Thus begins my tale...
“Therefore I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul”. - Job 7:10
At the moment, this is a thankless story: thankless characters, thankless days and nights, thankless families. A story about a thirteen year old car with over 100,000 miles on it. A story that features a beloved eleven year old black cat who unfortunately vomits on the carpet all the damn time. A story which stars an overweight, chronically ill, severely depressed, insomniac woman in her late 30's who lives alone, hasn't left her apartment in three days, and hasn't showered in four or five, she can't quite remember. I'll tell ya, it's a blast, this yarn. Aren't you, dear reader, excited to see what comes next? I'll bet you are!
Why do I have to be the one to tell this story? I ask myself.
Because it's mine.
My truth is ugly. Occasionally beautiful too, but that's been harder to see lately. This story insists on being written, burns like a fever in my chest, gripping me when I should be sleeping, dogging my footsteps like a mangy cur that's trying to attach itself to me on a dead end street.
I don't even know where to start. So, I start here, where I am. In medias res.
I haven't spoken to my father in three days. I can't. Something he said spiraled me into such depression that I haven't left the house since. I don't want to see a living soul. I especially don't want to see my landlord's elderly parents, who are staying downstairs, in his part of the house. I cannot wait for them to go back to Florida. Of course, they live in Florida, it's in the handbook: New York Jews of a certain age are practically required to retire to Florida. They return once a year to Long Island on pilgrimage, driving impossibly big boat-like grandpa cars twenty miles below the speed limit. My landlord's parents watch my comings and goings. And when there are no "goings," I worry what they are thinking of me. I worry that they are going to tell their son all about me, that they'll tell him the results of their spying: that I am a weird tenant he should get rid of because they know I haven't been out in days, and my mail is piling up too.
My dishes are piled high in my sink, and on the surrounding counter. There are pots and pans on the stovetop from things I cooked days ago. My laundry is in a pile on the bathroom floor. I can't find a very important set of papers; the last required section of my social security disability application. I forgot to pay my car insurance on the due date, I'm hoping my policy is not revoked. Today I set my alarm for 2pm. It seemed reasonable. It was about 7am when I got in bed. I overslept, and woke up at 5pm, but there must have been hours when I was churning in the half-sleeping state hitting a snooze alarm every nine minutes. As I groggily made my way out of bed, a thought occurred to me: "Did I have an appointment with my shrink today?" I ran to my little pocket calendar, and sure enough, there it was in black & white: Kevin, 4:30pm. This already was the re-scheduled appointment, because I missed last weeks also. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Shit. The frustration with myself gathered itself up and spewed out in torrents. I went to the bathroom, still furious with myself. I came out and called the clinic. My shrink had already left and wouldn't be back till Monday. Swell. At least I had enough meds to get me through Sunday. I'd have to call him Monday and ask him to phone in my scripts to the pharmacy.
Then I looked at my answering machine, no messages. Good. It means my father did not call me, which he did twice on Monday and I think once on Tuesday. In his messages, he spoke normally, as if nothing whatsoever had happened on Sunday. He didn't say he was sorry. He didn't try to suck it up, and wheedle his way back into my life, no; he simply acted as if it hadn't happened. An event that triggered me to recall tragic past events and sent me crashing hopelessly into dark alleys in my consciousness, words that caused the darkest waves to rise up and crash inside me, and to him, it was something he was planning to ease past, gloss over, and sweep under the rug. I didn't return his phone calls.
And I won't. I wish I would never have to deal with him again, but the day will come soon when it will be unavoidable. How I dread that day. I will put it off as long as possible. Maybe I can avert it somehow? Maybe I can fall on the cold mercies of the social services department instead. Convince them of the dire need for an emergency grant, or something. The only thing that ties me to my father besides blood right now is money. The only thing that will enable me not to have to have contact with him is money.
I still have some things at his house, but they can be packed without any real conversations between us. He doesn't understand, doesn't begin to understand this soul murder he does to me. My soul has far more than nine lives. A body only dies once, mercifully, but a soul can die a million times, and still be raised up again, only to be murdered again. I feel each death as if it were the first one. There is no fading with time.I am never inured to the pain, vacant or absent when the strike hits me. It doesn't get any easier, and I'm never more used to it than before. I never am able to expect it, because nothing happens before hand that would allow me to predict that danger is coming, get out of the way. It's like a tornado suddenly striking on a sunny day. By the time you see it coming towards you, it's already too late.
