In the Country We Love

by Diane Guerrero

  My vow to myself didn’t stick. As the sadness intensified, so did my urge to hurt myself. I tried to avoid it by writing letters to myself; I scribbled page after page about how lost I was. But my desire to release grew so intense that it overtook me. Those who’ve done this to themselves would probably describe that desire the same way I do: It’s like suffocating. Hurting yourself is a way to breathe again. So stupid. At first, I would do only little cuts on my arms and thighs where the wounds weren’t all that noticeable, since I usually used a sharp razor or kitchen knife. I figured it wasn’t a problem and almost liked the sensation and secrecy of it. But after a while, I knew I was fucking losing it. I thought the feeling of wanting to do this crazy thing to myself would go away, but as time went on, I wasn’t getting any better. Surprise! I had ended the semester poorly and left DC feeling quite unaccomplished, a fact made worse by my new nasty little habit. As time went on, if I was having an episode, I’d pick up anything that happened to be close. A bobby pin. A metal nail file. A paper clip. The less sharp the object, the nastier the scar.

  I was lost, and I was becoming a huge inconvenience to myself and those around me, especially poor Brian. I say poor Brian because no one deserves the kind of crazy I was exhibiting. These tantrums became more and more frequent and scary. I was exploding, and all those years of being “the good girl” and being strong for everyone were going out the window. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I was beside myself.

  The curtain swung open. A nurse, a heavyset woman with wiry silver curls and Coke-bottle glasses, marched in with a clipboard. “May I have a minute alone with her?” she said to Brian. He nodded and stepped out.

  “You wanna talk about this, hon?” she said. I didn’t respond. She scanned my take-in sheet. She paused and looked intently into my face. “We’ve got social workers on staff here. I’d like to set you up with one. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, but please don’t take me away,” I said, sounding like a child. The trauma I’d lived through with my folks seeped out in so many ways. It was like I was stuck in time.

  “No one is going to take you away” she said, reopening the curtain. “Are your folks in the area?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Well,” she told me, “I really do hope you can get some help. You need it.” Ha! Don’t I know it, lady. Maybe I needed someone to tell me that, to take notice of me and the pain I was feeling inside. Or maybe I wanted to be taken care of. Whatever the reason, she was right: I did need help. And fast.

  The hospital released me that same evening. The drive home was quiet. “I’m worried about you,” Brian finally said to break the silence. “We’ve gotta figure this out. I want to help you, but I don’t know how.” It’s funny how you can be sitting right next to someone and feel lonelier than you would be if you were alone. That’s how I felt.

  The hospital stay scared me straight for a couple of months. But like alcohol or drugs, which I was doing a lot of, cutting can be addictive. On the rare occasion when I bothered to show up for class, I’d catch people looking at my arms and then quickly averting their gazes when I noticed their gawking. Their facial expressions said it all: What the hell is wrong with you? I felt like a failure and a freak of nature.

  Others tried to throw me a life preserver, but in one instance, that seemed like a betrayal. Someone anonymously told the dean’s office about my scars, and I got a call from the Regis counseling center. “Diane,” said the therapist once she finally got me on the line, “I need you to come in and see me.” Fuck.

  A few days later, I shuffled through the office doors at three p.m. I’d just gotten out of bed after another night of partying. My olive skin had grown pale. My face was gaunt. My eyes were bloodshot. I was skin and bones and wearing a turtleneck in seventy-five-degree weather.

  The counselor met me in the waiting room. She was a middle-aged white woman who wore pearls, a Jackie O hairstyle, and flesh-colored nylons. She seemed so perfect—so waxy and plastic. She smiled and extended her hand. I didn’t take it.

  “I’m glad you came in today,” she said. “Come with me so we can talk.” I followed her down the hall into a room. She closed the door, and we sat across from each other. I stared at the floor.

  “I know you’ve been having some challenges, Diane,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me what’s been happening?”

  To this day, I have no idea what I said to that woman. All of it was BS. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone, especially someone from my school. And the second I’d laid eyes on her, I’d instantly dismissed her as someone who couldn’t relate to me. So forty-five minutes later I went back through the center’s doors, feeling no better than I had when I entered them. What happened twelve days later still haunts me.

  My twenty-second birthday in Boston.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Edge

  In the broken places, the light shines through.

  —LEONARD COHEN, singer

  Forecasters had predicted snow, and on the evening of December 13, 2007, it arrived. Ahead of the downfall, commuters rushed home early from work, bringing gridlocked highways to a standstill. Last-minute shoppers scurried into supermarkets to pick up bottled water. Neighbors emerged from their front doors and scattered salt on their steps, hoping to ease the next morning’s shoveling duties. By nightfall, the city’s hubbub had quieted to a murmur and Boston slept under a thick blanket of white. I was tired, so I turned in early, at nine, even before Brian had made it home. I was scheduled for back-to-back bartending shifts the next day and badly needed some rest. Maybe I won’t have to go in because of the weather, I thought. Things seldom went that way, but I could hope.

  Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I lurched toward the alarm clock at my bedside and switched it off. 8:50 a.m. I glanced over at Brian, who must’ve come in after I was knocked out; I hadn’t even heard him. He stirred, turned over, and looked sleepily in my direction.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  “I’ve gotta work later,” I groaned. I pulled the comforter up around my neck. Just five more minutes, I told myself. When I woke up again, the red digits on the clock read 9:40 a.m. Brian had showered and dressed. He popped his head in the bedroom.

  “I have to make some stops on my way home so I’ll get in late,” he told me. “I’ll see you when I’m back.” Seconds later, he was out the door.

  I stretched to get my phone from the nightstand. Two voice mails. I pressed PLAY.

  “Miss Guerrero,” said a woman’s voice, “we have an urgent financial matter to discuss with you regarding your credit card account. This is our fifth and final attempt before legal action will be taken. Please return our call immediately. This is an attempt to collect a debt.” Click.

  The next message followed. “Diane, I’m calling you on behalf of the Regis financial aid office,” I heard. “It’s extremely important that you come by our office as soon as you can. We need to talk with you about your Stafford loan.” Click.

  I flung back the comforter and went into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet, leaned my head down into the sink bowl, and splashed cold water on my face.

  As the holidays had neared, the city buzzed with lightness and joy. I wanted so much to be part of it but couldn’t fully do it. Do you know what it takes for a cheery and highly optimistic person such as myself not to enjoy Christmas? A lot, so you know shit had to be unsettled. Everyone seemed so happy; even the usual Grinches chirped hello to passersby. Salvation Army volunteers, with their rosy cheeks and big grins, stood out in front of Macy’s and rang their bells to welcome donations. I was like Alanis Morrissette in her “Hand in My Pocket” video, standing naked in the middle of all that Christmas cheer—although I wasn’t singing or happy to be naked. I was just dull and blah. In late November, following Thanksgiving, I’d tried to jolt myself into the spirit by window-shopping near Downtown Crossing. I came home more depressed. The crowds, the bright lights, the music, the families strolling gleefully along th
e boulevards—it all made me keenly aware of how alone I was.

  I sleep-walked through my days, all of which looked exactly alike. Home. Drinking. From the time I dragged myself out of bed, I began counting the minutes until I could crawl back under the sheets. I’d lost my grip on everything important to me, and soldiering on was the best I could manage. Here and there, I’d have a halfway-decent moment, a laugh, a little relief while watching TV. But then I’d watch something that made me hate my life and want to trade places with someone else.

  Morning turned into afternoon, and before I knew it, it was time for my evening shift; after Jasmine Sola, I’d taken a job at a nightclub. I reached the T entrance, descended the stairs, and began mentally preparing myself for the evening. I was starting to really dislike my work environment. I mean, at first it was fun and easy money. But it was also mind-numbing and superficial. And like every job, it had its share of drama, not to mention the sketchy dudes—like one of the regulars who was seated at the bar stool when my shift began.

  “What can I get for you, sir—the usual?” I asked, although I’d started mixing the gin and tonic he typically ordered. When I turned back around, he stared right at my breasts. A real original asshole.

  “It’s nasty out there, isn’t it, sweetie?” he said, keeping his eyes locked on my blouse. He stood, leaned up over the bar, and motioned for me to come closer, as if he was about to tell me a secret.

  “How would you like someone to keep you warm tonight, honey?” he said. His breath reeked.

  I gave him his drink without flinching. “No, thanks,” I snapped, picking up the glass and slamming it down in front of him. “Will that be all, sir?”

  He scowled and returned to his stool. “Merry Christmas to you too, cunt,” he muttered under his breath.

  I endured this sort of sexual harassment a lot. Sometimes it was from the customers; other times, it was from the manager who ran the bar or the guy who owned the restaurant. Not only did it disgust me; it was very upsetting. I was more fragile than I’d ever been, and some jerk was doing all he could to get into my frickin’ underwear. Most of the time, I could ignore it, but on this day, the man’s insult made me want to climb over the counter and strangle him. The crazy thing is, I couldn’t have even worked up the energy for that. I was over it.

  I was wiped when I got home. I was coming down with a cold, so on the way back to our place, I swung by a bodega and bought some Tylenol. I should call in sick tomorrow. I flopped down on the sofa, flipped on the TV, and surfed through the channels. All news about the storm cleanup.

  My phone rang. I could tell by the area code that it was a Colombian number. I let it go to voice mail. A half hour later, I listened to the message.

  “Diane, this is your papi,” he said with a cracked voice. “Please call me. No one has heard from you in so long. You’re not in trouble. I’m not going to yell at you. Please, chibola. I just want to know that you’re okay.” Beep.

  I hadn’t talked to either of my parents in forever. They rang all the time, of course, but like with the creditors, I ignored their recorded pleas. Since Mami had relocated to Madrid, she’d e-mailed constantly and begged me to visit. I didn’t respond. In others’ view, I’m sure, it seemed as if I didn’t care about my mother and father, like I enjoyed seeing them hurt. Not at all. It broke my heart to know that I was breaking theirs. And yet the angst that surged through me whenever I heard their voices was more painful than knowing I was alienating them. When we did catch up, the conversations were stilted and awkward. Where do you begin when you haven’t talked to someone in a year? How do you talk through all the moments you’ve missed? You really can’t. And every time I put down the phone after talking with them, I felt as if my own mother and father were strangers to me, people I’d perhaps known in a former life but whom I did not recognize anymore.

