Three cans of paint and two tubes of glitter later...she was.
11.16.2009
Blue Butterfly
Because blue is her favorite color, the color of her eyes, and because there are were no blue wings of any style or size available for purchase in the continental United States, Beau Annon wanted to be a blue butterfly.
Three cans of paint and two tubes of glitter later...she was.
Three cans of paint and two tubes of glitter later...she was.
11.01.2009
A Tissue Box With No Doors. Or, "I Didn't Drink The Draino," Part III
It was the kind of facial tissue that comes in the gray, rectangular box. You know the tissue boxes that every hospital and school and government office places at the front desk, right next to the cheap pens and generic hand sanitizer? I dabbed gingerly at my eyes and thought about the colorful, square box of Kleenex Puffs on my nightstand at home, which sits to the immediate right of my teetering stack of beloved books and to the left of my silver bud vase where a pink rose was this minute wilting, dying. Rose petals. So impossibly soft. ‘I fucking hate this tissue,’ I thought. ‘This tissue is insult heaped upon injury and then some. If anyone deserves a pretty box of soft, soothing tissue, it’s suicidal people. People like me. People whose worlds are already gray and abrasive and just so utterly less than we deserve, less than we expected, hoped for, worked for. And then, when we’re at our absolute lowest point and in our darkest hour, broken and blinded by our hurt, we’re asked to have a seat, tell our story, and we’re handed this mediocre tissue. Yet another confirmation that we are clearly unworthy of anything good and comforting and… premium… in this life. Honestly, how much more can it really cost to replace this awful tissue with the Puffs? I’ll bet if hospital administration voted to switch to Puffs, then conducted a quality control survey a year later, it would be found that patients required less medication, or were released sooner, or had a lower incidence of repeated suicide attempts, or just sat in silence, rocking back and forth, brushing the thick, fluffy comfort of this far superior tissue against their cheek, a self-soothing technique which freed up a CNA to sit on her huge ass and file her nails and chat to her nitwit sister on the cordless about how much she hates her miserable life. God, I fucking hate this fucking tissue.’
In an act of defiance, I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweater.
This is just before the uniformed “they” take my vitals, take my phone, take my shoes, take me to the 5th floor, take my blood, take my health history, make me take a sleeping pill, then take me to my room where I will take inventory of my life for the next several days or weeks - if I don’t find a sharp object, stick it into my neck and take my life first.
Fortunately, I don’t find any sharp objects in my room. I find ivory walls. Or Beige. Or tissue box gray. I don’t know. I only know that it’s all walls and no doors in this place. So I guess what I actually find is a startlingly obvious parallel to my life. A realization as painful and final as a sharp object to the neck, anyway. I do what I always do when the truth gets too close: scramble for an escape. But, here within these walls my defense mechanisms aren’t permitted. My best avoidance tactics have been stripped from me. There is no cocktail hour. No bath tub. No internet. No cell phones. No Gray’s Anatomy reruns. No bedtime kisses from my daughter. No “Hey babe, pass the Ranch dressing.”
I settle for a shower. The bathroom is floor-to-ceiling tile. Cold. Hard. The pressure from the showerhead is harder still, the water scalds, and I look down at the flesh of my chest and ribcage turning red, and I’m grateful I can feel the burn because it means I haven’t gone numb. I emerge and stand dripping, wrapped in the paper-thin towel assigned to me, suddenly aware how thin my own body is underneath. I wonder what I look like. I don’t even bother guessing what I feel about what I look like or what I’ve become. My thoughts are swift and elusive winged creatures, and I give up trying to capture them in the med-induced fog. I climb into my cot, lay on my back and pull the rough coverlet up to my chin, tuck it there with trembling hands. I stare at the wall. I finally tell myself what I don’t want to hear.
I am alone, I am trapped, I did this to myself, and there are no doors.
… to be continued.
In an act of defiance, I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweater.
This is just before the uniformed “they” take my vitals, take my phone, take my shoes, take me to the 5th floor, take my blood, take my health history, make me take a sleeping pill, then take me to my room where I will take inventory of my life for the next several days or weeks - if I don’t find a sharp object, stick it into my neck and take my life first.
