Ian Schware's Blog: The Rants of Ian Schware

INTRO

I remember the limbs of the trees grazing my face, and a rush of panic seeping out of my pores. It felt like I had been running forever. I could not feel a thing except the crimson red eyes that followed me on this hollow, winter night. What seemed like snow turned out to be the ashes of my youth, exploding out of the volcano that loomed over my existence. There were creatures, or more so figments of utter destruction, with their sights set on my demise. They were as real as my tormentor wanted them to be. This confirmed my suspicions that I must have lost my grip on reality some time ago, but who knows. And so I ran until every ounce of me became numb. It must be the same feeling every superhero has during an epic battle. I took a second to mentally commemorate the sense of calm they have, while I was submersed in fear and agony. I assume that I lost my bravery in the woods somewhere as those red-eyed beasts closed in. I fell to my knees, only to see my destination of security within feet of my final resting place. The distance grew as they delivered me back to the woods, in the various pieces of their choosing.
As my parents were leaving for work, the garage door, under my room, saved me from the conclusion of my night rituals with that aftershock feeling of an earthquake. Another day means I get to do all this bullshit all over again. Which tainted day of the week it was had never been my concern, because it really didn’t matter. The clothes on my back were far from color chromatic. As long as I represented myself as the amusement for all those around me, then I could eclipse the true struggles of my so-called life. I write this with no rhyme or reason. I see it as a first-hand look into someone that has lost all sense of reality. I say, to hell with Hollywood’s display of mental disorders. Our true pains cannot be captured by someone who truly has not lived such a horrific life. They say that the mind is what grants true power, but riddle me this; what happens when the mind does whatever the fuck it wants? Who is in control when all of your emotions choose their own destinations, while teaming up to attack what little hope you have for a normal life? Surely not I, as I watch my mind melt into a not so comforting chaos that is only soothing when I give up trying. Giving into the dreams, the guiding voices whose motive may be to destroy this helpless soul, was the relief from the madness and that, to me, made it totally worth it.
Each day has become a haze. Living life in such short increments must not be the normality of this condemned earth. But then again, I would not know normal if it fell into my lap and, major kudos to my stance for that curse as well. I feel guided by a blind guardian into the darkness, trusting its direction as I stumble on every obstacle imaginable. This is who I have become, due to life’s unwillingness to back off coupled with my submission to mental authority. Each day has a victory in the undertones of theatrical endings. If only I had it in me to just go in one direction or another. Instead, I watch as my life unfolds into a true living nightmare. Hours turn into minutes, as the seconds destroy my will to live. Daydreams save me to a point as I, fathom a simpler life. Lucky for me, these daytime fantasies are quickly followed by a cascade of decimation. I found sadistic comfort in my depression, more so than my own kin. The sparkles in my eyes were the flames my soul soaked in, as thoughts of internal rampage soothed my fingertips. Destruction by pure design became my life’s calling.
Who am I really? What has become of this bag of bones that had such great intentions in life, only to dwindle away like autumn’s cold shoulder to the trees? I wish I could use this to help, in such pain to find hope, but I’d be the liar in this if I claimed a personal epiphany that relayed the secrets to derail this carousel. This inner theme park hired all of my demons and old skeletons, of which I had nowhere to turn without a constant reminder. I became synonymous with failure and textbook material for what most parents warn about. This cruelty to my own self-worth comes from years and years of verbal assaults that forever haunt the crevices of my heart. I was subject to blame, demonic curses, and an overall hatred by society. I did not know what I was, but by popular belief, I was the decrepit part of the world.
Each time I try to pinpoint when this all started for me, I am reminded, by my closest of kin, about an earlier torment that plagued the essence of who I am. How comforting is it that even the same blood that pumps through this forsaken heart, is also flowing in the messengers of my lifetime of condemnation. Hopefully, you can at least relate as I dissect my life upon this tear-soaked paper. For those who decide to read onward, do not take on the struggles I bare in my life as your own. If anything, consider yourself grateful for the life you have taken for granted up to this point. How dare those who self-proclaim pain stricken lives, yet do not know how deep the rabbit hole goes.
