Dear Nobody
Page 4
I looked around trying to locate the cop car, but I couldn’t really focus. Everything was spinning. “Oh shit,” was all I could think. I’d been puking—and it was all over my face. Then I fell again, in the middle of the street. A car stopped and people began gathering all around me. I remember how brightly the sun was shining in my eyes. The cop dumped the forty-ounce of beer I had in my hand and took my book bag from me, before arresting me. They let Traci go (I guess because she could still walk, and looked, well, just about normal).
They took me to the ER from there.
My mother was there waiting for me. I was crying, ranting and raving. I kept asking my mom for a quarter to use the payphone, but she kept saying no. I finally got a few dimes from a college kid with a hurt ankle. I called Adrienne and told her to tell Ryan—that no matter what happened, I loved him.
Then some guy came over and told me to go with him. I got a psychological evaluation when I was the most fucked up—and lied my ass off about everything.
They asked me how many times I have had sex and I said, “Twenty-thousand times.”
They asked if I ever play with my feces.
I said, “Of course. I eat what I can, and save the rest for later—in the refrigerator!”
Then the shrink left me in a room with a two-way mirror in it for surveillance. Someone had left a dinner tray dinner on a desk, and since I hadn’t eaten since 9:00 that morning—and at that point it was around 11:00 at night—I ate the fat off the chicken bones and the cold baked potato (AFTER I got the flies away from it). The doctor must have seen me eating because he came in and asked me if I wanted some crackers or something.
I was very out of it after that, but vaguely recall some old guy driving me to the detention center. The song on the radio was the same song I used to hear almost every time after getting out of the hospital.
When I got there I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t really care. I was getting so tired. When I first walked into the dayroom I walked into a table and fell. Then I had to strip completely naked (jewelry, too) in front of this nice little woman. Then after my shower I had to answer all of these questions about my history & what brought me there. I was falling asleep while the lady asked the questions. A few hours later they finally let me go to bed.
When I woke up the next morning I didn’t know where the hell I was. I could barely remember anything from the night before and wondered why I wasn’t wearing my own clothes. I looked like complete shit. I thought maybe I was in some mental ward again. Actually I was kind of glad to be someplace away from home—separate from the ordinary world for a while. I had to clean and mop everything, do anything they told me to. After ten days I was court-ordered to rehab. This place is called the CURON Foundation.
I heard Courtney Love went here.
WERNERSVILLE, PA
SUMMER, 1997
INVENTORY WORKSHEET
Alcohol has brought me here. I never knew alcohol could be such a drug. I guess alcohol isn’t really that bad of a drug if you can use it in moderation, but I always wanted more. A lot more.
It took me to heaven, but left me in hell. Every time I drank I walked straight into my own mess—like I was watching it all happen in the third person—like my body and mind were there but my soul was someplace else. When alcohol would mess up a relationship—or something else in my life—I just saw it as more of a reason to drink.
With alcohol, I felt like I was really alive—like I was as good as dead if I was sober. Alcohol became the only thing I had left in my life to live for. The taste and the smell were like magic, working together to comfort me and let me know that soon I would wake up and be alive again—that soon I would be drunk.
I would drink and drink. Throwing up didn’t bother me—I felt like it was almost symbolic in how alcohol not only forced all of the bile out of my body, but also forced all of the bile out of my mind. I would be happy and talkative. Loved and laughing. I felt a false spirituality when I drank. I felt like I was on a cloud and I considered everyone my friend.
When an asshole boyfriend did not return my affection, alcohol was there to replace it. When my friends had left me and taken my esteem along with them, alcohol was there to give me the confidence (or stupidity) to do anything. When my mother was not there to listen, alcohol would always let me talk and not disagree or argue back. When my feelings would hurt me, alcohol destroyed them.
Just the beauty of alcohol proves it is female.
Oh, I miss holding a forty bottle, like it was my infant—but I hadn’t conceived it—it had conceived me. And what it made me was either an innocent little girl—giggly and fun—or a raving monster from hell.
Every time I drank, I would feel the little beads of precipitation on the bottle and think of it as the only friend that would ever cry for me. I’d peel off the label like I was unwrapping a present.
I felt secure with alcohol, like I had finally found my home. Alcohol had become my mother, my father, my boyfriend, my best friend and my religion. I drank with a passion. I was always done first and always drunk first—but still wanting more—and if I didn’t get it I felt like I was going to die.
It didn’t matter how drunk I already was, or how much I had thrown up, or how I couldn’t remember what had happened three minutes ago, or where I even was.
With alcohol, I was my own role model. I was never alone, and she never hurt me. I was obsessed and in love with her. I would lie, steal, beg, and cry for her. I did time for her; I was dying for her.
I hated life, unless I was drunk.
I didn’t even want to go to heaven—because I thought I’d have to leave alcohol behind on earth.
Dear Nobody,
I’m trying to be more spiritual. I haven’t done drugs or alcohol for thirty days now. I wonder if I will start again when I get out of here tomorrow. Right now, I don’t feel like I need it. I’m not desperate, but it only takes a second. Alcohol and drugs can turn me into a disaster, no matter how much of a puritan I want to be. I don’t know why. In the long run it just makes me sadder, but I feel so good while I’m in that high. I just wish it didn’t suck all the life out of me—and make me feel so empty.
