When I was 16, I drank a lot. I went to bars a lot. I looked older. I tried to find someone to get me out of it all. To ease my pain and loneliness. All that happened was I was used by grown men who should have done better. They never even gave me pleasure, which I thought would at least get me through the night. I had been suicidal since I was nine. I was Catholic, and was told I would burn in hell forever if I killed myself. I was a believer then. I didn't start to become an atheist until I was 11, and began to see the lies and the flaws. So I prayed to god to kill me, because he was doing nothing else to help me, as they told me he would. Later, I would think about jumping in front of a truck, but I didn't want to traumatize the driver. I also didn't want to fail and be mangled and alive. There were no tall buildings to jump from. There were guns, but that never suited me. It suited my brother, when I was 14. He was the only one I loved. He didn't love me. He was just nicer to me than anyone else, and I clung to that scrap of kindness.
I was tired of the men, I was tired of the neglect and abuse and abandonment, I was tired of the violent sickness that followed my attempts to find solace in the bottle. I was most of all tired of the excruciating pain I felt. I usually hitched to the bar, if it was further than walking distance. That night I took a cab, and I tipped really big. It was a goodbye, when I handed him that extra $10, looking into his surprised eyes. The fare was $5. I didn't go to The Bootlegger frequently, but I was known. I had let slip that I was 16 to someone at one point, thinking he would keep my confidence, most likely drunken reasoning. That was the first night I was ever carded. I went nearly every night, to one bar or another, or to the liquor store down the street. I hated Seagram's 7, but I did not know what else to get and it did the job. The first time I got drunk, I was thirteen. My sister had given me vodka. That was the first violent purge I ever had, so I was disinclined toward vodka. She generally drank Seagram's, so I went with that. It was god awful, but it did the job. I just threw it back and tolerated the burning and awful taste for that temporary forgetfulness of what my life was. For what felt like a chance to break out, which I had always dreamed of doing.
Back to the plan. It was quite poetic, laced with the ignorance of youth. Still, it might have worked. It was the time of Karen Ann Quinlan; she was in a coma from an overdose of a mixture of pills and alcohol. I never heard specifically what pills, so I took the prescription bottle from my father's dresser. I thought if it was a prescription, it must be strong. I thought I would mix it with large amounts of alcohol and then lay down in the field opposite the bar. I thought if the booze and pills didn't work, the exposure should finish the job. It wasn't full winter, but it was cold, and the temperature dipped pretty low at night. When I felt numb from the drink and pills, I would take off my jacket and lay down, and be found stiff and dead the next day. No one would have cared. My parents would pretend to, and my father would pretend he hadn't done it to both of us, as he did with my brother, but they would not have cared like humans. They were far from human.
Since they refused to sell me alcohol, that really put a wrench in my plan. It was a major part of the plan, and the liquor store was not close by at all. Also, I wanted to spend my last hours with the people in the bar; I don't know why, it just seemed like a romantic part of the plan. I wanted one last night in the bar, to feel good, and then walk out and never hurt again. I would buy all of my own drinks; I had no interest in the users anymore, I just wanted to be there, to belong for a little while. And to have another goodbye, that they would not know of till I was found. I would take a long look at them, and remember the illusions I once sold myself, contrasted by what I knew them to be. It was the first time I was not served. That night, of all nights. I was heartbroken, spirit broken, and sunken low. I hitchhiked home, to put the bottle back before it was missed. It never was. Someone I knew vaguely from school picked me up. He was nice, but I knew he was far out of his depth. Even so, he only had to ask as he pulled up to my house, and I braced myself to go inside. Anything would have been better. But I was broken and couldn't ask, for many reasons, the extreme shyness and fear of others only part of that. He let me know in such an awkward, uncomfortable way, there was no way for me to respond, so I just sat there for a minute or so, in uncomfortable silence, hoping he would just reach over and touch me, and drive me away from there, but he didn't understand or have the guts, or both. What he said was he really wanted to grab my breast. It was so blunt I didn't know how to respond, and I was so low I couldn't smile at him to give encouragement, not that I even understood social cues then. So I sat there wishing he would touch me and drive me away from that awful home, just for a few hours respite. To put it off as long as possible was my wish. But because I could not say anything and my demeanor, he assumed I was offended or uninterested. How could I explain to him what I had just been through? So there was nothing I could do but get out of the car, and go into the house I had hoped never to see again, and return the pills which were never noticed missing from their place. Nothing was noticed by my parents, working hard as ever to pretend I didn't need help. Or just so self absorbed they never even had to work at not noticing.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Moment
I walked in the door from school. My sister was there, her eyes red from crying. She wouldn't have been there for a visit. She packed her things hurriedly and angrily on the day she turned 18, just two weeks ago. She looked at me in a way she never had before, like a silent, desperate plea. I don't remember seeing my mother. She never seemed to have a solid presence at times like this, which is why I sometimes think of her as a ghost.