Fortunately, I don’t find any sharp objects in my room. I find ivory walls. Or Beige. Or tissue box gray. I don’t know. I only know that it’s all walls and no doors in this place. So I guess what I actually find is a startlingly obvious parallel to my life. A realization as painful and final as a sharp object to the neck, anyway. I do what I always do when the truth gets too close: scramble for an escape. But, here within these walls my defense mechanisms aren’t permitted. My best avoidance tactics have been stripped from me. There is no cocktail hour. No bath tub. No internet. No cell phones. No Gray’s Anatomy reruns. No bedtime kisses from my daughter. No “Hey babe, pass the Ranch dressing.”
I settle for a shower. The bathroom is floor-to-ceiling tile. Cold. Hard. The pressure from the showerhead is harder still, the water scalds, and I look down at the flesh of my chest and ribcage turning red, and I’m grateful I can feel the burn because it means I haven’t gone numb. I emerge and stand dripping, wrapped in the paper-thin towel assigned to me, suddenly aware how thin my own body is underneath. I wonder what I look like. I don’t even bother guessing what I feel about what I look like or what I’ve become. My thoughts are swift and elusive winged creatures, and I give up trying to capture them in the med-induced fog. I climb into my cot, lay on my back and pull the rough coverlet up to my chin, tuck it there with trembling hands. I stare at the wall. I finally tell myself what I don’t want to hear.
I am alone, I am trapped, I did this to myself, and there are no doors.
… to be continued.
10.12.2009
Harnessing The Bubbles
How can I catch you up on six plus months of "holy-shit-hold-on-tight-here-comes-the-coming-undone" when I haven't quite caught my breath yet? I can't. I keep trying to grab ahold of the story as it gurgles to the surface, tell it in bursts of babble, but it's a lot like trying to catch soap bubbles in the palm of your hand. Pop! Almost had that one. Gone. A good story has a beginning, a middle and an end; my story is a muddled end to a beginning that never quite begun at all. Or something.
POP!
While I gather my cloudy thoughts and harness these transparent bubbles, I'll keep silent; but, in the meantime, I will show what I haven't the words to tell. After all, I take pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. I photograph the nouns, and freeze in time the verbs, and with images I deconstruct, reconstruct my reality until I've revealed myself. My most cloudy, my most transparent self.
But, because everything has been so topsy turvy, upside down and basackwards, and because I can, here's the whole story...
in reverse...
POP!
While I gather my cloudy thoughts and harness these transparent bubbles, I'll keep silent; but, in the meantime, I will show what I haven't the words to tell. After all, I take pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. I photograph the nouns, and freeze in time the verbs, and with images I deconstruct, reconstruct my reality until I've revealed myself. My most cloudy, my most transparent self.
But, because everything has been so topsy turvy, upside down and basackwards, and because I can, here's the whole story...
in reverse...
9.25.2009
Last Night I Slept With Fried Chicken.
Last night I slept with Fried Chicken. I slept with Fried Chicken during my mini-break in the psych ward, too - which, by the way, I am now affectionately referring to as The Joint because it's funnier. And, also because I will likely never get to experience the joint as it refers to a jail cell unless I’m given 3 months to live and embark on the fulfillment of my final quest: being arrested for riding around downtown stark naked on a tricycle pulled by two dozen bunny rabbits on rhinestone-studded leashes. Don’t tell PETA.
Anyway, last spring my daughter received in the mail from her Auntie Bree, a fist-sized, plush chicken toy, whom she promptly deemed, "Fried Chicken," even though John and I tried and tried to convince her Chuck or Chickie-Poo or Flapper or any number of more socially acceptable names might be a better fit. Beau Annon carried Fried Chicken everywhere. She wanted to take it into the bathtub, but settled for him watching her from the counter top. He 'ate' her broccoli at the dinner table and played fetch with she and her dog. (Um, yes. The dog quite liked playing fetch with Fried Chicken, although I think we can all agree he would have liked it better if it had been Kentucky Fried Chicken.) Naturally, in the course of Beau's daily activities she lost her little friend and realized it just before bedtime, resulting in a monstrous fit, complete with kicking, screaming, tears and snotty nose. John and I ransacked the house and both of our cars, but to no avail. So, Easter morning, Beau's devoted daddy drove to each WalGreens (where Bree said she found the toy in California) in town until he found an exact replica, and returned home mighty pleased with himself.