I just want to be happy and drugs don’t let me. They make me worry. They make me scared about my future. And paranoid.
But I can fight it!
I can fight anything—if God helps me.
PHOENIXVILLE, PA
SUMMER, 1997
Dear Nobody,
Curon turned out to be complete heaven compared to Detention, but after a while I got sick of it there, too. But I did meet a lot of interesting people. I miss them now. I still talk to two of them—Dylan, and this girl Hayley who is just really down to earth and empathetic (as down to earth as I am, anyway). I just kind of feel like I could trust her. She seems to be really aware—more so than I am (which really isn’t saying all that much).
Anyway, now I’m home after like 31 days. Things are more under control and a little better. Nicole is really helping me more than she’ll probably ever know. I love her so much. I wish that if I could change one thing, it’d be that Nicole’s big sister would have been the one that she deserved.
I remember being eight or nine years old when my half-sister was born. I felt more and more apprehensive the further my mother got into her pregnancy. At first, when she told us she was pregnant (at the dinner table), I felt like it was no big deal. I didn’t understand why some of the neighbors and other people were making such a fuss. I didn’t really want to be as involved as everyone hoped I would—at least in the beginning. I think I just wanted to enjoy being the only child for as long as I could. But eventually we went to classes at a hospital, and that got me more involved. And sometimes I’d pretend my dolls were my new baby brother. I usually played the baby out as a brother, but I always wanted a sister. Maybe pretending it was a brother made it easier for me to resent t
he baby—after all, it would be stealing all of MY attention.
Mom’s friend Jane took me shopping and bought me a pair of neon-orange sunglasses splattered with black paint. They were gaudy, and had a cord on them so I could wear them around my neck. (I already had a new pair of wine-purple shiny sunglasses with pandas on the corners that my mom bought me, but I didn’t tell Jane that.) After shopping, we went to the hospital and I held Nicole and swung back and forth with her. I wanted to hold her for forever. She was my sister (even though I pretended she was MY baby).
My father said that my birth was the loneliest day of his life. My baby sister’s birth date was a lonely day for me, but I’d be a lot lonelier without her on every other day of my life. Now, I’m trying to make it up to her.
I’m making up for a lot of things—especially to myself.
Dear Nobody,
I could really like this guy I met at Curon. Dylan’s really nice, and cute (for a little guy), but he’s not exactly my type. He’s younger than me by a year, and I usually go for guys that are two or three years OLDER than I am. But he really is kind of smart, in an intellectual way. He’s not exactly um, drug-smart. He does drink, sometimes, but he really shouldn’t; I guess he’s just not as experienced as I am when it comes to those sorts of things. Maybe I kind of like that?
Dylan’s really nice to me, and I know he cares about me. The whole time I was in Curon, he was there with me, keeping me company. I really did like that. He always seems interested in what I have to say. He laughs at my jokes. I like the way he looks at me, and I like the way he looks. And it’s not like he’s not taller than I am (it’s just not by much).
Sometimes I don’t always remember promises I’ve made to him, or to call him when I say I will. But I really like his obstinacy. It shows great camaraderie. That’s just what I need right now, too. What I’ve always needed.
Dear Nobody,
This is my third night home from rehab. When I got home my mother agreed that she would not drink anymore and she would not see Joe—who we both know is her biggest trigger. In rehab, they told me to stay away from people and places. Since I’ve been home, I haven’t spoken to any of those triggers—I can control myself—but can my mom?
Tonight Joe called while I was on the other line with Dylan. I said, “I’m on the other line,” and he told me to tell mom that he had called.
That’s like asking me to tell my mom to put me through HELL all over again.
It’s like telling her to go ahead, and get drunk in front of me—go ahead and embarrass me and yourself in front of everyone.
It’s like telling her to go ahead and wreck the car because you’re too drunk to drive again. It’s like telling her to go ahead and not come home until the next morning again.
It’s like telling her to go ahead and scrape up your knees again, or bruise your legs again from falling because you were too drunk to walk, again.
It’s like telling her to go ahead and dress yourself up as a whore and bring some stranger back home with you so you can screw around on the couch, while I walk in on you and you’re too drunk to care.
It’s like telling her to go right ahead and fill the refrigerator with beer when there’s no food in the house.
It’s like telling her go ahead and hang out at some shitty bar while her daughter sits at home all alone, crying because she feels so lonely.
It’s like telling her to go ahead and choose alcohol over her daughter.
So I didn’t give her Joe’s message.
Dear Nobody,
So my mother comes into my room tonight and asks, “Why do you have glue in your room?” Excuse me, I was in rehab for drinking, NOT HUFFING. Okay, I got a little disgruntled, but I let it roll off of my back. I went downstairs to talk to my grandma, and she asked who I had been on the phone with, and I told her, “Dylan.” She said in a real smart-ass, bitchy-tone, “Yeah, right,” like he was my imaginary friend or something. It was just too much; I ran up to my room to cry.