I am no self-proclaimed martyr. I am a product of constant reminders of my condition and God’s wrath. I tap from inside of this snow-globe of darkness and carnage. To live a misread reality for countless years, only to find out that life is not what you perceived it to be, is my definition of true irony. Through my journey, I’ve found different shackles to throw onto my back, bringing myself up as a good fit for pretty much any disorder. Even as this is written, every inch of my being distorts my thoughts into visions of my blood flowing down the streets, to bathe the wicked in true insanity. The best part of my hell was my ignorance to the truth. I, myself did not know my true disease. The failure of my juggling of emotions, as I dreamt of a better tomorrow, was only blinded by my lack of accepting the world for what it’s worth. Don’t get me wrong, much occurred in my timeline that raised countless red flags of demolishing scenarios. I still didn’t know, until now, that I was the culprit for a good amount if it.
I had no clue that my look on reality was a different channel from others. Of course, everyone is unique, but I found my own path that few have attempted. To me, life was just a miserable re-occurrence you face when you open your eyes in the morning to a religion questioning alarm clock. I got through it with my own defense mechanisms, but my sanity was the trade off as I drifted into deep patterns of listlessness. I also find it hard to fathom success in life. Relationships, full-time employment, and a great social network, all have had their own particular damaging situations that even further my acceptance of what I have become. A hardcore, underage drug addict can hold down jobs that I am terrified of. I find irrefutable flaws in the people around me that dictate my life without my control. I became quickly sick and tired of just doing what everyone else was doing and I found seclusion in the process. I sabotaged countless relationships through myself not being completely responsive to their needs. I was so narcissistic by default of my own flaws in my machine, that even holding simplistic conversations became battlefields of depression and social anxiety.
Maybe a girl would turn this destruction around. I doubt there even is such a girl with similar tastes and a heart big enough to take on this epic cluster fuck which embodies this man suit. I, at this point, did not believe this certain goddess existed. I had lost the closest ones around me, and so I accepted a life of solitude and daydreams of my blood flowing into a drainage pipe. Maybe, the dark lord had already released the sexual hound designed to rip my heart in every fathomable way possible.
So, I welcome you into this tainted world I call my own. There isn’t a warning label out there that could describe the encounters I will be sharing with you. Grab a hold of that precious teddy bear, your pro-creators laid upon you in your cradle, as you first experienced a night of being alone. I shredded mine with a butcher’s knife and I wish I could do that again every day. You have been warned and may God bless your soul.


CHAPTER 1

As the light fought through the slits of the blinds, I once again found myself wondering; why in the world would anyone put up such hideous wallpaper? This particular monstrosity, defined every physical characteristic of what to not have your child greeted by every, single, fucking, morning. You would think that the best options would include, soft colors intertwined with the beautiful scenes of animals dancing in a sea of happiness instead. Whoever decided that ten inch cockroaches in sporadic chasing patterns was the best way to raise their child, was apparently on this earth to breed serial killers. They might as well have had a shelf designated for trophy animal skulls. Many times, I have revived myself from being lost in the hallucinations of giant insects, which claim me as a meal or more so, a victory. For two weeks, at least, I fought in conversations with my parents to let me tear down these creatures from my wall. To hold a ceremony for the death of the nightmares that came hand in hand with this wretched wallpaper.
“Son!” exhaled my father, a backwoods, closed-minded, Pentecostal preacher using a Bible as a coaster for his fifth cup of coffee. “One more word about that stupid wallpaper and those bugs are all you will see for the next week!”
“Why would you put him through that, Alex?” said my mother. I could always count on her to back me up when it came to innocent desires of my heart. “Those things creep me out too! And besides, you promised him you would remove it before we even signed the lease.”
“Alright, alright, I promise right after the game that will be the first thing I do,” he said without hiding an ounce of frustration.
I always wondered how my sister and I turned out the way we did, until I got older and realized my father’s Napoleon complex. Michelle, my sister, was just three years older than me, an age deficit she held over my head time and time again. She and I were a living representation of a love-hate relationship, which of course meant, we loved to hate each other, something I learned to cope with on a daily basis. A day would not go by that I wouldn’t pull her chair out from under her while she was threatening my existence. I love that bitch more than I can put into words. Too bad her soul was already gone.