An hour or so later, we presented our sleepy-eyed baby girl with the 'found' Fried Chicken, immediately after which point she literally stumbles over the original hiding under the couch. She looks back and forth between the two chickens, first a look of befuddlement and then unadulterated horror as she tries to process... 'But... Who? Why? How did they multiply? What is happening here?' She lets out a wail and crocodile tears roll down her sweet cheeks. Daddy and Mommy exchanged a look of resignation, knowing we have scarred our child for life. From that moment on the two Fried Chickens could never exist in the same physical space at the same time lest the earth implode. If Fried Chicken #1 was on her bed, #2 had to be locked up in the top of the closet. If Fried Chicken #2 was with snuggled near her in the car seat, #1 was on the shelf in the laundry room.
Now that John and I are divorced and have separate residences, having two of everything is just a matter of convenience. Two sets of clothes. two snuggly blankets, two pairs of sneakers, two toothbrushes, two big girl beds, two families, two lives divided, two Fried Chickens.
After all, two of anything is better than one. Or so we say.
Anyway, last spring my daughter received in the mail from her Auntie Bree, a fist-sized, plush chicken toy, whom she promptly deemed, "Fried Chicken," even though John and I tried and tried to convince her Chuck or Chickie-Poo or Flapper or any number of more socially acceptable names might be a better fit. Beau Annon carried Fried Chicken everywhere. She wanted to take it into the bathtub, but settled for him watching her from the counter top. He 'ate' her broccoli at the dinner table and played fetch with she and her dog. (Um, yes. The dog quite liked playing fetch with Fried Chicken, although I think we can all agree he would have liked it better if it had been Kentucky Fried Chicken.) Naturally, in the course of Beau's daily activities she lost her little friend and realized it just before bedtime, resulting in a monstrous fit, complete with kicking, screaming, tears and snotty nose. John and I ransacked the house and both of our cars, but to no avail. So, Easter morning, Beau's devoted daddy drove to each WalGreens (where Bree said she found the toy in California) in town until he found an exact replica, and returned home mighty pleased with himself.
An hour or so later, we presented our sleepy-eyed baby girl with the 'found' Fried Chicken, immediately after which point she literally stumbles over the original hiding under the couch. She looks back and forth between the two chickens, first a look of befuddlement and then unadulterated horror as she tries to process... 'But... Who? Why? How did they multiply? What is happening here?' She lets out a wail and crocodile tears roll down her sweet cheeks. Daddy and Mommy exchanged a look of resignation, knowing we have scarred our child for life. From that moment on the two Fried Chickens could never exist in the same physical space at the same time lest the earth implode. If Fried Chicken #1 was on her bed, #2 had to be locked up in the top of the closet. If Fried Chicken #2 was with snuggled near her in the car seat, #1 was on the shelf in the laundry room.
Now that John and I are divorced and have separate residences, having two of everything is just a matter of convenience. Two sets of clothes. two snuggly blankets, two pairs of sneakers, two toothbrushes, two big girl beds, two families, two lives divided, two Fried Chickens.
After all, two of anything is better than one. Or so we say.
9.02.2009
Coveting: O.R.I.G.I.N.A.L. Art by Vincenzo Rizzo
Whatever "it" is, this guy has it. I'm slain, I'm swooning, I'm smitten by Vincenzo Rizzo's original watercolor and acrylic paintings, most of which - for reasons completely beyond me - he's selling in his Etsy shop for only $10! The heavy-handedness, the depth, tones and most especially the unique and expressive features of his subjects are worth a second look. Or a third or fourth, or as many times as you walk through your living room to get to your kitchen. You know you want one. I want several. I'm just deciding which several to buy and hang as a set above the writing desk in my dreary studio apartment. What say you?