Then I saw my father; his face was breaking. I had seen him in many states of anger and depression, but never like this.
I was 14.
He was 19. Had been 19.
I clung to something he said, probably casually, but I counted on it. I needed it to happen; I needed to get out of that place that was supposed to be my home. He said he was going to get a bus, and together with some friends would drive to California, and live on the bus. He said I could come, when I asked him. That was 6 months before. Before he went back into the hospital.
Once when we visited him there, and took him out on a day trip, my father thought it would be a good idea to take his troubled, sensitive 14 year old daughter and his mentally unbalanced son to see The Deer Hunter. After seeing the scene where the guy played Russian roulette, we had to leave. My brother and I, not the whole family. We waited in the lobby and talked until they finished the film. The movie was horrific, and had put terrible things in my head, but I was happy we could be alone and talk, and I enjoyed that time with him.
I hoped he would get out again soon. He had been in before, when he was 17, and got out. I hoped we could go soon.
3 days before it happened, I felt a sudden anguish. I’m not one to talk of premonitions, or believe in anything, it’s just what happened. I hadn’t known about his previous suicide attempt when he was 17; they kept that from me. It was sudden and intense. It was odd, and I don’t remember it being prompted by anything. I thought to myself, what am I going to do if he dies? How could he die, I reassured myself, he’s in the hospital, he's safe, they’ll take care of him.
When I saw their faces, I knew what had happened. I knew, but I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to be told and have it be real, have it solidify. I turned and ran. I screamed “No!” and ran into my room and locked the door. I didn’t want him to follow me. Especially not him. Not the monster. He had done it. My father I mean. He made it happen. He was the reason we all were in pain, he was the reason John shot himself in the head. The fact that my brother was a misdiagnosed bipolar may have played its part, but so did he, to an equal or greater degree.
I didn’t know he was in the hospital voluntarily, and could sign himself out whenever he wanted to, which he did three days before he killed himself.
He was the only one of them that I loved, and I thought the only one of them that loved me, but I don't think he did, really. The mild molestation only complicated and confused things for me.
Then I saw my father; his face was breaking. I had seen him in many states of anger and depression, but never like this.
I was 14.
He was 19. Had been 19.
I clung to something he said, probably casually, but I counted on it. I needed it to happen; I needed to get out of that place that was supposed to be my home. He said he was going to get a bus, and together with some friends would drive to California, and live on the bus. He said I could come, when I asked him. That was 6 months before. Before he went back into the hospital.
Once when we visited him there, and took him out on a day trip, my father thought it would be a good idea to take his troubled, sensitive 14 year old daughter and his mentally unbalanced son to see The Deer Hunter. After seeing the scene where the guy played Russian roulette, we had to leave. My brother and I, not the whole family. We waited in the lobby and talked until they finished the film. The movie was horrific, and had put terrible things in my head, but I was happy we could be alone and talk, and I enjoyed that time with him.
I hoped he would get out again soon. He had been in before, when he was 17, and got out. I hoped we could go soon.
3 days before it happened, I felt a sudden anguish. I’m not one to talk of premonitions, or believe in anything, it’s just what happened. I hadn’t known about his previous suicide attempt when he was 17; they kept that from me. It was sudden and intense. It was odd, and I don’t remember it being prompted by anything. I thought to myself, what am I going to do if he dies? How could he die, I reassured myself, he’s in the hospital, he's safe, they’ll take care of him.
When I saw their faces, I knew what had happened. I knew, but I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to be told and have it be real, have it solidify. I turned and ran. I screamed “No!” and ran into my room and locked the door. I didn’t want him to follow me. Especially not him. Not the monster. He had done it. My father I mean. He made it happen. He was the reason we all were in pain, he was the reason John shot himself in the head. The fact that my brother was a misdiagnosed bipolar may have played its part, but so did he, to an equal or greater degree.
