MP3 Confessions/God is in the Ceiling 2 (Deep Vocals)

Confessions:God is in the Ceiling 2

MP3 Confessions 1

Confessions or God is in the Ceiling 1

Confessions XV (How it will probably end…)

XV.

So let me see if I can get this straight:

Treat your pets the way you want to be treated.

Wash your hands before and after any sexual activity.

Go for therapy, but note the effects.

God is in the ceiling.

Only in your head.

Is that right?

Yes, that’s correct. Simply put, yes.

Thank God. Now I can sleep at night.

Confessions XIV.

XIV.

When I was 8 I killed a snail with my bare fist. I did it because the other boys dared me to. It was either that or tell the truth that I had kissed dirty Jodie in the sandbox underneath the slides. I hit the snail on the pavement with my fist so hard that it felt like I had killed nothing. Until the bits of shell and mush oozed down the side of my hand. I felt like throwing up right there and then, but I managed to hold it in until I got outside the school fence. I wiped the slug guts onto my pants and thought about my deed. The snail couldn’t have felt anything. It was a swift execution. Not like Tommy’s snail. Tommy said that he had boiled a snail alive once, but that it was no fun because the slug hid in its shell the whole time. I bet he told that story so he wouldn’t have to get slug guts all over his hand.

I don’t know why I remembered that just now.

I like lying on the bed with her, staring up at the cracks in the mirror. I know it’s probably not normal to keep a cracked mirror on the ceiling. And we’ll have to take it down soon before it breaks into a million shards, impaling us in our sleep, or when we’re making love. Yes, I’m tired of just fingering and rubbing and kissing. I want to make love. She laughs and says that when we take down the mirror we might as well remove the roof as well. Unlike the ceiling, the night sky is great and vast and open.

Confessions XIII

XIII.

I’m not in love with him. But I love sex. Finger, rub and kiss. This isn’t sex. Sometimes you have to sacrifice the things you love for other things you love.

I love lying side-by-side, holding hands, staring at the cracked mirror in the ceiling. I don’t know what he sees, but I see disjointed parts of ourselves, mostly of myself as when your eyes are drawn to yourself in photos, no matter who else is in the photo – even your lover.

I don’t expect this to turn into love because we don’t have sex.

I re-imagine many things. Mom banging brother’s head against the kitchen tile. He had forgotten to clean his room. Because he was a boy, he had his own room.

The janitor at my school whacking a trapped hummingbird to death with a broom in our classroom. He could have just sat there and waited instead, with the windows and doors open.

Dad crying with no tears coming out.

Our disjointed body parts are like pieces to a puzzle you can put back together in a variety of different ways. I like it better this way.

It’s somehow soothing just knowing the parts are there in the mirror in the ceiling.

Confessions XII

XII.

My therapist made me cry today. She proposed a new therapy for my anxiety. “It’s called EMDR, which stands for Eye Movement…Desensitization…Let me see, I can’t remember what the R stands for. Let me just go get the paper. That’ll make it a lot easier.”

She told me that oftentimes panic or anxiety attacks stem from a traumatic experience way back in ones childhood that one re-lives in the present. It is re-lived in the sense that you feel the same feelings you did when the trauma happened minus the actual event. My heart started beating more rapidly as the thought occurred to me that maybe something traumatic had happened to me that I couldn’t remember.

“There are 8 phases to the treatment,” she said, reading off of a paper in her hand. Several seconds of silence passed as she scanned down the page before she read to me the first phase. “Sorry, my last client – that was really intense,” she said as if to excuse her absentmindedness. When she got back her bearing, she said, “Now I want you to think about the most recent emotionally disturbing event, and then come up with an image of it.”

I imagined and said, “I remember when my sister pulled down my pants and then pulled down her own and said we should rub our butts on the bed. She then quickly pulled her pants back up and then ordered me to do the same.”

The therapist eyed me carefully through her glasses and said, “Is that the most recent?”

“No. That was when I was 8,” I answered. So I searched in my mind for a more recent trauma and before I could speak the therapist said, “And remember, don’t recount the experience to me, just create a picture in your head that represents the event.” I thought and thought and couldn’t create an image, so I lied and said, “Okay, I have it.”

In phase 2, she must have been feeling me out as she asked me if I was okay and encouraged me to take a deep breath. And so I did. I felt lightheaded but didn’t say so.

She then showed me a laminated list of negative feelings and asked my to identify one or two that this recent traumatic event made me feel. “I am unworthy and ashamed.” I pointed at this one, even though I wasn’t sure of what I was unworthy or ashamed. She then asked me to pinpoint on the opposite side of the page a preferred positive belief. This was too obvious: “I am worthy and deserving of love.”

I was then asked to focus on the negative image that I had supposedly conjured up and at the same time the negative feelings that came with it, simultaneously moving my eyes back and forth following her fingers. The purpose of this would be to allow new insights and associations to emerge, or to trigger a traumatic memory that reaches far back. She asked what distance felt most comfortable and at what speed. My eyes moved back and forth as she swept her fingers back and forth about midway between us, slowly from right to left, left to right. My heart beat faster and faster as I expected to witness an image of me being molested or raped at the age of 5 or 6, or maybe even younger. Nothing. Maybe the memory was repressed too deep. Back and forth, left to right. Any moment now. She told me to just notice. Nothing. Back and forth, right to left. Is this distance okay, she asked as her hand moved a little closer to me. Maybe she thought I would panic if she got too close. Yes, I said. I’m not going too fast? No, that’s just right. I felt dizzy and nearly out of breath. Just let whatever happens happen. Scream if you feel like it. It would surface any second now. I don’t know if I can handle this…nothing. Her hand stopped.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel like crying.” And I did.

On the drive home, I listed in my head missing memories:

No heart-to-heart talk of sex, with either of my parents.
No explanation of my first period.
No explanation of why you had to get married first before having sex.

Memories of what was said:

God made man and woman.
God made one man for one woman.
When a man and a woman love each other, they marry each other and are bonded for life.
Love is not love unless it lasts forever.

Memories of what was not said but understood:

Sex = Love.
God is in charge of love, thereby he’s in charge of sex.
Don’t make God blush.

The therapist had said to take a deep breath and release. And so I took a deep breath and released. Somehow I felt like crying.

Confessions XI

XI.

I remember once when I was a child – or was it a dream – my mom was mad at me for some reason, and so she reached into my shorts and pinched my groin real hard. No, she didn’t pinch my penis. Had she intended to and missed?

I still like sex. And I have it from time to time. Most of the time I just finger and kiss. That’s not sex. My partner likes it as long as I don’t aimlessly shove. And she makes me wash my hands because she’s allergic to incense and cigarettes.

Does this make sense?

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