The Killing Gift

For those 2 point 3 people who come back to my blog occasionally to see if anything drama worthy has been posted I am about to reveal a diet sized slice of my psyche.
I have the killing gift. I can kill a friendship in a heartbeat without even trying. I can kill a good time just by showing up. I can kill an appetite, a conversation, a thread, a tune, a tone. I can even kill time. I may be killing my marriage and my dd's childhood. I don't know. I'm certainly not aware of doing it but it happens just the same.
Dh says 'we have to get you medicated' while pressing another draft cider into my bottle shaped fist. Alcoholism is fine as long as I'm in a good mood apparently. (No, I'm not an alcoholic. Not even a real drinker. One night of multiple Tequila Kamikazes took care of that, tyvm.)
So what's the gift you ask? A vibe. A subconscious, apparently evil, vibe that emanates from my soul, if indeed I possess one, like reverse ESP, that strikes the fight or flight response in a large majority of people whose lives are unfortunate enough to collide with mine.
I've had the gift my entire life. It wasn't so noticeable in my childhood because we lived such an isolated lifestyle. My parents are isolationists. I don't know how that happened. I remember my mom having friends and going to art classes, etc. but in the early 70s it just stopped. She made an attempt to keep me somewhat social by having the neighbour girls over for craft day, which was the coolest thing in the world, but they had to walk cross country about a mile to get to our house. Think little house on the prairie type stuff but with trees and people with guns. (The sheriff shot his BIL because he thought he was a groundhog. That should give you an indication.) It didn't last long. Apparently the porkchop around my neck wasn't sufficient to get the dog to play with me, if you know what I mean. I spent most of my time communing with nature and perfecting my highbeam flirtation with gravity. Beams in the barn loft perhaps 30 feet above the ground. It's a wonder I didn't do a swandive.
In the mid-70s my brother decided to try and snuff me out. 1976 was a particularly bad year. Knives, drowning, strangulation. He wasn't picky. Whatever got the job done. Fortunately, he was incredibly inept. We really don't speak any more. Karma is currently kicking his ass.
I've been engaged a number of times. "Well, there's something!" you might say. On quiet reflection, though, I can only surmise that alcohol and other illegal substances must block the vibe to an extent. Like a natural forcefield. Once sobriety is sustained for a period of time, the glow of the relationship takes a header. I can't explain my relationship with my dh which has lasted unerringly for nine years now, seven married. He must be one of the few people who isn't bothered by the vibe. He knows it's there though. He's an odd duck himself, an emotionally stunted only child of a broken home. He has successfully blocked out his childhood and his Catholic upbringing which is probably the sole reason we are together. If he didn't have that built-in defense mechanism we probably never would have gotten past the first date.
So there you have it. A sliver of my psyche or psychosis, whichever you prefer.