I didn’t know he was in the hospital voluntarily, and could sign himself out whenever he wanted to, which he did three days before he killed himself.
He was the only one of them that I loved, and I thought the only one of them that loved me, but I don't think he did, really. The mild molestation only complicated and confused things for me.
Friday, March 12, 2010
This is how it begins
I am three. My father sends me to get a handkerchief from his drawer in his bedroom. I am off happily on a mission. It is a low dresser, with six long drawers, three on each end, and three small square drawers in the middle. The handkerchiefs are in the center small drawer, along with a pair of magnets. They are old, heavy and large. Each one is a bracket with rounded corners, they come together to form a sort of rectangular zero. I am fascinated by magnetism, it is magical. They are lovely magnets, quite powerful. I love to play with them. So when I open the drawer to get the handkerchief, I am mesmerized by them, and forget all about my obligation. I take them out and start playing with them, putting them at opposite poles and pushing one with the other. Then I hear my father's voice, sternly saying my name. My stomach drops. Had I learned already that it was too late to fix it, to rush his handkerchief to him and apologize? It's fuzzy then, I imagine I was interrogated, and the next thing I remember is him telling me to go get the belt. I start crying, terrified. This was not new. I don't know what other infraction I was guilty of before to get this punishment, but I remember knowing what was coming; this had happened before. His belts hung on a rack which hung over the closet door in his bedroom. My parents' bedroom, but why mention my mother? She might as well have been dead for all the protection she offered. Still crying, but unable to escape, I head for the belts. I must select the instrument of my torture, and deliver it to a monster. This was a beating, not a spanking. On a three year old. My pants were pulled down, my underpants too. On my bare skin I was hit so hard there were welts. My sister told me about the welts, she saw them, I'm not sure how long afterward. That was the last time I was beaten. My brother and sister were older by 4 and 5 years. I don't know why the beatings stopped then. But the torture did not stop then. It merely changed form. The ravings of a lunatic raining down on me, trying to convince me of whatever he felt it was that I needed to understand, still powerless to escape, my only defense was to agree with him, pretend I understood, and hope it would stop soon. In this way I was conditioned to allow myself to be abused, to not fight back, not defend myself. The world was all to happy to step in for him when he could not be there, part of the world anyway. Most of it was content to play my mother's part, turning a blind eye to the assaults.
requiem
no one talked to me. at all. maybe I don't remember. but it's altogether possible. they could do that sort of thing. all of them. aunts, cousins, uncles, grandparents. I remember my father's mother being dramatic, falling down almost, like it was about her. like it hurt her more. like it wasn't her fault. albeit indirectly, and more my father's, but still. and I don't think for a moment that she felt that, that that was the reason for her histrionics.
my mother didn't, my father, all wrapped up in themselves, as if it wasn't their fault either. my sister never talked to me under the best of circumstances. we never had real conversations. she normally treated me with contempt or indifference.
no one asked how I was, if they could do anything. not that that would have meant anything, or there was any answer that would mean anything, that they could understand the smallest part of.
I remember coming home afterward, and all the food people brought. I could not eat, even think of it, and I wondered how anyone could. at a time like this. it felt like an insult. do you remember the line in four weddings and a funeral, the speech at the funeral?
by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
when I heard this, I cried, for this was how I felt. how could they eat and talk of mundane things, and go on with their lives and pretend that nothing had happened? had they no hearts? they had not. it was a difficult world to live in, for someone with a heart.
I was 14, and alone. always had been, except for him. but I don't think he knew how I felt, or felt the same. but we were alike, he and i. my sister told me once, afterward, that he and I were closer then they were, even though she was one year younger than him, and I was 5 years younger. that was probably the most honest and meaningful exchange we ever had, and I've never forgotten it. I did not know that at all, being so much younger than them. but he didn't feel it as strongly as I did. I don't think he did; I don't think he could have.
This is one of the first things I wrote, when I started to work through this:
The Box
I see it long ago an old movie in my mind I can't see much the box is closed and silent all around no one talks to me but they never did and he did so I didn't care that he hurt me sometimes and I forget that part and I felt anyway and I needed and I fixed on this one thing which is now in the box.
