the panic of the here and now

Betrayal, that's what really gets me going. Time and again I'm drawn into the lullaby and siren song of home. It's like a movie or a book or a lover, except it doesn't keep its promise of protecting me when I'm scared and alone. Why is this blog a simple forum for my collective bitching and moaning. I guess I have nothing to write about when all is well, or at least when all is not unwell. (Remove the post-modern dualities of that last statement and it makes perfect sense. Abscence of something is not proof of anything.)
I don't like being angry and I don't like the memory of combat, the ritual of familial strife. I sometimes wonder the taint I've added to my own life, both mentally and metaphysically, on those series of nights. I hated them and there were nights I wanted them dead. The same last-ditch reaction still lingers, I call it up from time to time. I receed into my mind and force the fury out. Its wave singes, tears, and obliterates all it touches. The parameters are different, but at its heart is a wish to make it all go away.
What shakes me is that there is a lack of respect. They're not strong, and they don't understand. One day I'll be pathetic (in its most loving connotation) just like them. I'll patiently wait for death to remove me from the things I don't understand and to allow me the anxiously anticipated moment where the ideal is captured, my world in memory is all I have left. The golden age of what I colored it to be.

There isn't a voice in my head or in my home telling me this will all be ok.

There hasn't been in a long time.