to the point of obsession with people who were incredibly bad for them, and although musically speaking they are both artists I can't get enough of, I have to stop listening after a fairly brief period of time because I know what and who they're singing about and it's really depressing.

The other issue is the fact that I can relate all too well to being obsessed with a person who is really, really, really horrible for you. I did it more than once. People think that all-consuming "love" is wonderful. It's anything but, and usually, it isn't really love, it's an obsession. So, yanno, no thanks to ending up in the ER with bloody wrists over some asshole who doesn't deserve my pain. Better to be alone than to be with someone toxic.

Although, unfortunately, in my case, more often than not, I'm alone in bad company.

Plus, in the case of AC/DC, I can only listen for just so long (and that isn't long these days) before I start getting really pissed off about the way Malcolm Young went out. Dementia is the absolute fucking worst, particularly when it takes out someone whose intelligence was a key part of who they were. Malcolm Young was a high school dropout, but he was smarter than a lot of people with strings of letters behind their names.

The late Glen Campbell's wife said of dementia "It's better to die some other way," and she's absolutely right. Fuck dementia.

As Bob Seger once said, sometimes I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then.

~Cie~

Bon Scott Appreciation Day 2015

Ronald Belford "Bon" Scott (9 July 1946 – 19 February 1980)

Favorite Musicians of the Netherworld: Bon Scott

9 July 1946 – 19 February 1980

I was just 15 years old when Bon Scott died. It devastated me. AC/DC was my favorite band, and let me confess a little something to you. I loved Bon. Yeah, I know how cheesy that sounds, but I did.

Talk about a match that never would have worked out in reality, that would have been it. But I loved him anyway. I had always been a good Catholic girl, but when I hit my teens, I started to go a little wild.

I wasn't wild with boys, contrary to popular rumors that I had eight abortions by the time I was fourteen. No, seriously, that was a rumor spreading around about me. I don't know how it started, because I was incredibly naïve about sex. I thought a blow job was blowing in someone's ear, and I wondered why the hell anyone would find that activity enjoyable.

I knew how babies were made, but I was scared to death of doing the act that made babies. I didn't want a baby, and I had heard that it hurt like hell to have sex the first time. (At this point I still believed that pain with sex for women was because of Eve and the original sin, and I hated the bitch for it. What I didn't admit was that I was also pissed off at God for being such a douchebag as to do this to women because of Eve being an asshole. Believe me, I was very indoctrinated.) Nonetheless, I did daydream about doing said act with Bon Scott, and I figured I was going to hell, but I liked him (and AC/DC's music) so much that I figured my immortal soul was a small price to pay.

When I found out that Bon had died, I walked through the little Peyton Place town that was home to me and my misery, feeling terribly lost. Nobody in that town understood me. My parents didn't understand me either. I felt like I was an alien who had been lost from another planet and ended up in this fucking miserable place. I was very bullied and very lonely, and I felt like I'd just lost the love of my life. Well, I had, though he didn't know he was.

Bon was known as a nice guy, even if he was a bit of a randy sort. I would dream about him sometimes. I like to think that maybe he felt a little sympathy for a silly, unhappy girl who had a huge crush on him. Maybe he wanted to show me that I had a friend after all. Who knows. The older I get, the less I know.

Though Brian Johnson is fabulous and I can't imagine anyone else filling Bon's shoes, there will never be another Bon Scott. He was one of those people that just can't be imitated. I think one reason Brian worked out so well is because he wasn't trying to imitate Bon. He was just trying to do the best damn job he could.

Brian believes that Bon came to him one night in spirit and stayed for about an hour, helping him finish the songs he was struggling to write. He has said that he doesn't like to talk about this much, because people think he's crazy when he tells this tale. I don't. But I am kinda crazy.

So today, if we'll have a moment of silence for...

Nah, that's not the way we do it in the Netherworld!

If we'll turn it up to 666 and drive down the Highway to Hell, that's the way to honor Bon Scott in a fitting way!

Ronald Belford Scott: Never imitated, never forgotten. Rock in peace!

How I Almost Quit With Just 500 Words to Go

I did it.

But I almost didn't do it.

And I only had 500 words to go.

Why would I fold with that few words left?

Let's just say that I had a bit of a nervous breakdown on the home stretch.

My novel did not start out smoothly. I really had no idea what I wanted to write about.

I decided to write about the lunar aspect of H.P. Lovecraft's dreamlands after being cued by Bon Scott to think about the title to one of my favorite AC/DC songs, "What's Next To the Moon."

Really, I did. I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm telling the tale as it happened. If you choose to believe that this is merely my own perception or delusion, fine. I refuse to debate it. I can't prove that it happened. Conversely, no-one else can prove that it didn't.

Let's move on.

The story seemed very "piecey" at first. It seemed more like a bunch of short stories than a cohesive novel. It didn't start to gel until about halfway through the month. 

It also started to get really personal towards the end. Particularly on the last day. There was a convergence of sorts, and it opened some old wounds.

