Mar 23, 2007 13:00
I think about how times I have started my day. From the time I was born until now, at nineteen-going-on-twenty I have started 6935 days. That's a lot of mornings. That's a lot of cups of mother's milk, orange juice, water, and coffee. So now, staring at strangers and listening to them discuss what food was eaten at Chelsea's wedding I struggle to become mentally engaged in their conversation. My life revolves on distraction and today is no different. Today I will be saying goodbye to my 9 week old baby who, at this time, is probably just swimming around having no idea what is going to happen. I know what's going to happen but I struggle to focus on the movie that was playing in the waiting room. The Nutty Professor. A movie I had never seen before but today it was unbelievably intriguing. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it even when the girl who left the room before me started screaming and didn't stop. She was escorted out by a very large, very pissed off looking black nurse. I wasn't even phased. Pussy, I thought. Shit happens.
I use to try to classify areas of time in my life through the men that have danced through it. There was Brandon O'Keefe in kindergarten who remained my crush until 1st grade. I had to say goodbye to him though when I went to the bathroom and was choked by a 4th grade girl. I told mom about it when I got home and that was the last time I saw a lot of my friends from school. I was home-schooled now and safe. Middle school finally came and by this time Mom and Daughter both were exhausted with being around eachother day in and day out and the metophoric bells peeled with happiness as I was allowed to attend St. Francis of Assisi. With sweating hands and itchy navy blue tights I entered 5th grade and threw myself to the monsters of cliches. 5th grade through 7th are somewhat memorable. I remember the uniforms and constantly getting into trouble for the ever shortening length of my skirt and my yellow blouse never being properly tucked in. I remember crying when the girls were mean. Then 7th grade came and I ruled the roost. I was the Queen Bitch now and I loved my new role. I decided that I needed a boyfriend and the boy sitting behind me, Andy, seemed to be perfect. Fat, piggy-eyed Andy made me laugh. He was bigger than I and seemed solid. He seemed safe. I remember dancing with him...miles between our two bodies and his hands were sweaty. I broke up with him a few weeks later. He started leaving notes in my backpack. Notes on my desk. Notes everywhere. He was going to kill me on Valentine's Day. I told my mom. I was taking out of that school in the middle of 7th grade and homeschooled until 9th. I was heartbroken. Of course this was the biggest most awful thing to happen ever. My friends were gone what on earth was I to do? Now I was stuck home with my mom and this just SUCKS. I stayed at home till 8th grade and come high school I broke out.
Entering the doors at North Kingstown High School I knew absolutely no one. I was excited to see if I would recognize anyone from elementary school. I had seem some of them around the neighborhood. Freshmen year was a blur. I fell into an amazing group of friends. There was so many people around me all the time. I was happy I thought. Sophomore year I can't remember because I barely went to school. Drugs were new to me and the first time I smoked pot was across the street from my high school in the woods with all of the other kids. I remember closing my eyes and thinking this is heaven. I have finally found what I've wanted. Escape and release into reality. My brothers became Johnny, who protected me from my father. CJ, the smart one, dark hair and eyes, extremely close to John. The two of them watched each other's backs from the other's parents, other guys, etc. Will. The beauty. Very handsome, skinny, he was always a mystery to me. Ryan, hysterical and overweight, blond, Nordic. He was never really as lost as the rest of us. At least he hadn't given up as easily as we did. John's basement became the place to be. It was were we gathered; were we escaped. There at night we would all silently slip out of our minds...herb, pills, liquor, anything. We slept together, we protected each other, we loved each other. Together we were the stronghold against alcoholic parents, abusive blows and insults didn't exist as we held eachother amist the refuse of the basement. It was filthy, as I'm sure you can imagine. Ashes, dirt, burned up furniture. Home.
Another home was the woods. Just like our older brothers and sisters before us we took refuge in them. Smoked our pot, had our sex, created babies that we weren't ready for, quit our jobs. Some of us went straight some of us died some of us still keep the flame. To me, they are the saddest ones of all.
I had a nice home with a mom and a dad who were worried sick about their only child. I was rarely home. Would run away often. At 100lbs I was quite skinny and my hair fell out routinely. I did not know psychical want. I can only imagine what they must have been thinking. We rarely have ever spoken about this time. They tried. My mother I believed suffered the worst of all. Her child was dying and she didn't know why. How her heart must have broken as she listened to her wasted daughter scream how much she hated her. This is a time I hate thinking about. I hate it. But it was real.
Real is important to me because I have spent so many hours of my life running from real only to come to the understanding that there is no life outside of the truth that is yours. The last thing I am going to say about all of the lives that touched my own at North Kingstown is that there have been no lines drawn. What happened? Today I can't stop the choking sobs that remember my life, my neighbors, the children I babysat for, but mostly I cry for the dreams that I can remember having for myself. I didn't see this coming. My heart screams for the little girl that became so badly mangled. I know that the girl she is today is not torn in two but there will forever be a hole in my heart that can't ever, ever be repaired. To my mother, the woman who taught me how to be gentle, who inspired the desire for understanding and knowledge, your work has not been lost. Your hands, your love, your undying love for your child has not been lost. May this memoir become a testament to the thirst for self-realization that you have stirred within me. I am in awe of your strength.