8.24.2009
Fairy Dust
Beau Annon is curled up, asleep, in the closet. When I was a small child, I used to sleep in the closet sometimes; although, this is not the same thing. She is not there to hide from the Hands or muffle the sound of the Voices. She did not pass out there with her fingers jammed into hear ears and her cheeks wet with tears. My girl is sleeping in the 10x16 walk-in closet, which has been fitted with a toddler bed dressed with ruffled sheets and a Ralph Lauren duvet; a tiny clothing rod hanging on the diagonal overhead for her tiny clothes; a 3-drawer miniature bureau to house her games and toys; clear, twinkling Christmas lights tied with hemp ribbon around the inner perimeter; family photographs attached with clothespins to the lights; and, a signed, original pastel illustration in a chunky antique frame just at eye level. She drifted off to the sound of my voice as I sang at her request, “Blackbird” by The Beatles. She is dreaming of bunny rabbits and blowing bubbles and cotton candy ice cream with colored sprinkles.
I’m four feet away, propped on pillows against my so-ugly-I-must-give-it-a--home-before-it’s-tossed-into-the-dumpster gold, velvet headboard that I bought for $10 at the thrift shop downtown. YES. Gold. Velvet. Headboard. I can sit here with my laptop or a book, sip iced tea, and see my daughter sleeping in the closet, clutching her stuffed elephant and sucking on her nonny. My mom called my baby blanket a “nonny” so that’s what Beau and I call it, too. And I figure this is evidence enough that life is maybe not as crummy and futile as it seems. It will be enough on the days I weep in regret as I accidentally drive in the wrong direction after work toward my ex-husband of five years, and my ex-dogs living in our ex-house, which I filled with all of those very carefully selected “ex’ things in efforts to craft some semblance of a life wanted. It will have to be enough on the days I fight the shopping cart with the busted front wheel down the dirty lanes of The Dollar Store, chest heavy like lead, face burning, recalling the sad figure of my mom doing the same, remembering with shame (and now something like understanding) the food stamps, rice and beans, no hot water again, the hole in my left sole, the hole in the center of me I never could fill. I hope it can be enough on the days I’m alone in this itty bitty studio apartment with it's broken stove and sometimes lukewarm water while my child plays at the lake on her paternal grandparents boat, lunches with daddy at the Petroleum Club, gazes up in awe at a magnificent holiday tree lined with gifts just for her, sits with head bowed and eyes closed and says those rehearsed words I didn’t teach her around an impeccably set dining table complete with real, child-sized china, lives the life I wanted her to have - in lieu of the one I had - but couldn’t stomach living myself for the price. It has to be enough on the days I struggle to convince myself to stay here in this town, this state, this country for those two or three times a week I spend with her, because, despite my vicious inner critic and those around me, I do have something of value to impart, something real and lasting to share, memories still to make with her… though they may involve only $3, plastic wings and imaginary fairy dust. Please let it be enough on the days I know I’m as trapped now as I ever was.