I wanted to handle this normally, but my mom was at the bottom of the steps telling me to come down and do my homework. I told her I was upset and asked if she could please come upstairs and talk to me alone—because I could not address my feelings with my grandma there. But my mother had to play one of those power struggle bullshit games. She said that we could talk on the stairs, IF I came to the bottom of the steps—two feet away from her room.
The point was that she would talk to me on the steps, which was less than halfway to my room, and would have ALMOST been in my room, but would not actually come into my room, so we could talk. Power Struggle!
Mom knew we would be discussing unpleasant subjects so she played one of those games. I guess nothing’s changed for her.
P.S.—She’s on the phone with Joe right now.
WOW, IT’S SO GOOD TO BE HOME!
Dear Nobody,
I’ve been talking to Dylan all night. We feel the same about so many things. We’ve also got something in common; he has juvenile arthritis in his knees—and I have it in my hips and knees. I’ve been in traction, a wheelchair, and crutches. I don’t know how severe it was for him, but I do know that he was put on Codeine for it. I’m glad he’s got some idea what’s going on with me—and I haven’t even told him anything yet. Maybe he’ll understand more than the assholes around here. I’m devoting my life to music and books. I hate people. I can’t love them—they hurt me way too bad—even more than my poor knees do.
PHOENIXVILLE, PA
LATE SUMMER, 1997
Dear Nobody,
Dylan lives in Gettysburg, so I only see him on the weekends, but we talk every day. We slipped up today—and got drunk together. Just a few beers. But when I got home, my mother could tell. That’s okay, though—I think she still drinks, too. Except now she keeps it in moderation. I doubt I’ll seriously drink anymore either. Time will tell—but I definitely won’t binge anymore.
Dear Nobody,
HA! That resolution lasted three days! Now I get drunk as a skunk, every day. I don’t even go to school. I love Dylan now, even though I promised myself we would just be friends—and we are doing as many drugs as I can get. Mom’s back together with a man that abuses her and tried to kill her. They both have alcohol problems—and yesterday I got high with my mom for the second time!
Dear Nobody,
I can’t believe I came home drunk last night! I just got out of rehab a few weeks ago. God help my family, they are SO disappointed. I haven’t talked to them yet, but I know what to expect. And to top it all off—my grandparents are still here. It’s the next morning and I’m up in my room—too ashamed to come downstairs, even though I have the traditional thirstiness, and need to piss really badly. When my mom gets up, I’ll talk to her.
But I’m kind of glad, because at least when I drank—it was recreational this time.
Dear Nobody,
Well, it’s final. I have a huge crush on that guy, Ryan. I’m not sure if he likes me. I want to take things VERY slowly. Only because I like him so much. The thing is, he’s not even all that attractive. He’s kind of thin, even—but I like him. A LOT. I think he might be really smart. Mature. He’s seventeen, I think. He seems so gentle. It’s touching just to watch him watching nature. He’s never blatantly disrespectful to anyone. I’ve never heard him degrade a female. He’s interested in art, and likes the same music that I do. I’ve never really seen him stare at me, but I do think I saw him look at me once or twice. But then again, he does that to everyone—in his deep, analytical way.
Dear Nobody,
Ryan was not at the rope swing today. He ought to be ashamed of himself—leading an innocent, trusting girl (like me) on like that! But today was a pretty nice day anyway. Made me feel pretty again. Like, really pretty. Even though Ryan never came, OTHER guys were there, and they renewed my sense of self-beauty. I just KNEW they liked me, even though no-one really got my numbe
r—though they DID ask. Ryan will come back for me though. Hopefully tomorrow.
Dear Nobody,
I don’t just like Ryan, I adore him. Admire him. I am almost obsessing over him. I want to see his life. I want to be IN his life. I just hope this isn’t the sort of thing where I like Ryan more than he likes me. That’d be kind of upsetting.
Man, aren’t I pathetic? No, not as much as some teenage girls are—but that’s not saying much! At least I’m not boy-crazy.
I really like him. Dammit!!! This sucks, SUCKS, sucks.
I just REALLY, REALLY, REALLY hope he’s there tomorrow.
Dear Nobody,
Well, I just got back from the rope swing, and guess what? Ryan (my would-be soul mate) showed-up. And not only does he show-up—but he shows up with another girl! Not just any girl either—a really pretty hippie-girl. She had long blonde hair and a really pretty face; really beautiful blonde hair, and even more beautiful blue-green eyes. All of the girls that come down to the rope swing have hair like that—blonde—with eyes as clear and light as the sky in August. She looked older, and cooler than I do (I guess)—more like his type (I have dark brown hair, to match my even darker brown eyes).
I think I acted a little cold to him—after I saw him with that other girl. After that Ryan kind of ignored me. I wondered WHY he had brought her? That pissed me off a lot. I was upset—even a little devastated. I still hope he’s there tomorrow, even though he kind of ignored me today. ALONE though. Maybe I could find out who she is and what she means to him? This sucks—I thought about Ryan A LOT; and I still think about him. He’s everything I’ve kept my eye open for (not looking really—I’m never REALLY looking). Though I like him, A LOT. A LOT!