There are so many things I didn't learn in time to save myself. I never cared about money when I was younger. I was utterly steeped in romanticism, and possessed few realistic notions. This suited my mother very well. She had long cultivated me to be dependent, and to have no survival instinct whatsoever. The outcome was flawless. She told me that everything common was beneath me. I was going to be a prodigy. A writer, an artist. I was special. Talented. I had an abnormally high IQ. I was called into the principal's office and told this in elementary school: "Great things are expected of you." This sent me into a tailspin of pressure and anxiety. My report cards often read: "Tess is smart, but is not working up to her potential" "Tess often daydreams and does not pay attention in class".
Later on, other normal kids had paper routes or did odd jobs. I was encouraged not to work crummy jobs. My mother told me they were a waste of my intellect and creativity. Read some more books instead, go to your easel in the basement and paint some more. So I did. I listened to lots of music, and burned a lot of candles and incense. I wrote in journal books of various sizes and shapes. I practiced calligraphy. I went to the opera with my father, and symphonies with the whole family. I masturbated compulsively two or three times a day, wracked with guilt, tears and prayers for forgiveness. I prayed to God for forgiveness every time, but invariably failed the next night. I stayed up late, reading. I read Shakespeare and psychology textbooks about drugs, because I was curious about the mind, and I decided after reading about all of the big guns, that I was a Rogerian, with perhaps a pinch of Jung on the side. I also read the psych texts because wanted to know what illegal drugs did to a person. I also read "Go Ask Alice" and wished I had been around in the sixties, it sounded so much better than the seventies I was living in. I also read illicitly acquired copies of "A Secret Garden," and the "dirtier" Judy Blume books that now seem as tame as oatmeal on a winter morning. I never wanted to go to school, and I hated waking up early in the morning. I almost always missed my bus. I almost always missed it on purpose so I wouldn't have to face the teasing. My mother frequently drove me to school. Often I'd be seized with sharp stomach pains as soon as we'd pull into the driveway of my school. I was often doubled over, and could not go inside. I'd often beg and plead to go home, until she'd finally turn the car around. Sometimes she'd say no, and I'd hobble in. A few class periods would go by, and I was calling for her to come get me. I had wretched stomach problems. I now know it was anxiety. Extreme anxiety.
I wasn't thinking about the future. About good test scores. About college. I was thinking about how to get through the day without coming apart at the seams. There were reasons I was in such sad shape. Reasons I'm not ready to talk about yet. I'd have to go to that place, that place that holds a dungeon of locked up nightmares that are always trying to break down the door and invade my life. Tonight is not the night to let them out. I'll keep the chains on the monsters a little bit longer.
At the moment, this is a thankless story: thankless characters, thankless days and nights, thankless families. A story about a thirteen year old car with over 100,000 miles on it. A story that features a beloved eleven year old black cat who unfortunately vomits on the carpet all the damn time. A story which stars an overweight, chronically ill, severely depressed, insomniac woman in her late 30's who lives alone, hasn't left her apartment in three days, and hasn't showered in four or five, she can't quite remember. I'll tell ya, it's a blast, this yarn. Aren't you, dear reader, excited to see what comes next? I'll bet you are!
Why do I have to be the one to tell this story? I ask myself.
Because it's mine.
My truth is ugly. Occasionally beautiful too, but that's been harder to see lately. This story insists on being written, burns like a fever in my chest, gripping me when I should be sleeping, dogging my footsteps like a mangy cur that's trying to attach itself to me on a dead end street.
I don't even know where to start. So, I start here, where I am. In medias res.
I haven't spoken to my father in three days. I can't. Something he said spiraled me into such depression that I haven't left the house since. I don't want to see a living soul. I especially don't want to see my landlord's elderly parents, who are staying downstairs, in his part of the house. I cannot wait for them to go back to Florida. Of course, they live in Florida, it's in the handbook: New York Jews of a certain age are practically required to retire to Florida. They return once a year to Long Island on pilgrimage, driving impossibly big boat-like grandpa cars twenty miles below the speed limit. My landlord's parents watch my comings and goings. And when there are no "goings," I worry what they are thinking of me. I worry that they are going to tell their son all about me, that they'll tell him the results of their spying: that I am a weird tenant he should get rid of because they know I haven't been out in days, and my mail is piling up too.
My dishes are piled high in my sink, and on the surrounding counter. There are pots and pans on the stovetop from things I cooked days ago. My laundry is in a pile on the bathroom floor. I can't find a very important set of papers; the last required section of my social security disability application. I forgot to pay my car insurance on the due date, I'm hoping my policy is not revoked. Today I set my alarm for 2pm. It seemed reasonable. It was about 7am when I got in bed. I overslept, and woke up at 5pm, but there must have been hours when I was churning in the half-sleeping state hitting a snooze alarm every nine minutes. As I groggily made my way out of bed, a thought occurred to me: "Did I have an appointment with my shrink today?" I ran to my little pocket calendar, and sure enough, there it was in black & white: Kevin, 4:30pm. This already was the re-scheduled appointment, because I missed last weeks also. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Shit. The frustration with myself gathered itself up and spewed out in torrents. I went to the bathroom, still furious with myself. I came out and called the clinic. My shrink had already left and wouldn't be back till Monday. Swell. At least I had enough meds to get me through Sunday. I'd have to call him Monday and ask him to phone in my scripts to the pharmacy.