I’m four feet away, propped on pillows against my so-ugly-I-must-give-it-a--home-before-it’s-tossed-into-the-dumpster gold, velvet headboard that I bought for $10 at the thrift shop downtown. YES. Gold. Velvet. Headboard. I can sit here with my laptop or a book, sip iced tea, and see my daughter sleeping in the closet, clutching her stuffed elephant and sucking on her nonny. My mom called my baby blanket a “nonny” so that’s what Beau and I call it, too. And I figure this is evidence enough that life is maybe not as crummy and futile as it seems. It will be enough on the days I weep in regret as I accidentally drive in the wrong direction after work toward my ex-husband of five years, and my ex-dogs living in our ex-house, which I filled with all of those very carefully selected “ex’ things in efforts to craft some semblance of a life wanted. It will have to be enough on the days I fight the shopping cart with the busted front wheel down the dirty lanes of The Dollar Store, chest heavy like lead, face burning, recalling the sad figure of my mom doing the same, remembering with shame (and now something like understanding) the food stamps, rice and beans, no hot water again, the hole in my left sole, the hole in the center of me I never could fill. I hope it can be enough on the days I’m alone in this itty bitty studio apartment with it's broken stove and sometimes lukewarm water while my child plays at the lake on her paternal grandparents boat, lunches with daddy at the Petroleum Club, gazes up in awe at a magnificent holiday tree lined with gifts just for her, sits with head bowed and eyes closed and says those rehearsed words I didn’t teach her around an impeccably set dining table complete with real, child-sized china, lives the life I wanted her to have - in lieu of the one I had - but couldn’t stomach living myself for the price. It has to be enough on the days I struggle to convince myself to stay here in this town, this state, this country for those two or three times a week I spend with her, because, despite my vicious inner critic and those around me, I do have something of value to impart, something real and lasting to share, memories still to make with her… though they may involve only $3, plastic wings and imaginary fairy dust. Please let it be enough on the days I know I’m as trapped now as I ever was.
I figure the fact that I am here to see Beau at all, that I can smile fondly in memory of my mother after all, that I have a room of my own to sit in peace, that I have means to spin pain into prose and beauty into belief, is enough proof for now.
For now, this better damn well be enough.
8.14.2009
Be Quiet, Be Still. Or, "I Didn't Drink The Draino," Part II.
The clock on the dashboard glares neon. It’s nearing midnight now. Through my drowning eyes I see the moon. The little girl in my head sings, “I see the moon and the moon sees me,” and someone taller kicks her good and hard, barks an order, tells her to be quiet, be still. Be Quiet. Be Still. Quiet. Still. Two things I can’t be. The grown up me clenches the steering wheel, screams primal and primitive into the dark, and kicks the little girl again good and hard.
I vaguely recall pulling back into the driveway in front of the house that’s not a home, which I share with my husband and child. I recall sponging the black mascara from my face until the water ran clear in the sink, willing myself to leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone. I recall how he bristled when I curled into a ball on the sofa and begged for help. How he averted his eyes from the pain he couldn’t understand, how he crossed his arms over his chest and asked what I expected him to do. “Do you want me to call somebody tomorrow? You want me to find someone for you to go talk to?” I clenched my eyes clothes and willed him to lift me into his arms and rock me like a baby. He got up and went to bed. I didn’t blame him. I blamed him for everything.
I awoke alone, still clothed, under the covers. My daughter wanted banana waffles for breakfast. I wanted a Draino cocktail. Even as I longed for the quiet and still, wondered how much I would need to drink, how much could I drink before my body expelled it, eyed the bottles on the shelf of the adjacent laundry room… my hands mixed the batter, my mouth formed words and smiled at my darling girl, my feet carried me from room to room as I made beds, fed the dogs, brushed her golden hair, made the call.
“I’m not making any sense. I’m not rational. I can’t think. It’s been 24 hours now, and it’s not getting better. I need help. I need to go to the hospital before…” My friend, Lindsey, remained calm. She gave me instructions. We made a plan. The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse ditty played loud in the background and I shook my head hard to clear it. I hoped the TV was on.
I would pack a bag. I would take Beau to preschool. I would wait for Lindsey.
I wonder now if I looked frantic that morning when I dropped her off at school, hugged her fiercely goodbye, kissed her sweet, pink cheeks over and over. Back at home, I paced, circled. ‘What do I bring? I Googled, “What to bring when checking into the mental hospital” just for fun. I crammed cosmetics - including my eyelash curler - and toiletries into my duffel bag and avoided opening the top cabinet where the medicines were stored. Barely. I packed six pairs of panties, but I forgot socks. In chalk, upon the blackboard wall in my kitchen, I scratched, “I love you.” On a pad of paper I scribbled a note to John saying I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, so sorry, I’m leaving so I won’t leave forever, leaving so I can be well and stay, forgive me, your shirts are in the washer.