This life would make me the poster child for a destroyed adolescence, but none of it could affect the connection I had with my mother. She was nothing but a compassionate angel in my big, hazel eyes. My mother lived a schedule full of overseeing our protection, education, and our overall entrance into this torturous world. Not a second of my life would go by that I couldn’t depend on that unconditional love that flowed like a river from her heart to mine. She was seriously my, everything.
Something I could not understand, even at the age of six, was how she found love in her heart with such painful baggage from her life’s journey. She was diagnosed at the young age of fourteen with a critical epileptic disorder. The crazy amount of doctors, who supervised her care, could never quite come to the conclusion of why she came down with this life-threatening condition. Some argued genetics and others blamed a tragic cheerleading incident that makes me want to choke every whore in bloomers. Neither of which would change the fact that she lived life a few minutes at a time.
My mother kept her actions within a constant cycle of endless care and attention towards her children. Her organization of our everyday lives was clockwork. Some would find it overbearing, or even downright frustrating, but not me. I found joy in living by her daily schedule, a handcrafted itinerary comprised of pink poster board and magic markers. From snack time to the designated family prayers, I could bet the farm that my world would follow that homo-erotic timeline. This may sound pretty mundane, but to me it was security and stability at its finest.
Even with such a tight schedule, she still found time to volunteer at church. My mother was such a positive influence to the children in her ministry, continuously the term “angel” was coined in the verbal description of her presence. I would sit back and watch her magic as she changed the lives of the impressionable young ones, by either her undivided attention or just a glowing smile. A courtroom, that was charging her for a selfish heart, would rest the case with tears amongst the jury with the witnesses I could gather. She was my world, even more so, my ticket towards an impressive future that would affect millions with kindness.
They say when it comes to marriage, each side is supposed to compliment the other. In translation, if one half has certain faults, then the other half had an overwhelming amount of said lacking quality. That theory is fucking dead and buried in the backyard next to my first two cats if I try to use my parents as an example. My mother was always ahead in the scoreboard, MVP trophy and all. Everything I ever needed emotionally came with her gracing my presence. My wretched father, however, gave a new meaning to the words “tough love” through various household items, or foreign objects in my ass’s demise. I stand by my feelings that he should have had better judgment, and possibly a Xanax, when it comes down to his short-wick temper in heated situations. Which brings me to this topic that I need to get off of my chest; why in the hell do Christians claim keeping their “temple” holy, but then go overboard on prescribed medications with no conviction? Their obvious justification has to be that they were given it legally, following the “laws of the land.” This is your wake up call when I say that you are getting fucked up like the rest of us! And, if you ever got a buzz off of a joint or a nice mixed drink, then you would realize that it has the same effect as the prescriptions on your shelves, behind your mirror (which I find it ridiculously ironic that it is behind a mirror to begin with). My father was quick to yell and even faster to disregard the ability to calm the hell down. I developed a preference for physical abuse over anything verbal. The vocal daggers out of that fucker’s mouth had a heart seeker on it every time, and crumbled my walls entirely, only to then use the pages of the Bible to soak up the blood for justification of his crime scene.
So, of course I attached to my mother like a leech in my emotional swampland. She was my relief pitcher when my dad kept knocking my self-esteem out of the park. My sister and I found our comfort under her wing as she bestowed her qualities and integrity as a living, breathing example. She was involved in everything we did, overseeing the development of our personalities and designing the blueprints of our future. She loved us for who we were, because we were two miracles with heartbeats.
Due to her illness, the doctors spent countless hours in “professional” arguments with her about the overall safety during her multiple pregnancies. Not only did they push the thoughts into her brain about the low percentage of safety for us in her womb, but also that her fate was tied to her offspring. She felt led and compelled to follow through, having faith in her religious beliefs for God to give her the desires of her heart. I could not imagine anyone being told that they weren’t capable of something that they wanted their entire life. Knowing my mother, I am sure the risk meant nothing to her. She was filled with a river of love that makes the Nile look like a lazy lagoon at a foreign operated water park, with two strikes already. My sister and I seeing daylight for the first time, to her, was her purpose on this earth.
