Dear Nobody

by Gillian McCain

  Help us.

  Why are you healthy and all of us dying?

  Dear Nobody,

  Jennifer’s death brought up issues I can’t handle—I JUST CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. Sometimes it hits me—something like this will trigger it and I will become scared to death. I still cannot believe that I could be cursed with such a horror; to everyone else, this is all second-person. I feel my limitations—my mortality. I will never know what it’s like to be old, to have children, to be married. Just like Jennifer, I’ll be dead soon. The average life expectancy for my type of disease is thirty two years old—and that’s if you take care of yourself, which I never do.

  If I were being chased by a murderer with an axe, a knife, a gun, bare hands, whatever—I could run, I could fight back, and I could call for help. Now, imagine the panic and fear you would feel in that situation. For that second—those few minutes; imagine having that fear all the time, not being able to get away from it; never being able to escape it.

  With Cystic Fibrosis it’s different. You cannot run from Cystic Fibrosis. Fighting back at Cystic Fibrosis with treatments and hospitalizations is all-consuming—and in most cases—futile. If you can take the treatment tube out of your mouth long enough to call for help, the only ones who can hear you are either too ill to respond, or already dead. Besides, doctors and nurses and social workers separate us freaks from each other (they SAY it’s for our own best interest).

  Oh shit. How can I keep on doing this? This IV in my arm, the pills in my mouth, the mist in my eyes—this ache in my body? How can I do it any longer?

  Yesterday on TV somebody said, “How can you fall in love with somebody that’s got one foot in the grave?”

  Who will want me?

  Who will love me?

  Dear Nobody,

  My whole life, while other kids were trying to memorize frivolous things like codes to video games, or their time tables—I was trying to remember how many cubic centimeters per syringe to draw up and from which solution.

  While other kids were learning how to play basketball or football, I was learning that if you mix Resulin with insulin and then hang upside down while getting pounded on it worked better to loosen the mucus. Strangers in uniforms would come and hang me upside down to help drainage, and pound me for an hour—four times a day—until it hurt to inhale. The harder the person hit me, the better the chances of me coughing were. And coughing is my greatest defense against this disease. And coughing was hell. My muscles and ribcage would hurt for weeks afterwards, and I often got headaches from being upside down.

  I remember once telling one of those strangers that they were hitting me too hard, and they told me to stop whining.

  So when other kids were getting snuggled by their parents, I was getting beat by some stranger, while my parents were miles away. I could never explain with just words how I feel about that, but it hurts. Back then, I wondered what I did to deserve this? Now I just wince and accept it.

  Dear Nobody,

  The first time I went into the hospital felt like my funeral. People sent flowers, prayed and visited; but over the years it seems that no one visits or sends flowers or cards. The last time I was in the hospital, the only get well card I got was from my school bus driver. My aunts, uncles, friends—anyone I thought cared for me—did not do so much as call. So I was pretty sad to say that the only get well card was from my bus driver. And I appreciated it greatly, knowing her concern and get-well tidings would soon fade.

  I guess it’s easy to forget the dead as time goes by. But I am not dead; this mind still THINKS, and these feelings still FEEL.

  Dear Nobody,

  Cause you’ve hung me upside down

  Now I’ve lost my princess crown

  But just ignore me if I start to cry

  Cause if you don’t, I’ll probably die.

  Dear Nobody,

  I remember once when I was in the hospital—I was like twelve or thirteen—and there was this younger “CF” boy named Timmy on my floor. We talked about a lot of things together; from chest Physical Therapy—to PICC lines—to people making fun of us for coughing. One night, after taking all of our laxatives, foul-tasting syrups, antacids and pills, we ordered food from some pizza place. We got a large pizza and cheese fries. I borrowed some of his enzymes before we ate, and together we finished the entire order! Afterwards, both of our stomachs got extremely big; too big for our underweight bodies. Then we talked about that. Then more things about CF. It was sad, and later I cried for him, and then for myself. But I felt a little better; a little less like a freak.