I had been turned on to the series "The Vampire Diaries" by my writing sister Tempest LeTrope and Mister Sister Adam Everhard. It becomes obvious that uncontrolled vampirism (the "Ripper" mode) is a metaphor for drug abuse. There are parts of the third season that are really hard to watch. Not because of the violence or "horror" aspect, but because certain of the character Stefan's behaviors reminded me of what I went through with my husband.

In the last segment that I watched, Elena (Stefan's girlfriend) says to Damon (Stefan's brother) that they may have to let Stefan go.

That is what I had to do with my husband. 

It isn't just the aspect of watching someone you love destroy themselves. Not every addict is abusive, but with the inhibitions blurred by consciousness-altering substances, anyone has greater potential to become abusive, either verbally or physically.

My husband mostly became verbally abusive. 

In the seven years that we were married, he got physical with me a total of nine times. He never beat me, and I was never particularly afraid of him. His physical abuses tended to take the form of slaps or pushing.

The verbal abuse was another story.

When my husband was doing heroin (he did cocaine as well, but less often) he became a different person. He thought that he was invincible and thought that he had been blessed with special gifts. He was a talented artist, but his real motivation was his next high.

When I met him way back in junior high, he was one of the cool kids. I wasn't terribly popular, but I garnered at least fake acceptance from the "cool" crowd when he brought me into the circle. He was a good-looking guy with dark hair and dark eyes. He always had a mischievous smile. I thought he was cute, but I was already crushing on someone else.

Our friendship turned to romance in our sophomore year in high school. Everyone thought we'd be the couple to beat the odds.

At that point, he was only smoking pot and drinking at weekend parties. So was everyone else, me included. I didn't see any kind of problem.

He joined the Army right after high school. It was the mid 1980's, a peacetime setting, so I wasn't worried. He wanted to learn a skill, to get some money together for college. It made perfect sense. He did his four years and came home, and we got married. 

At first, everything was great. A little over a year after we married, I was pregnant with our daughter. There started to be signs of trouble. He stayed late after work a lot and came home smashed. Initially I suspected that he might be cheating. I guess I could say that he was, but not with a woman at this point. The women would come later.

When I found out about the heroin, I demanded that he give it up. He did for a time, after our daughter was born. She was eight months old when I got pregnant with our son. Once again he started shooting up. He claimed he was only smoking pot, but I knew better. There was yelling, throwing of dishes, lots of crying on my part. He started calling me names, telling me that I was holding him down, being the "bitchy wife."

We had been married three and a half years and had two kids when he started fooling around with other women.

I tried to hold things together, tried to believe that he could kick the drugs, tried to believe that if I just loved him enough, I'd be able to bring him back from the edge.

In the end, I made the decision to walk away.

I told him that he couldn't see the kids until he got clean and stayed clean. He got mad and called me an evil, fat bitch. He said he didn't know how he could ever have been so desperate as to have sex with me. He said it to hurt me, but it did cause me to lapse into bulimic behavior, which I struggled with on and off for the next six years.

He would stay clean for periods of time but always eventually relapse into his old habits. I never let him have the kids overnight. When he was clean, I trusted him to take them to or pick them up from school.

I dated for a little while after my marriage ended, but always managed to pick guys that were far from ideal to bring around my kids. One turned out to be scary enough that I almost considered getting a restraining order. Luckily, he moved out of state.

I stopped dating fifteen years ago and see no reason to resume, even though my kids are adults now. I hate it when people tell me "not to give up" because the "right guy" could be around the next corner.

He's not.

So, to wrap things up...

The little experiment that started as a frustrating hodge-podge turned into a massive emotional bleed-out at the end, and I almost cashed in my chips.

I've decided that I'm actually going to try and organize the story into something cohesive. It does have potential.

I listened to a lot of HIM while I was writing the story. I also listened to AC/DC, of course. I listened to Morcheeba, and Korn, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Loreena McKennitt, Enigma...

I want to share the HIM album Love Metal. Because yes, I do. It's gotten me through a lot of really tough times.

Thanks for letting me Bogart the Blog, Sisters and Misters. We will return you to your regularly scheduled insanity tomorrow!

Love,

Sister Helena

(Cross-posted to Undead in the Netherworld)

Betrayed

This picture comes from this website, which has some very important information on violence in teen relationships. 

I chose it because to a degree it expresses what I feel inside.

Because of the fact that nobody pays attention to what I say at this point, I feel comfortable expressing something that has been eating at me for years.

There are people in this world who don't feel like they've won unless they've destroyed someone else in the process.

They did come very close to destroying me. But I'm still here. Not unscathed by any means, but I am still here.

I no longer feel like I have something special to share with the world. I'm creating again, but I'm keeping it close in. I will not be sharing any of it.

As for the subject of my ill advised book.

Yes, I did come to love him. And fancy that, certain people who I trusted with that truth were hell bent on fucking that up for me too.

He and I are no longer in contact with one another. He hates me now, and I feel nothing but numb sorrow when I think of him.

You think I could ever forgive the people who brought this about?

They will never be forgiven.

What's next to the moon? The idea that I will ever find love.

Correction--that's somewhere in another fucking galaxy.

So now you fucking know.