I seem to have great difficulty writing about the here and now.  It takes many years for me to be able to express into words my feelings and reactions to life’s events…happy or sad.  Although I currently feel on the cusp of what some may call a mental breakdown, I can not write about it.  I can not even know for sure what or why this is my current perspective.  If not for my near 20 hours per day of sleeping, I may not even realize there is a problem.

I want to elaborate with myself but nothing comes to mind.

Once upon a time

Once upon a place

You were here with me

We were face to face

You said we’d be forever

Our love would never die

You said you always be there

Although it was a lie

I wonder why you did this

Why you’re not here today

Wonder what I did

To make you hurt me this way

Maybe it’s not your fault

Somehow you went amiss

But you never said goodbye

Not even one last kiss

Even though I am angry

And probably will never forget

The way that you just left me

To live in such regret

There will always be a place

In the center of my heart

That never will forget you

And feels we didn’t part

So even though you’ve killed

Any chance that I may have

To live a happy life

With someone else instead

My heart will always love you

As long as I may be

On this lonely earth

Without you, just me

How do you say what’s on your mind

When even you don’t know

How to express true feelings

When you constantly put on a show

How can you be sure that what you feel is real

And who ever said we even need to feel

To me a feeling is, just another word

A feeling isn’t something that always should be heard

I don’t know if I will ever grasp what it truly means

I just want to know how I should be me

All alone, I can not bear

QUIET AIR – too loud

Emotions, fear, guilt

Are Clear

Daytime clutter

The enabler

The dark nights become louder

I can not sit alone

I AM SCARED

I had finally had enough. 

I went on the Internet to find some suicide advice and there it was.  My migraine medication at twenty pills was considered a lethal dose and I was off to the pharmacy to refill my last 75 pills…or so I thought.

My mind was clear and my heart was sure.  I had really tried to make the best out of what I was given in life, but some of us are just born bad and I felt that God’s cruel joke should finally come to an end.   I picked up a 6 pack of Budweiser’s to swallow my pills since my refrigerator only contained 4-5 ketchup packets from McDonald’s that were there long  before I moved in.

The pills were hard to get down in such abundance, so at 65 and two Buds, I felt I could stop without consequence and for a moment after they were consumed I had the urge to force myself to vomit, but the thought quickly passed and I laid down on the couch and said goodbye to my precious kitties.  The ex came by every Friday to play with them which is why I picked Thursday.  I wanted to make sure the pills had enough time to work their magic and ensure that the cats were well taken care of.   He always did say that he could provide a better home and now he would have the chance.

I thought that I would feel sad but my heart was content.  I was sick and tired of being sick and tired and I was finally doing something about it.  My attempts in the past were weak and futile, this one was for real and there was no possible way I could survive.  I waited for my sedatives to kick in and within 20 minutes I was unconscious.  I remember being suprised at how quickly I was getting tired and then….darkness.

I was proud. 

I woke up a few days later, bruised and battered and completely disappointed.  How could this have happened?  My entire life had been full of failures and this was the one thing that I was sure I would get right. 

How could this be?

It was a Thursday and my isolated lifestyle had ensured that there would be no suprise visitors.  

The next guest arrival would not be until Friday. 

Did my visitor come early? 

DId I take the wrong pills? 

Did I really take 65? 

What was going on and why was I here in the hospital with bruises on my body and a 24 hour nurse by my bedside?

And then the doctor came.

He explained to me how there was no rhyme or reason for me to be alive.  He told me that I should be dead and then he looked at me with pity and asked me how such a beautiful young woman with everything going for her would want to do this to herself.   I wanted to spit at him.  Who was he to judge me?  He knew nothing about my life and I have spent half of it pretending that I am someone I’m am not and this man was going to seriously try to convince me that I was lucky to be alive. 

I have heard this for years.  Everytime I hit a new low in life, someone comes out with some idiotic point of view that that always starts off the same.  “How could someone so beautiful”

WTF?

Since when does someone’s appearance determine their happiness and if I were the ugliest human being on the planet would it then be ok to be so screwed up and commit suicide?  As I wondered how this man was able to think that his advice was something I seriously cared for he said something that took me by suprise.

The doctor explained to me that during my period of unconsciousness I was calling out for my brother.

And chills went up and down my body.

I remember looking for Billy in what seemed like a hospital but with no other people or objects.  I remember wandering through the never ending hallway calling for him and asking him to take me to heaven but I couldn’t find him.  I just kept walking and walking with nothing in sight.  I was confused.  Why wouldn’t Billy come and get me?  I felt betrayed.  I wondered why he did not want to protect his little sister and take her to a better place.