  I shocked myself when I began dialing my father’s number. In the voice mail, he’d sounded more frail than ever. I wanted to check on him.

  “Papi?” I said.

  “Hola, hija—is that you?” There was sleep in his voice. I glanced up at the clock on the living room wall. Ten p.m.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” he whispered. “It’s great to hear from you. What’s been happening?”

  “Nothing much,” I said, which was the standard answer I gave whenever anyone probed into how I was doing. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the train wreck my life had become, which is why I directed the spotlight back onto him.

  “How have you been?” I asked. “How’s the family?”

  He sighed. “Things are the same,” he told me. One of his brothers had been robbed while riding his bike to the grocery store; the week before, he’d heard from my mother’s sister that Eric had been laid off from his job; and my father, who still hadn’t been able to find work in all this time, was low on money. “But I don’t want you to worry about me,” he told me. “I’ll be okay.” When Papi said, “Don’t worry,” it often meant he was down to his last twenty dollars. I had zero money, but I felt so badly for him that I offered to wire him some cash. He wouldn’t hear of it. “Use it for school,” he told me. “That’s your focus right now.”

  We’d been on the line for less than five minutes, but I was eager to hang up. “I love you, Papi,” I told him, trying to end the call.

  “I love you, too,” he said. “I miss you so much. When can you come here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see. But I’ll call you later.”

  “You promise?” he said.

  “I promise,” I said, although we both knew the truth.

  My papi might as well have been on Neptune; that’s how far away he seemed. I knew he and Mami both adored me as much as any parent can cherish a child, and yet I felt like I didn’t belong to them anymore. Like I didn’t have a home. A center. A base. A foundation. A place where I was from and could go back to when things got rocky. If I had an argument with Brian, for instance, I longed to be able to go to my mother’s house and talk it through with her.

  At fourteen, I’d somehow been able to stuff down much of what I was feeling. But as I’d gotten into my twenties, that decade when you’re figuring out everything, the gaping hole at my life’s center had become impossible to disregard. At the mention of my parents’ names, I’d get all jammed up. I’d revert to the child I once was, to a girlhood that had been over far sooner than it should’ve been. I’d at least been able to lean on Amelia and Eva in high school and early college, but that safety net had vanished. I’d wanted so badly to prove that I could take care of myself. That I didn’t need anyone. That I was a full grown-up. I clearly needed others, but by the time I admitted that to myself, I’d alienated everyone close to me. That realization added to my sorrow.

  School had become a joke. I was pissed at everything and everyone. My grades were in the toilet. In three of my six classes, I was on track to earn a C minus; in one course, I was outright failing. A few of my professors encouraged me to switch from a letter grade to a pass-fail in order to keep from ruining my GPA. I’d been considering graduate school—I had my eye on law—but with such a poor academic performance, I was ruining my chances of being admitted. At times, I tried to keep up with my assignments, but because I hadn’t been able to afford my books, I had to borrow them from friends for an hour or two at a time. I needed tutoring but I didn’t have the mental energy or the resources to seek it out. And when I did show up for class, I was completely fatigued. I’d either worked late the night before or I had a hangover—and often both.

  I was up to my eyeballs in debt. By the start of my senior year, I owed almost eighty thousand dollars. That may not seem like a tremendous amount to some—many complete school with three times as much debt—but for me, it seemed impossible to ever repay. Once I’d taken all the federal financial aid I could get, I turned to credit cards. Within months, I’d maxed out a Visa card and a MasterCard, which is when the credito
rs’ calls became relentless. I shouldn’t have applied for the cards in the first place, but I had no other choice at the time. I also had the financial smarts of a three-year-old. When Mami and Papi were deported, I hadn’t yet even been taught to drive, much less sidestep ridiculous interest rates. Brian tried to weigh in, but I shut him down.

  During earlier difficult periods, I’d looked to the arts; performance had always been my salvation, an experience that buoyed me in the most treacherous waters. That anchor was gone. All through college, I’d had this burning desire to express myself artistically, but there weren’t many outlets for that. I yearned to find my way back onto the stage, even in the most amateur production. But because of everything else that was happening—and because I’d sunk so low emotionally—I couldn’t seem to find a way to do that. Melancholy can feed creativity; yet it’s also capable of killing it.

  I said nothing about my condition to anyone. That’s the thing about depression: It’s not a topic for breezy, polite dinner conversation. It’s easier to tell someone, “I have a headache,” or even “I have cancer,” than it is to say, “The bottom has fallen out of my life.” You turn into this helpless mute, wandering aimlessly through a wilderness in search of water, with no ability to scream out that you’re dying of thirst. Depression is not like sadness; it’s not how you feel after cutting things off with a lover or losing a job. Those things hurt, of course, but even amid the agony, you know there’ll come a moment when the heaviness lifts. Despair is different. It’s the absence of hope. It’s a long, flat road with no horizon in the distance. It’s the path my brother once walked.