Then I looked at my answering machine, no messages. Good. It means my father did not call me, which he did twice on Monday and I think once on Tuesday. In his messages, he spoke normally, as if nothing whatsoever had happened on Sunday. He didn't say he was sorry. He didn't try to suck it up, and wheedle his way back into my life, no; he simply acted as if it hadn't happened. An event that triggered me to recall tragic past events and sent me crashing hopelessly into dark alleys in my consciousness, words that caused the darkest waves to rise up and crash inside me, and to him, it was something he was planning to ease past, gloss over, and sweep under the rug. I didn't return his phone calls.
And I won't. I wish I would never have to deal with him again, but the day will come soon when it will be unavoidable. How I dread that day. I will put it off as long as possible. Maybe I can avert it somehow? Maybe I can fall on the cold mercies of the social services department instead. Convince them of the dire need for an emergency grant, or something. The only thing that ties me to my father besides blood right now is money. The only thing that will enable me not to have to have contact with him is money.
I still have some things at his house, but they can be packed without any real conversations between us. He doesn't understand, doesn't begin to understand this soul murder he does to me. My soul has far more than nine lives. A body only dies once, mercifully, but a soul can die a million times, and still be raised up again, only to be murdered again. I feel each death as if it were the first one. There is no fading with time.I am never inured to the pain, vacant or absent when the strike hits me. It doesn't get any easier, and I'm never more used to it than before. I never am able to expect it, because nothing happens before hand that would allow me to predict that danger is coming, get out of the way. It's like a tornado suddenly striking on a sunny day. By the time you see it coming towards you, it's already too late.
There are so many things I didn't learn in time to save myself. I never cared about money when I was younger. I was utterly steeped in romanticism, and possessed few realistic notions. This suited my mother very well. She had long cultivated me to be dependent, and to have no survival instinct whatsoever. The outcome was flawless. She told me that everything common was beneath me. I was going to be a prodigy. A writer, an artist. I was special. Talented. I had an abnormally high IQ. I was called into the principal's office and told this in elementary school: "Great things are expected of you." This sent me into a tailspin of pressure and anxiety. My report cards often read: "Tess is smart, but is not working up to her potential" "Tess often daydreams and does not pay attention in class".
Later on, other normal kids had paper routes or did odd jobs. I was encouraged not to work crummy jobs. My mother told me they were a waste of my intellect and creativity. Read some more books instead, go to your easel in the basement and paint some more. So I did. I listened to lots of music, and burned a lot of candles and incense. I wrote in journal books of various sizes and shapes. I practiced calligraphy. I went to the opera with my father, and symphonies with the whole family. I masturbated compulsively two or three times a day, wracked with guilt, tears and prayers for forgiveness. I prayed to God for forgiveness every time, but invariably failed the next night. I stayed up late, reading. I read Shakespeare and psychology textbooks about drugs, because I was curious about the mind, and I decided after reading about all of the big guns, that I was a Rogerian, with perhaps a pinch of Jung on the side. I also read the psych texts because wanted to know what illegal drugs did to a person. I also read "Go Ask Alice" and wished I had been around in the sixties, it sounded so much better than the seventies I was living in. I also read illicitly acquired copies of "A Secret Garden," and the "dirtier" Judy Blume books that now seem as tame as oatmeal on a winter morning. I never wanted to go to school, and I hated waking up early in the morning. I almost always missed my bus. I almost always missed it on purpose so I wouldn't have to face the teasing. My mother frequently drove me to school. Often I'd be seized with sharp stomach pains as soon as we'd pull into the driveway of my school. I was often doubled over, and could not go inside. I'd often beg and plead to go home, until she'd finally turn the car around. Sometimes she'd say no, and I'd hobble in. A few class periods would go by, and I was calling for her to come get me. I had wretched stomach problems. I now know it was anxiety. Extreme anxiety.
I wasn't thinking about the future. About good test scores. About college. I was thinking about how to get through the day without coming apart at the seams. There were reasons I was in such sad shape. Reasons I'm not ready to talk about yet. I'd have to go to that place, that place that holds a dungeon of locked up nightmares that are always trying to break down the door and invade my life. Tonight is not the night to let them out. I'll keep the chains on the monsters a little bit longer.
posted by scribe at 9/29/2005
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