One chilly Tuesday night, I found myself with an overwhelming surge of negativity coursing through my veins. It reminded me of the feeling you get when you subconsciously put yourself in the middle of a horror flick climax, being the slutty bare-breasted cheerleader that thinks it is “smart” to run even further into the woods. Like the abrupt rising from the dead, when reality pulls you out of a ruthless nightmare, my mind and heart welcomed this intense fear over the thought of losing my mother. The only key element of the situation was that she was actually very much alive. Not even a hangnail could be found on her when she rushed into my insect inhabited bedroom, with added blood curdling screams as the soundtrack.
“What is it, Christian?!” She rushed from her mouth like bidding at a foreclosure auction.
“I don’t want to lose you!” I let escape out of my cords in brutal honesty.
“Lose me? How in the world would you ever lose me? What you have to understand baby, is that nightmares are not real, as you see...I am still alive.”
“Mommy,” I admitted, “I wasn’t even sleeping.”
I was completely blind-sided by the feeling of a loss of stability, and more importantly, the loss of my mother. The woman that my world rotated around was gone in my mind. I felt the natural reaction of trying to figure out our last words together, and how I could have been better to her. It was not until she barreled into my room that I digested the lump in my throat, took a deep breath, and embraced my mother’s aura as she ran her fingers through my hair. Even through that experience, she knew exactly how to calm me down. These episodes continued for the better part of a week, same scenario, and the same relaxing ending.
It took about three to four days of zero negative thoughts for me to finally sit back and relax. I decided to just let it go. She was so convincing every night that I guess it seeped into my pores like a new street drug, and then I felt pure Zen. Naturally, my sister had a field day with this, seeing as how this proved me as the coward she already knew existed deep within. She would spend her precious time developing new ways to fuel the fire of this uneasy emotion. She would transform my fear into monsters inhabiting my closet, fake voices in the hallway, and even the good old fashioned “Boo!”, when the time was right. I learned to laugh it off and to get even, because I knew my feelings had no ground to stand upon.
I heard the storm crackle and belay its thunderous curse on my small town on a random Wednesday, or maybe it was a Tuesday, but I guess it really doesn’t fucking matter. It sounded like the Apocalypse outside the living room window as I watched this poor stray kitten hide under my dad’s old Buick. That malnourished poster child of a kitten, for an anorexic feline calendar, was a shade of smoky black, and so I thought I was creative calling him Thunder. Later I would find him devoured by the friendly neighborhood pit bull, ironically named Precious. I consider it a hate crime to this day, being that the pup was all white, and how I got lost in the thought of the welfare of the animal kingdom, must have slowed down that day. I am far from racist, but I do find that to be funny as shit.
Later that night of the day poor Thunder met his maker, I was hiding out to avoid the dreaded bed time when I overheard my mother choking on her words in obvious prayer. I typically avoid my parents’ room since they are the ones who give the bidding to the goons that drag me kicking and screaming to bed every night. Since I am blessed with borderline perfect hearing and even more with genuine modesty, I could clearly hear her words escaping through the house’s ventilation and floating towards the heavens like a beacon in the darkness. I quickly noticed when I had snuck one eye through the crack in the door, that my dad was nowhere to be found, which can be said for his participation in the family in general. So I pulled up a seat, Indian style, and enjoyed my front row seat.
“Let it be me, Father!” she cried out loud with tear-filled eyes clenched in her white knuckled fists. “Let me be the one to go! Not my husband, who is on your Earth to lead your people. And, not my children, who you blessed me with in my times of sorrow and answered my prayers. They deserve the life they were supposed to be stripped from before it even started. I have accomplished what I was here for and I am all yours now.”
Without a second thought, I dove into the room with an abundance of puppy dog tears.
“Who were you talking to, Mommy?! Where are you going? I thought you told me you’d always be here!”
“Don’t worry about it, son,” she assured me. “I was just praying and isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Just as quickly as it started, I was already in my bed, dreading the darkness of the night. Seeing that I knew what I’d heard, sleep would not be finding me anytime soon. Something was going on, and not even Dick Tracy could solve this case. This was too close to my day terrors, for me to chalk it up to coincidence. I felt my brain peel itself open from the inside like a Discovery Channel documentary on sea turtles hatching by the sea, only to climb into the water or die trying. I knew what I needed to do if slumber would be in my future resume, so I ran to the kitchen to find my own personal ocean. This led me to the medicine cabinet which my father found no need to keep under full disclosure. When I was a vomit breathing dragon, I recall sleeping like road kill every time they gave me that purple liquid medicine. I was too young to pronounce it, but sure as hell smart enough to line up the arrows like an arcade game and pop that Fort Knox cap off. Down the hatch it went, with that nasty ass grape flavor, until I had dreams of choking on Big League Chew or staying the night at the Huxtable’s. I never figured out how I made it up two flights of stairs and into my bed, but I was never caught so fuck it.
