Crazy: Failure to Launch

They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It's true. I can testify to the fact that the road to my personal hell(destination: Cr@zy!)is paved with my mother's good intentions and her efforts to realize them, each and every single little one, in its entirety, without delay. I am daily splayed upon The Grill -- her critical words, probing questions, fussy rants, and laser-beam stares. I roll around like a gas station frankfurter, trapped, writhing in agony and basting in the juice of knowing that she's never 100% wrong (most times far from it in fact) and therefore cannot be 100% ignored. Tepid small-talk conversation is a a dangerous spelunking adventure -- morphing instantaneously, starting out as an exploratory walk and fracturing into a black shrieking cacophony, like startling a cloud of sleeping bats. I emerge a wreck, barely alive, trembling, tussled, scratched....and smelling of guano. Hence my fear of cavernous conversations.

I live with my mother. There is no nearing escape date. Today, after ironically crowing to some woman after church about great it is to live here (based on how much worse it could be), this is Alcatraz, and I am inmate MXB001, a stranger to freedom.

Everyday, using a secret playbook of henpecking strategies, she is trying to whittle me into an image I cannot see inside myself, maybe her image. I sincerely hope not. Doesn't she realize that I'll inevitably become just like her, and sooner rather than later as I am well past adolescent angst and whinging? It's the law of the universe. I'm not even trying to fight it in the cosmic sense -- that's a losing battle with destiny. But all things should come in their due time, right? It's not my time. Just now it all feels like a reverse prism, like some cold faceted crystal smashing my spectrum into a sterile, bland beam of white.

Frankly, I used to be better at dodging these outrageous daily slings and arrows, but I'm getting tired and suffering them instead. With little endurance left, I am being eroded... slowly unmanned. What is the feminine counterpart for emasculation? I'd like to give this terrible phenomenon a name. It already has a face.

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