the matthew

moonday 15 august 2011          (new post)


matthew belongs in the sehnen blog. he has appeared in my other blogs over the last three years, but he began on Soulcast, in the Sehnen blog, and this is where he belongs. I write in orange today because for the first three months that I knew him, matthew was always orange. one shade of orangey hair, another shade of orangey-pink skin, and orange clothes. before I knew his name, I thought of him as that orange guy who’s always in my face.

to re-cap, for myself more than for anyone else:

~~  I saw him for the first time on 14 march 2008, three days after the
       illegal eviction
~~  ever since, whenever I was in greenfield, he was in my face almost
       daily, from 14 mar 2008 to 2 sept 2010. two and half years.
~~  from 2 sept 2010 to 31 dec, he stayed out of my face. four whole months.
       I began to be less anxious when I had to go to greenfield. I began to enjoy
       going there again, just a tiny bit. and then he strikes again, appears again,
       and ruins the small gains I’d made.
~~ then he stays away a second time: from 11 march 2011 until last tuesday,
      august 9. five months this time. I’d become convinced that he was going
      to at last extend me the mercy of never appearing before me again. you’ll
      no doubt say: how can he not be visible at times when you go to the town
      where he lives? the answer, that you won’t believe because it’s more fun
      for you to think I’m nuts, is this: Matthew always knows where I am. I’ve
     seen and heard and been through too much with him over more than three
     years to ever doubt again that this is true. and because he always knows
     where I am, he can stay away from me if he chooses. he has fooled
     me twice now into believing that he will at long last keep himself off.

he has a new look now. the reddish-brown hair is no longer down to the shoulders, but stops at the top of the neck. and there is now a beard of several inches. he’s forty now. for all I know, he may have a new shtik too. I no longer have anyone in Greenfield to give me reports. the I’m-just-a-drunken-schizophrenic act that he’s been putting on for years may have been jettisoned and replaced by something different.

matthew lacoy. the name that he gave me, that he gives everyone. he once stated that matthew is indeed his real first name, but strongly implied that lacoy is not his real last name. these things used to matter to me, back in the day. we were in love, after all, and I wanted to know his real names, both of them. I was only allowed to know one.

it’s probably much too difficult for me to try to describe why it’s so upsetting to see him, all the conflicting things I feel when I see him. and yet I guess I’m about to try.

he’s a reminder. a reminder of the dark, ugly things he told me were going on in my life. there are plenty of other reminders of that sordid story in greenfield too, but mattew is the one that hurts the most. he’s a reminder of my being used as a means to an end. and more, much more. as regards his work, and how he was doing it in my existence, and the way in which he did it, he is a trigger of trauma and an object of my undying, immutable scorn.

and then there’s the personal angle, which had nothing to do with his work, or my need for his touted skills, but had to do strictly with me and with him, as two people. he’s a reminder of loving him, and all the attendant shame and rage that I feel for having fallen in love with someone like him. the extent to which I demeaned and devalued myself by falling in love with someone with no conscience, with an ego the size of jupiter, and who did and does and always will love his job (which strokes his mighty ego mightily), more than he does me. I feel just as sullied by having loved him as I would if I’d fallen in love with a serial killer, or a mafioso. I fee polluted. and every time he stays away for months, that black filth that I feel in connection with him starts to get infinitessimally smaller, to recede just the most minute bit into the past. but when he puts himself in front of me again, there it all is, fresh and new as if it had all begun just yesterday: the protection, the criminals, the codes and crap and secrets, the love that cannot surmount his ego, the stinking undercover hovel and the selfishness. the shame. the co-operation in demeaning myself. the good moments, however few they might have been. his arrogance. my god, is he arrogant. the scar where he was once shot. these things and so many more all come back to me with force and clarity and rage and pain, the instant that I see him.

it doesn’t matter where he is. if he’s two feet from me or a hundred, the inner onslaught is the same. If he speaks to me or if he doesn’t, the damage is the same. his physical presence, anywhere at all where my eyes can see him, is like the attack of a slavering emotional army that I cannot attempt to bring to heel, ever, unless I never see his face or body or clothes, any small part of him, ever again.

move away, you might say. but I can’t. I’ve discussed elsewhere why I have to stay in a townful of people I can’t stomach, who can’t stomach me, and stay within matthew’s reach. I can’t leave the memories of my illegally stolen animals and my stolen life. can’t leave the scene of the crime. I feel closer to those animals and to my former self here in turners trolls than I do anywhere else. the only solution open, regarding what happens when I see matthew, is for him to be merciful, to stay away from me. twice now I thought he was finally extending me that mercy. twice now he couldn’t keep it up, just go on with his sick life and his filthy work without ever again putting himself in my face. he is, apparently, capable only of temporary mercy. as long as I continue breathing, apparently, I can look forward to the profound inner suffering of seeing him. it takes me days to get back on my inner feet, such as they now are, after one of these sightings. hell, it’s been a week tomorrow, and I have not got back up on my bleeding emotional feet yet, else  I wouldn’t have felt the need to write this post.

he got a message to me a few months ago. he does this now and then, and he does it in his customary sneaky, underhanded, undercover ways. and the message was: I’ll always be in love with you. what kind of love is it that can bestow neither kindness nor truth nor commitment nor mercy.


read…   Braon…   Scealta liatha

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