And then it occured to me.

Billy would not let me die.

Imagine…

Always having to skip over the family history section of every medical form.

Not knowing about your ancestry or where you came from.

Never really knowing if your parents were married.

Not knowing the names of your Grandparents.

Knowing that you have a half sister out there and wondering is she ever thought about you.

Making the dreaded family tree in elementary school.

I feel that if this still is a practice in school today, it should be stopped immediately.  This was utter torture for me every single time that I had to do it   The feeling of embarrassment and humiliation that I felt when I didn’t have names to put in the little boxes of my cut out tree was overwhelming.    I hated my self.  I hated all of the relatives that felt it would be easier to pretend I didn’t exist.  I hated the way my teachers fumbled over their words as they tried to assure me that it was okay that I only had four other names to put in the boxes.

But most of all, I hated the day that my father told me at my brothers funereal that  I had “to understand Tiffany, your mother was crazy and I just couldn’t deal with her, but now you are an adult and I would love to get to know you”.  My father asked me to dinner for our fifth possibly sixth “dinner” together. 

I was 28 years old.

The man who only called every few years when his father was in the States because he needed to trick my grandfather into thinking he saw his kids suddenly wanted to “get to know me”.

I never hated my father until this day.  I had a void there before.  I always wondered why it was that I felt so indifferent or why my blood ran so cold that I didn’t have love or hate towards him.  I wanted to hate this man for my entile life and I really tried but I just couldn’t.  I had always imagined that it was the beast who wouldn’t let him see me.  For years I gave him every excuse I could  think of to give myself the gift of thinking that someone out there may have wanted me.

I was never sure if it was true but there was always the possiblity.  I didn’t know what his side was and didn’t want to.  I never asked and was perfectly pleased with keeping things the way they were. 

But now he just threw it out there.  BOOM!

He knew the beast was crazy and he left his children there alone and defenseless.  And now, the only other person in my whole life who ever really knew what I went through was gone.

AND I HAD TO UNDERSTAND? 

No! 

I will never understand how a man can know that his children are in the hands of a monster and just choose to walk away.   I can not undersatnd how Billy and I suffered years of torment merely because my father couldn’t handle the beast.

 I went homeless.

I went hungry.

I went into addiction. 

I went to college.

I worked hard.

I managed to keep a smile on my face every single day so that everyone would think I was happy while I was dying on the inside.

AND I HAD TO UNDERSTAND?

No!

Understand that my father is an immature selfish man who can not handle his responsibilities?

Understand how my father hurts people when he doesn’t even know that he is doing it?

Understnad how my father could possibly think that I could understand this?

I did understand.

And I hate him for it.

I have never been the same since this day. 

It was the day I had to bury my brother and the day my father broke my heart. 

It was the first day since I was 15 that I really cried and I couldn’t stop. 

It was the day I decided to destroy my life with addiction. 

It started with my brother’s cancer pills that were left behind.

The day the beast took me to court is a day I always find difficult to relive.  Not because she lied to the judge and said she felt physically in danger of me.  Not even because she said she no longer wanted me, given up on me.  I was too difficult – a troubled child.

What hurts the most about that day are the tears she shed when I was remanded into the custody of the court system.  In less than 15 minutes I had been charged, found guilty and convicted of being incorrigible “a person in need of supervision” or “PINS” is what they called it.  I was a PINS case and I wasn’t given a single opportunity to defend myself nor was my presence even barely acknowledged.  Everyone was too worried about the single mother of three who had an uncontrollable monster at home.  Somehow in my 15 years, I had become the BEAST. 

As she was escorted out of the court room in hysterics, I witnessed the comforting arms of the court officers, consoling the beast, assuring her that everything would be ok, she did the right thing.  And there I stood, watching this display, alone, handcuffed as even my own court appointed lawyer took her in his arms.  Waiting for the bullshit to end, all I could think of is how I would get her back.  Next, I was escorted to my cell to wait for the sheriffs to take me to my new home.  I was now a possible foster child on my way to minimum security jail or as they referred do it – “reform school”  That day was hard for me to swallow, but what was even harder was learning years later that the beast felt she was teaching me a lesson “for my own good” about obedience. 

My first day at was much like many other girls that came and went.  I had my intake interview where I was explained the rules of the facility and the point system.  See, at my new home all activities of my daily routine would be graded by counselors barely out of high school who had no education, experience, or training on how to deal with a child like me.  They would assign the appropriate amount of points that they felt I deserved and at 5pm each day I would be presented with a point sheet that held my evaluation.  Personal hygiene, chores, eating manners, condition of my room, activities, wake up, lights out – ALL POINTS!  All the time!