The amazing thing about having the attention span of an ankle biter is that through the action figures we saw on television, in between cartoons with religious undertones, we could easily be swayed with bright colors and promises. I woke up from my first drug encounter to a checklist next to my head. Having been so caught up in the extraction of my mother from the earth, I failed to realize that the family tradition, two week countdowns, had officially commenced. This scratch sheet of paper navigated my brain to choose five gifts, from the millions of options, preferred to celebrate the date of my birth. I finally came to my conclusion. This was after destroying the page with my Ninja Turtle pencil. That along with any form of Nerf artillery was clutch to defend myself against my sister and the neighborhood hooligans. They also let me design the cake, which I would have to distinguish, in order to collect my wish. Kids at that age usually don’t have the privilege to choose their own gifts, but my mother would do anything to make us feel empowered as little humans. These options made me feel too big for my own shoes.
Over the next week or so, the consistent flow of birthday preparations kept my thought process at a steady pace. I would keep forgetting everything that occurred with my mother, only to have my glorious mind refer to it since we are all only human. I learned how to shake it off, which usually meant I went to my mother and let her presence deflect these unrelenting emotions. The days seemed to flow by with activities that built the excitement to my epic seventh birthday. It felt like I blinked twice and I was being tucked in bed to capture dreams like butterflies and then resurface to experience my birthday.
This personal holiday landed on a Sunday this year, which means that I still had to put on my Sunday’s best to go experience my father’s profession. The excitement got the best of me and I woke up about an hour before my alarm. This was pretty typical every Sunday of me to do, and I would always hear the shower running while there was still morning dew on the ground. This always meant my mother had embarked on her “holy day” routine by knocking her shower out first before dragging our asses out of bed for the day. Until I heard my mom’s soothing voice, I could never really get back to collecting those miniscule minutes of sleep, which resorted to making them up during my dad’s sermons. So, I would knock and acknowledge that it was her precious child at the door. She would always respond with the loving care a parent would and should when their child woke up. She would tell me how much longer it would be and how good breakfast was going to be in my belly. This time, however, she did not respond. After a few more feeble attempts, I just figured she couldn’t hear me and I should just get myself back in bed before my father woke up and chastised me for being up so early. With such an uneasy feeling, I closed my eyes and slowly found sleep. The last thought that crossed my mind was imagining if she had answered and how great she would have made me feel on my birthday.


A Filthy Creation: Part 1
Written and Illustrated by Ian Schware

I wouldn't even have to take my shoes off to count the amount of genuine people I know...and I bet most of yall feel the same way. It is truly heartbreaking to see a room full of lifeless people...who have sold their souls/passions in life, to the next form of technology. People trading in genuine face-to-face conversations and an offline society network... for acronyms, gibberish, and a desire for more "likes" or "followers" on their preferred social network religion.
We blame various races, governmental entities, secret societies, and media for how bad our world has turned out. But, as far as I am concerned, everyone as a whole has blood on their hands. We always look up to the people in history who made a difference for us all in the present/future...but, by having internet communication/entertainment capabilities now....we have cheated ourselves out of the opportunity to be movers and shakers.

I may personally believe that homosexuality is an unfathomable lifestyle...but I think it is filthy for Christians to treat gay people like their existence is a cancer that needs to be eradicated. Burning witches didn't stop the occult from growing...don't expect a different result. Personal convictions do not justify condemnations.
Every single one of us has to experience our own life's curtain call, as we begin our final waltz with the grave. So, when did it become normal for all of us to put our judge's robe on, and then condemn other walks of life? Everyone has to make their own decisions about how they write their own life's book, and also have to deal with its unforeseen ending.
Spend less time getting all hot and bothered over other people's actions and more time on cleaning out your own skeletons.