  Dear Nobody,

  Today some guy at the gas station asked me if I was losing my voice, I said, “No.” So then he called me a FREAK!

  Why?

  Because I notice the little pleasantries that are normally overlooked? Because of my interest in literature? Because of my physical imperfections? I am tired of having no one else around like me—and I’m tired of being called a FREAK!

  Dear Nobody,

  Tonight I’m going to talk about what a FREAK I am.

  People call me that all the time.

  Mary Rose is a FREAK.

  Whenever someone calls me that I think, if only they knew.

  Someone called me that yesterday and for the first time, after years of being called it, I finally FELT it. The words finally affected me. I was at home doing my treatments and as I was sinking the needle into my arm I wasn’t thinking about the pain, or how I have to take twenty pills after this and then give myself another shot—instead I was thinking… freak? FREAK?

  I could show them a real fucking freak, if that’s what they want. I could hold out my arms and show them my scarred, torn veins from the many PICC lines and needles that have been in me. I could point out the big scars—the long, thick marks the IVs make when they fall out of your arm. They could just look at my hands closely and see how FREAKY I really am. Instead of judging me on my hair or my clothes. Instead of whispering to each other about my thin body and my bony face. Instead of flipping their eyelids up in judgment when they see my black nail polish and skull rings. Instead of looking just past me, beyond me at something in their hindsight, they could look at me, INTO me and see something REALLY worth talking about.

  They could talk about my little white scars and all the red marks, scabs and bruises that I have on both hands. They could point out the big fat vein—the one on my left hand—the one that is so scarred and ruined that it sticks-out like a tendon on a thirty-two pound anorexic. Maybe if they looked at my fingertips, they’d notice the little red and white scars all over the tips, and they could whisper about THAT. Maybe they’d see the blood blisters, or the way my fingers quiver when it’s cold; or get hot because of nerve damage.

  They could REALLY get into how FREAKY I am if they looked at my legs closely and noticed how one is a little bit longer than the other, because my hip started to fall apart and dislocate when I was ten (on its very own, how fucking freaky is that?!?) Maybe me and those fucking assholes can take a little trip back in time—and they could see me when my joints were so fucked up that I had to be in a wheelchair for two months.

  Maybe I could invite them into my house at around eight at night and they could see me swallow my twenty-five enzyme capsule pills all at once. Yes. I can swallow TWENTY-FIVE medium sized pills at once, without any water. And I’ve been able to do it since I was nine years old. How many people do you know who can do that? Hmmm? Guess that would MAKE ME A FREAK, huh?

  Maybe I could just show them my counter full of medicine—THIRTEEN different varieties—that are ALL for me. Then I could show them the basement with its boxes full of more medicine for me. Oh wait, what’s in that fridge there? More medicine for Mary Rose?

  “Gee, like, oh-my-God, that’s A LOT of medicine.”

  Then maybe they could put a math test in front of me and see how well I do on it, because, a
t the moment, I wouldn’t do very well at any test. “Mary Rose must be stupid,” they would think, looking at my low test scores. Well, maybe you would be stupid too if you hadn’t been well enough to attend a full school-year since you were in second grade. I missed weeks—months even, because of my illness. How come I’m not as bright as my classmates? Gee, THEY all seem to know what they’re doing. But me? What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing—maybe my brain is not clear because I’m too busy concentrating on the tiny fact I’m dying from an illness that I didn’t ask for, or deserve.

  Oh-my-God, you’re right! I AM A FREAK! Guess that makes me different.

  Okay wait, what if I could take them into my living room and show them the three big, loud machines that “keep me breathing”?

  Do you have big loud machines in your living room that keep you breathing?

  No? Didn’t think so.

  Oh, wait, I’ve got them! How about if next time I sweat I show them how salt crystals form on my skin? REAL salt crystals, that in the sun look like glitter all over me. Or I could let them check my blood sugar. Maybe it’d be 600. Would yours?