After intake I was brought up to the second floor where 6 apartments were set up and each one housed 14 girls.  I would have 13 roommates of my own and only see the other inhabitants during meals and school.  I was shown my room and abandoned to cry.  They allowed you to do that on your first day, they wanted you to get it out so they wouldn’t have to deal with it later.  That was the last time that I cried in my teens.  From that day until the day my brother died, I did not shed a tear, not a single tear.  Tears would not protect me from my lemonade being spiked with bleach, a fork stabbed into my arm or the riot that sent in over a hundred policemen and fireman to overtake my prison. 

Tears were for the weak and I would make it out of this experience alive and when I turned 18 and could not be forced to do anything that I didn’t want to do, I would go to college and make a life for myself.  I would become something, anything.  I would never allow anyone to hurt me and tears were not an option towards this goal. 

I was alone, forgotten, in my cinder block room.

I was angry and alone and since the tears no longer came, the razor blade took over. 

Most people think that when little girls cut up their bodies, it is a cry for attention.  When I was 16, I didn’t even know there was a name for this or that other children even thought of it but us “cutters” are looking for anything but attention.  We want to be left alone and we want to know how it feels to hurt because we spend so much of our lives fighting feelings.  I can honestly say that I didn’t think of much when I was cutting up my legs.  I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself at that particular time or upset, there was just something inside that told me to do it and told me I would feel good afterwards and I always did.  Something about watching the blood trickle down my legs and the wet soreness of the wounds made me feel good. 

I was controlling my pain. 

For the large majority of our lives we lived in a one room basement apartment.  Billy was the oldest and since he was a boy 4 years older than his whore of sister who may try to rape him in his sleep, he had his own bed.  Jeffrey and I slept with the beast in her full sized bed which leaned up against a wall of moving boxes that reached the ceiling.  My younger brother Jeffrey and I spent many hours laughing at the stories we would make up to fit the silly phrase that covered each box.

 “Smith This Side Up”. 

We would create foolish tales about the beast standing on her head for all of the boxes that were upside down and change the methods in which she became that way.  We often wondered why she wanted to be upside down since her last name was Smith and she was, after all, the one who wrote the silly phrase.  This was a form of entertainment that we never tired of.

There were always new stories to craft that would make my brother laugh.  I loved to make Jeffrey laugh.  He was my childhood playmate, he would do anything his big sister wanted from Barbie dolls to matchbox cars, Jeffrey and I were inseparable. 

On her good days, the beast would tease us because we slept together like cats.  Each and every night our tiny bodies intertwined like pretzels until we found the comfort spot.  Jeffrey and I felt this was a compliment as we both loved cats but more than anything else, we loved it when the beast had a good day and we tried everything in our power not to upset her. 

We were only a year apart in age but Jeffrey had been born with severe mental retardation and was prone to frequent seizures due to his epilepsy.  Many nights at the table would end with my lethargic sibling falling asleep on his dinner plate after having had yet another seizure.  Jeffrey’s seizures were controlled by medication throughout much of his childhood and he thrived in the schools he was sent to in a bus that was much smaller than any school bus I had ever been on  He was the happiest child I have ever seen and Jeffrey loved everyone he met. 

Unfortunately everyone did not love Jeffrey back and this caused many physical confrontations for me as a child.  In addition to his learning challenges, Jeffrey’s father was a black man, which made Jeffrey the only “colored person” to reside in the small, largely Republican, very political town we inhabited and also the source of much anger for the townspeople and their cookie cutter children.  The mere existence of our family caused deep turmoil for several families and Jeffrey was always a target for cruelty.  It is still and may always make my body wince as I recall these memories now but at that time no one would lay a finger on Jeffrey as long as his sister could help it. 

If anyone dared to hassle my brother, they had the wrath of a beast child on their ass immediately and if my senses told me that a foul name would be called out to him or the swing of a rock in his direction may occur, the beast child within me of me would attack swiftly. 

And for my loyalty to him, Jeffrey took care of me in every way that he knew how.  It was Jeffrey who ran to me with a handful of books as the beast was approaching me with the belt and told me to put them in my shirt and pants so it wouldn’t hurt so bad.  I had never even thought of this and I loved the way he took care of me.  I was called coocha and he was called coo and together we were coocha coo.  We used these names for each other well into my teen years and a smile opens up in my heart every single time that I think of it.

I hate people who hate.