mInD oF mEnAcE

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.

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.

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. 

The first time I realized that I was alone in this world was during infancy, which by the way also marks my first memorable act of spiteful behavior.  Trapped (enslaved) in my crib by a mother who was indifferent to my screams, I did it.  I did what no other child in that tiny insignificant apartment would dream of…but I did it anyway.  Without thought or contemplation I was on my way to a lifetime of self destructive behavior.  Or at least that’s what it was termed later in my life.  But I didn’t care; it was my turn to cause pain.

On that lonely night, trapped in the dimly lit room I had finally had enough, so I took a shit in my already soiled diaper, removed it and proceeded to blissfully play with the warm wet chaos it encased.  I applied the mess on the walls alongside my prison, and then on my legs, my arms, my face – everywhere, anywhere I could reach was destroyed by the only power I had in my infantile world.  Excitement overcame me – I began to laugh uncontrollably.  My very first, successful act of total and complete spite.  I was ecstatic, although at that moment I was sure there would be many more accomplishments such as these, this one was special, it was my first. 

The sound of a laughing child and happiness in the household must have thrown the beast off guard, she was approaching.  I could not hear the footsteps or smell the heat of her anger, but I could feel her getting closer.  I began this feat with a feeling of triumph, then fear, and then a who the fuck cares kind of attitude.  My indifference quickly turned back into fear as I heard the turn of the door knob, the creak of the hinges and the weight of heavy footsteps as the beast staggered through the narrow doorway.  Her expression was stark – full of anger.  It didn’t take long for the monster within her to take control of the situation.

“What did you do, what did you do”  followed by  “You disgusting piece of shit what the fuck did you do” was sweet music dancing gracefully in my head.  I was, as she had so delicately expressed -  a literal piece of shit.

SCORE for me!  I am winning.  I was winning.

“Billy, get your ass in here now”   What did she say?

“Get your sister in the tub right now”    What’s going on?  What is happening?  Why is she calling my brother?

“Throw her in the fucking tub, get her out of here she is a dirty piece of shit”

My brother’s protests against touching his shit stained sister warranted him a firm slap across his face.  With tears welling up in his deep blue eyes, my brother slowly picked me up and carefully transported me into the nearby bathroom.  As I gazed into these compelling eyes, I could see pain and bewilderment as he tried to fight away the tears.  I could also feel the hatred my brother had for me at that moment.  He was wondering how I could do this to him – To Him!

“Put the water on, HOT – HOTTER”  the beast shouted, louder, more forceful.

“Clean her so I can beat her good.”  I still don’t understand that expression.

“Get that shit off of her, I can’t even look at her, FASTER, HOTTER, HOTTER!”

As the warm soggy mess of my spite was rapidly oozing down the drain, I escaped.  I was suddenly in a different place, a good place, a place where mommies loved their babies.  I went so far away that after a while, I couldn’t even feel the water that kept my skin a sinister shade of crimson for days later.

I can’t say I actually recall exactly what happened next, but I’m certain the punishment came and I’m confident that it was severe.  A beating would be the next logical step in a home where a monster can become a mother simply by spreading her legs and where neighbors ignore cries in the night, simply because it is none of their business.

What I do remember is how I felt hours later as I lay in my previously shit soaked bed.  That night I felt shame, I felt remorse, I felt guilt.  Not for what I had done to my bed, my body or the beast, for all of that I was content, I felt this way for Billy, my brother.  Of course she would involve him – punish both of us for my offense.  Leave it to the beast to take all the joy away from me during my first act of spitefulness.

Scorpio.  That is my birth sign.  Said to be stubborn, vindictive, spiteful, unforgiving and revengeful, by any professional astrologist, Scorpios are mostly known for their sting.  As I do find this a rather accurate account of my personality, I still have difficulty believing that I became this way due to the month of my birth.  After all, my brothers share many of these same traits and they were both born in February.

Would I be this way if I had grown up differently, would my brothers? Do children born in February and November all have parents that screwed up?  These are questions that constantly roam around in my mind.  I’m sure my brother’s have these kinds of questions too, or had in Billy’s case.  He died from cancer when he was 33 years old. 

Billy was troubled by his upbringing.  Of course the cruelty affected him in irreversible ways, but I think always being the poorest family in town affected him even more.