The drive to Denver is fuzzy. There were tears and realizations. I think there were donut holes and Ray Lamontagne’s cover of “Crazy,” which was too ironic and made me laugh. There was silence. Rest. Confessions:
“I drive around at night – around and around town - to keep from killing myself, because I would never harm anyone else, so I’m safer on the road. It gives me a job. The momentum keeps me still. And every time I don’t get on the freeway and abandon my family and start a new life, I’ve succeeded in something. Something, anyway.”
“I kissed a girl. A stripper. At a strip club. I didn’t like it. And God I hate that song.”
“I’m catastrophically in love with another man. A man who is my… nothing. My every goddamn thing. My destiny and destruction. My null and void, my fill-the void, my reckoning, my undoing, my own soul’s reflection, my heart in the food processor, my walls built tall and crumbling down, my core on fire, my limbs tangled and tongue twisted and breath ragged, my eyes darting left and right and overflowing with unshed tears and clamped shut to it all and seeing, really seeing for the first time… a man who’s the closest thing to truth I’ve ever encountered in human form, the closest I’ve ever come to love, love, love – stupid, stupid, stupid, no-such-thing-as-love, and I wish I’d never met him. And I wish I could stop time and meet him anew every day for the rest of my life. And he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. Not. Fuck the daisies."
“I haven’t eaten in days, haven’t slept in weeks, haven’t smiled in months, haven’t breathed in years.”
“I am not worthy of them. I should never have been a mother, a wife. I’m not suited for “happily ever after.” I’m numb. I can’t attach. I can only keep them at arm’s length. They don’t belong to me because I’m an imposter, and I can’t belong to anyone. If only I could find a replacement – someone whole and solid, someone more like his mother, to take care of them… “
By the time we arrived in at Denver Hospital, I had nothing left to say. I was spent, resigned, damn near catatonic. At the front desk, the reception clerk asked, “What are we seeing you for today?” I blanched. I stalled. I fought the urge to turn and run back through the double doors into the daylight, go catch a matinee, have a little lunch, maybe do some shopping. Do they have an Anthropologie in Denver?
“Suicidal,” I half-whispered. I didn’t even know you could half whisper, but apparently you can. Evidently, a half-whisper is the appropriate delivery method when one must sound forceful enough to convince hospital personal one is dead serious about being dead, but musn’t give the normals around cause to doubt one’s sanity. Wait. What? Yes. I ‘m an insane person who really would rather not have anyone else know she’s insane, except for the people who can hopefully commit her before she does something irrevocable and… insane.
Five minutes later I’m sitting in the intake room with a box of Kleenex on my lap - which struck me as odd, even at the time. As the nurse handed me the box, I thought, ‘I’m not crying. Why did she assume because I wanted to kill myself I am sad?” I tucked this away in my cranial cavities for further investigation later. Right now I had to tell her why I felt suicidal. I started to cry. Oh, I get it. Golly gee whiz, lucky I have this box of tissue handy.
… to be continued.
I vaguely recall pulling back into the driveway in front of the house that’s not a home, which I share with my husband and child. I recall sponging the black mascara from my face until the water ran clear in the sink, willing myself to leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone, leave the razors alone. I recall how he bristled when I curled into a ball on the sofa and begged for help. How he averted his eyes from the pain he couldn’t understand, how he crossed his arms over his chest and asked what I expected him to do. “Do you want me to call somebody tomorrow? You want me to find someone for you to go talk to?” I clenched my eyes clothes and willed him to lift me into his arms and rock me like a baby. He got up and went to bed. I didn’t blame him. I blamed him for everything.
I awoke alone, still clothed, under the covers. My daughter wanted banana waffles for breakfast. I wanted a Draino cocktail. Even as I longed for the quiet and still, wondered how much I would need to drink, how much could I drink before my body expelled it, eyed the bottles on the shelf of the adjacent laundry room… my hands mixed the batter, my mouth formed words and smiled at my darling girl, my feet carried me from room to room as I made beds, fed the dogs, brushed her golden hair, made the call.