I don't think he needed to do much for me to pin all my affection and hope on him, since there was no other target at all. A small indication that I was worth a little attention. Everywhere else in my life, I was treated with disdain or indifference.
there's nothing like it. he was all I had. no one can grasp what this did to me, what I was left in, that he had been my only hope of escaping. It wasn't just that I was alone at that moment. I did not connect with others. There was nothing for me ever again. I did not have it in myself to get out, and after that, I couldn't do anything. except hurt. so much. for so long. years. so many years. I have been recovering from this and what my father and mother did to me for all this time. and from what they all did to me, and neglected to do. those who tortured me because I was weak, an easy target, there is nothing recriminating enough to say about them. perhaps I should not say them all, and my resentment is lessening. but I can't believe my life would have been so much different anywhere else. which means any of them probably would have behaved the same, and perhaps did, likely did, to others in troubling circumstances, whether that be to torment or turn a blind eye, or just not bother to offer any kindness.
my mother didn't, my father, all wrapped up in themselves, as if it wasn't their fault either. my sister never talked to me under the best of circumstances. we never had real conversations. she normally treated me with contempt or indifference.
no one asked how I was, if they could do anything. not that that would have meant anything, or there was any answer that would mean anything, that they could understand the smallest part of.
I remember coming home afterward, and all the food people brought. I could not eat, even think of it, and I wondered how anyone could. at a time like this. it felt like an insult. do you remember the line in four weddings and a funeral, the speech at the funeral?
by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
when I heard this, I cried, for this was how I felt. how could they eat and talk of mundane things, and go on with their lives and pretend that nothing had happened? had they no hearts? they had not. it was a difficult world to live in, for someone with a heart.
I was 14, and alone. always had been, except for him. but I don't think he knew how I felt, or felt the same. but we were alike, he and i. my sister told me once, afterward, that he and I were closer then they were, even though she was one year younger than him, and I was 5 years younger. that was probably the most honest and meaningful exchange we ever had, and I've never forgotten it. I did not know that at all, being so much younger than them. but he didn't feel it as strongly as I did. I don't think he did; I don't think he could have.
This is one of the first things I wrote, when I started to work through this:
The Box
I see it long ago an old movie in my mind I can't see much the box is closed and silent all around no one talks to me but they never did and he did so I didn't care that he hurt me sometimes and I forget that part and I felt anyway and I needed and I fixed on this one thing which is now in the box.
I don't think he needed to do much for me to pin all my affection and hope on him, since there was no other target at all. A small indication that I was worth a little attention. Everywhere else in my life, I was treated with disdain or indifference.
there's nothing like it. he was all I had. no one can grasp what this did to me, what I was left in, that he had been my only hope of escaping. It wasn't just that I was alone at that moment. I did not connect with others. There was nothing for me ever again. I did not have it in myself to get out, and after that, I couldn't do anything. except hurt. so much. for so long. years. so many years. I have been recovering from this and what my father and mother did to me for all this time. and from what they all did to me, and neglected to do. those who tortured me because I was weak, an easy target, there is nothing recriminating enough to say about them. perhaps I should not say them all, and my resentment is lessening. but I can't believe my life would have been so much different anywhere else. which means any of them probably would have behaved the same, and perhaps did, likely did, to others in troubling circumstances, whether that be to torment or turn a blind eye, or just not bother to offer any kindness.
waterfall
I felt it, knew it before I did drugs. I think I was about 12 when it really peaked. The song is the same, but I don't know the waterfall anymore. So I loved this song. It was part of me. I longed for that waterfall. It was the waterfall itself. Almost. As close as i could get. The waterfall it spoke of wasn't for me, or I just wasn't using the same waterfall. It probably was heroin. I think that would have been my drug, my waterfall. The only reason I didn't do it was I didn't have the opportunity. This truly horrible man I met, hitchhiking probably, when I was 16, injected something in me he said was heroin, if it was, it was very weak. I felt odd and (diffused?) floaty? But mildly, and not pleasantly, but not unpleasant, and confused. Maybe not so much confused as not thinking clearly. The point is, I took an injection of something I had no idea what it was from a person I knew was no good on the off chance it was heroin. For the waterfall. I am not there anymore, but was for a long time. They pushed me there, to the place where I dreamed of the waterfall, even if it wasn't real, even for a little while.