  Wait, I know how I could show them freak—I could eat something, wait a few minutes, and let them see what happens to my stomach—let them see how big it gets. Maybe they’d think I’m just pregnant, but I’d tell them the truth. I’d tell them it was because I can’t digest my food. Nope, my stomach won’t digest my food. How about your stomach? Will it digest your food for you?

  Or I could let those bastards listen to me choke on my coughs. I mean REAL coughs—ones that hurt. Ones that hurt right before they come, and even more afterwards. Ones that make you think you’ll never breathe again. Yeah, do you think then, they’d really think I’m just a little more of a freak than they thought I was?

  I could even cut myself open and try to show them my gene mutations. That’s right. Mutations.

  As in MUTANT.

  Dear Nobody,

  Sometimes I feel like being the biggest bitch alive. I feel like being as completely heartless as possible. I want to send shivers down people’s spines and turn their stomachs. I want to desensitize everyone’s heart with my indifference. I want to return everything that everyone’s left in my doleful path. Not only will they know the hurt, shame, embarrassment and loneliness they’ve taught me—but at least this way they shall FEEL it, too.

  Dear Nobody,

  I’m not going to lie. Right now I feel very drunk. I already apologized for being drunk to Geoff.

  I told him about my Cystic Fibrosis.

  He started talking about his Dad who died.

  He told me he never visits his grave.

  I told him I didn’t want to hear about death anymore, and hung up on him.

  Oh shit, I see the word death—that means DEATH.

  I’m sorry, I love you…

  Hello Nobody,

  Right now I am drunk. Not too much. Not drunk on love, or pain, but alcohol. Which is both. I shall die if I am to be without it. I am so drunk—therefore truly numb, but I feel my emotions now. The void called love, the misery called shame, and the hurt called pain. I am an alcoholic to a sickly extent—and an addict to a fatal extent. I was born of a sickly gene pool and un-blissful intelligence. My only comforts are my darling acid tears—AND ALCOHOL.

  Dear Nobody,

  It’s 2:23 a.m. on a Sunday. I can’t sleep. I feel kind of raped.

  Yesterday Geoff told me about how this guy fucked me after I passed out. It’s my fault. If I didn’t drink and pass out, that wouldn’t have happened. I feel so dirty and empty.

  When you’re a slut, you feel like THAT’S ALL you’re good for.

  See, this feeling is different. It’s a cross of anger, and some other unexplainable feeling; just one more thing to humiliate me. What can I do? I put myself in this situation.

  If I told my mom about this, and how I feel, she would just say I asked for it. So I have no one to talk to about this. Geoff is my only friend; I hate everyone else—but I can’t talk to Geoff about this.

  I’m so pissed. How could this happen to me? It’s my fault, I guess. I mean, I’ve been taken advantage of before, but this feels different—I was UNCONSCIOUS. Maybe I have no right to feel the way I do? What the fuck can I say about this? I can’t even remember it. I can’t. I hate males—FUCK THEM!

  Geoff is the only one of those fuckers I still care about.

  Shit, I feel so fucking empty. No one to trust, or talk to either. It’s all my fault. Man, I can’t explain this feeling. I want it to leave. I feel empty. I just feel like being alone. You get what you deserve.

  I apologize to myself—but I can’t forgive myself.

  Dear Nobody,

  Geoff and I are finally done. Yeah, it’s all over. I feel like a glass of spilt sherry. On the phone he said he wants Vickie, or her friend Michelle, instead of me. I basically called him an overweight fuck-up. I told him that he’ll never get laid unless he started losing weight, ESPECIALLY by me.

  Geoff asked me if that was a promise.

  I said it was his loss.

  He said no, it was his gain.

  I told him that his fat ass need not gain anymore of anything.

  Then old Geoff had the audacity to make a hot dog joke about me that’s too hurtful to repeat.

  I was so humiliated and hurt—the thought that the love of my life, the bearer of my heart, my first true love, the most respectable man in my life had made a hot dog joke—it was the worst thing he ever could have said. It symbolized everything I hated people for—and he had gone and done it. He had made me feel exploited, violated, and humiliated—just like everyone else.