“I’m not making any sense. I’m not rational. I can’t think. It’s been 24 hours now, and it’s not getting better. I need help. I need to go to the hospital before…” My friend, Lindsey, remained calm. She gave me instructions. We made a plan. The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse ditty played loud in the background and I shook my head hard to clear it. I hoped the TV was on.
I would pack a bag. I would take Beau to preschool. I would wait for Lindsey.
I wonder now if I looked frantic that morning when I dropped her off at school, hugged her fiercely goodbye, kissed her sweet, pink cheeks over and over. Back at home, I paced, circled. ‘What do I bring? I Googled, “What to bring when checking into the mental hospital” just for fun. I crammed cosmetics - including my eyelash curler - and toiletries into my duffel bag and avoided opening the top cabinet where the medicines were stored. Barely. I packed six pairs of panties, but I forgot socks. In chalk, upon the blackboard wall in my kitchen, I scratched, “I love you.” On a pad of paper I scribbled a note to John saying I’m sorry, I’ll be back soon, so sorry, I’m leaving so I won’t leave forever, leaving so I can be well and stay, forgive me, your shirts are in the washer.
The drive to Denver is fuzzy. There were tears and realizations. I think there were donut holes and Ray Lamontagne’s cover of “Crazy,” which was too ironic and made me laugh. There was silence. Rest. Confessions:
“I drive around at night – around and around town - to keep from killing myself, because I would never harm anyone else, so I’m safer on the road. It gives me a job. The momentum keeps me still. And every time I don’t get on the freeway and abandon my family and start a new life, I’ve succeeded in something. Something, anyway.”
“I kissed a girl. A stripper. At a strip club. I didn’t like it. And God I hate that song.”
“I’m catastrophically in love with another man. A man who is my… nothing. My every goddamn thing. My destiny and destruction. My null and void, my fill-the void, my reckoning, my undoing, my own soul’s reflection, my heart in the food processor, my walls built tall and crumbling down, my core on fire, my limbs tangled and tongue twisted and breath ragged, my eyes darting left and right and overflowing with unshed tears and clamped shut to it all and seeing, really seeing for the first time… a man who’s the closest thing to truth I’ve ever encountered in human form, the closest I’ve ever come to love, love, love – stupid, stupid, stupid, no-such-thing-as-love, and I wish I’d never met him. And I wish I could stop time and meet him anew every day for the rest of my life. And he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. Not. Fuck the daisies."
“I haven’t eaten in days, haven’t slept in weeks, haven’t smiled in months, haven’t breathed in years.”
“I am not worthy of them. I should never have been a mother, a wife. I’m not suited for “happily ever after.” I’m numb. I can’t attach. I can only keep them at arm’s length. They don’t belong to me because I’m an imposter, and I can’t belong to anyone. If only I could find a replacement – someone whole and solid, someone more like his mother, to take care of them… “
By the time we arrived in at Denver Hospital, I had nothing left to say. I was spent, resigned, damn near catatonic. At the front desk, the reception clerk asked, “What are we seeing you for today?” I blanched. I stalled. I fought the urge to turn and run back through the double doors into the daylight, go catch a matinee, have a little lunch, maybe do some shopping. Do they have an Anthropologie in Denver?
“Suicidal,” I half-whispered. I didn’t even know you could half whisper, but apparently you can. Evidently, a half-whisper is the appropriate delivery method when one must sound forceful enough to convince hospital personal one is dead serious about being dead, but musn’t give the normals around cause to doubt one’s sanity. Wait. What? Yes. I ‘m an insane person who really would rather not have anyone else know she’s insane, except for the people who can hopefully commit her before she does something irrevocable and… insane.
Five minutes later I’m sitting in the intake room with a box of Kleenex on my lap - which struck me as odd, even at the time. As the nurse handed me the box, I thought, ‘I’m not crying. Why did she assume because I wanted to kill myself I am sad?” I tucked this away in my cranial cavities for further investigation later. Right now I had to tell her why I felt suicidal. I started to cry. Oh, I get it. Golly gee whiz, lucky I have this box of tissue handy.
… to be continued.
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