May This Be Love
by Jimi Hendrix
Waterfall
Nothing can harm me at all
My worries seem so very small
With my waterfall
I can see
My rainbow calling me
Through the misty breeze
Of my waterfall
Some people say
Daydreaming's for all the
Lazy minded fools
With nothin' else to do
So let them laugh, laugh at me
So just as long as I have you
To see me through
As long as I have you
May This Be Love
by Jimi Hendrix
Waterfall
Nothing can harm me at all
My worries seem so very small
With my waterfall
I can see
My rainbow calling me
Through the misty breeze
Of my waterfall
Some people say
Daydreaming's for all the
Lazy minded fools
With nothin' else to do
So let them laugh, laugh at me
So just as long as I have you
To see me through
As long as I have you
sick day
It was such a small space. How could they possibly expect me to answer such a complicated question in a one inch space? Reason for absence? More of an essay question, really. I'd be happy to tell them. They, their school, their country, and my life in it, sucked. I find it intolerable to come here day after day, and sometimes I am incapable of summoning the strength necessary to force myself. That's the condensed version. But even that won't fit into a one inch space. What were they looking for? Was I the first one absent so far? No clues about the answer they were looking for from anyone else's entry. Should it be in sentence form? I have no idea. I have to put something down. I've already stood here too long. I was ill. That will fit. Later, I found they were looking for something much less complex. Sick. Good enough. If you're going to actually answer this question we'll be here all day. I suppose sick does encapsulate it all anyway. Sickness permeates everything.
flash
I sat on a curb, upending a bottle of whiskey. Back then, liquor stores had no qualms about selling to 16 year olds, provided they looked 18, and I did.
A word was said, a sentence I imagine, as I sat there, waiting for the whiskey to alleviate some of my pain. Waiting for anything to happen to take me out of my hell, however briefly. I don't remember the word, or who said it, but it was connected to the boy sitting near me. It referred to a night, a drunken, high night involving him and two others, one of my bungling attempts to escape.
One of the others I liked, one I disliked (his friend), and one, this one, I didn't know. The one I had liked very much, and had gone out with him, sort of, before. There was desperation and fear in all I did then, and after that he stopped talking to me, unable to understand me, and I was unable to explain myself. I thought this was my chance to have him, what I wanted so badly, what I imagined would quell the fire for just a moment. The others were meaningless, they were there, so they would be part of it, as he did not seem inclined towards me on his own. The one I didn't know didn't phase me. The one I didn't like disturbed, but I put it down as the cost of what I imagined I wanted, and ignored what he was.
I don't remember the word, but I remember it hitting me, the anger flashing quickly and intensely, filling me, bursting out. The bottle went up, and came down on the curb, whiskey everywhere, broken glass at the boy's throat. My anger at everything, everyone, at the throat of a scared, innocent kid. He looked in my eyes with fear and desperation and sadness of his own, and said "I was the one who wanted you". All of my anger left; only the desperate sadness remained. I walked away, alone, the boy's statement, and the feeling in his eyes echoing through me with an eerie hopeless yearning and regret. I never saw him again.
A word was said, a sentence I imagine, as I sat there, waiting for the whiskey to alleviate some of my pain. Waiting for anything to happen to take me out of my hell, however briefly. I don't remember the word, or who said it, but it was connected to the boy sitting near me. It referred to a night, a drunken, high night involving him and two others, one of my bungling attempts to escape.
One of the others I liked, one I disliked (his friend), and one, this one, I didn't know. The one I had liked very much, and had gone out with him, sort of, before. There was desperation and fear in all I did then, and after that he stopped talking to me, unable to understand me, and I was unable to explain myself. I thought this was my chance to have him, what I wanted so badly, what I imagined would quell the fire for just a moment. The others were meaningless, they were there, so they would be part of it, as he did not seem inclined towards me on his own. The one I didn't know didn't phase me. The one I didn't like disturbed, but I put it down as the cost of what I imagined I wanted, and ignored what he was.
I don't remember the word, but I remember it hitting me, the anger flashing quickly and intensely, filling me, bursting out. The bottle went up, and came down on the curb, whiskey everywhere, broken glass at the boy's throat. My anger at everything, everyone, at the throat of a scared, innocent kid. He looked in my eyes with fear and desperation and sadness of his own, and said "I was the one who wanted you". All of my anger left; only the desperate sadness remained. I walked away, alone, the boy's statement, and the feeling in his eyes echoing through me with an eerie hopeless yearning and regret. I never saw him again.
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