  We haven’t spoken for over ten days. It’s a record.

  Yes, this is it. I’m done with him. I’ll find someone better. Can’t say the same for him.

  He was basically a nice guy.

  Oh, well, I know he can’t forget me. Two nights ago, he called and hung up—until 3:00 in the morning. All calls from payphones.

  I must be costing him a fortune in quarters.

  Dear Nobody,

  Last night I was out walking around after me and mom got into a fight—when I saw some of my ex-boyfriend’s friends walking toward me on the opposite side of the street. They called me over and asked me if I knew where Geoff was.

  I was like, “How the fuck would I know?”

  While we are all talking—I saw Geoff come out of a house right by us—then he quickly went back in when he saw me. I called his name and he came back out on the porch. Standing behind him was this girl he’s been seeing (I guess it’s his new girlfriend). He had her initials tattooed onto his chest. I was just like, “Oh, so this is how it is now?”

  At first I didn’t say anything. Then I began calling his name. He just looked at me with a really nasty expression on his face. I asked him to come down and talk with me, but he refused. All of his friends just stared at me like I was a dumb-ass. He said how yesterday I acted like a bitch. Finally I just walked off. I was really kind of embarrassed and pissed. I felt pretty humiliated. (What a surprise—ME? Humiliated?)

  Later, I ran into his friends again and tagged along with them. We all went to search for alcohol. Some cute hippy dude with a car saw us outside the liquor store, trying to buy some and he got it for us. Then we got into his car and went to the cemetery and got drunk. It was a lot of fun. Then we went back to his house and he invited some of his friends over. Man, he had some hot friends. I passed out and spent the night at one of their houses. It was a cool night—but I’ll probably never see that hippy dude again. He lives in Hanover or some shit.

  But at least I didn’t think about Geoff all night.

  Dear Nobody,

  I feel so betrayed and used. But what the fuck else is new? I’m lonely. I can’t trust anyone at all. I guess I’d better get used to it. Man, for almost six months I
trusted and cared for these people. I lost and sacrificed a lot for them. I really loved my friends. I had let them become almost my life. And what have they done to make me feel so betrayed, empty, and lonely?

  One raped me while I was passed out. I heard if the girl gives no consent, or can’t, it’s rape. I really trusted him, too. The other motherfucker (or maybe it was all those motherfuckers) broke into my house and stole three fucking CDs (one of them was fucking Nirvana, too) AND they stole the VCR. The next fuck-up lied to me very badly and abused my trust.

  Fuck them ALL. At least until I find a different form of assholes to suck me dry and leave me all alone. Now this pile of books are my only friends for a while.

  I don’t know, I just do this sometimes. I’ll lose everything and everyone, but then as soon as one little shard of something or someone to grab onto floats by me, I grab onto it as if it’ll save me from getting sucked under and drowning.

  I’m almost sure that that’s what brought me into my last mess.

  I don’t need any more messes for now.

  But I guess I’ll hold my breath—and walk right into the next one.

  Dear Nobody,

  I have never felt worse. I’m getting a little sick again, and Geoff is being a dick. He’s just purposely trying to hurt me. Just like everybody else. With the rape, I am feeling a little bit better now. As far as other shit (drugs and alcohol), it’s getting to me again, and I really can’t let that happen. That shit fucked me up enough already.

  Now Phoenixville High School wants to send me to residential rehab. RESIDENTIAL. Yeah, you fucking live there for however long—like I haven’t been away from home enough. Fucking shit, I just got out of the goddamn hospital two weeks ago. The people at my school say they want me to go because my mom is an alcoholic in denial, and even though I haven’t drank for a while, her drinking could trigger mine. Yeah, but aren’t they going to fucking send me right back to her anyway? They say if I get help, maybe she will get help. Why the fuck do I have to be her fucking martyr? And she’s been fucking MEAN to me this week, like worse than ever before. So why the fuck?