Addict: Setting the World on Fire
Entry 9
Dear Someone,
I wrote an autobiography, and I want to write it to you.
“Your regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me
What you did when you wake
You’ve earned your place atop the ICU’s hall of fame
Camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again”
She was an intelligent child. Smart, one could say. Clever, another could mention. Too smart for her own good even another might snicker. Even as a little girl she wondered how things worked; she marveled over machines and clockwork. All the little pieces, how could they all be so very different, yet all become one single thing? She asked questions upon questions. Daddy, why does our dog act that way? Dad, why are the planets the first things to be seen in the nighttime sky? Father, why do humans only use ten percent of their brain? What is in the other ninety percent? Dad, why don’t you believe in God like the rest of the family?
The teenager and her father would have conversations, long and intellectual. Almost as if she was talking to a college professor. She loved those conversations, even if they were rare and at times short-lived. She didn’t care. There was one other human begin who understood her questions and challenged her to seek the answer. Her father pushed her intellect, opening her eyes to new things full of wonder and beauty. He persisted she grow in her abilities. Drawing, writing, wood carving, painting. He inspired her and helped her improve. He never judged, only encouraged.
But one day it all stopped.
No more conversations. No more challenges. No more. All lost in a flood of tears and mournful wails and a dropped wedding ring. The connections between the girl and her father were severed when he slammed the front door shut and drove out of the driveway. Away, away, and away.
The girl’s mother and brother mourned. They cried and made fools of themselves with their grief. But she refused to shed a tear over the trivial. The girl began to ask questions of a different kind. Mom, where is Dad going? Mother, why did he leave? It’s only for a little while, right? Brother, who are you crying? Dad will be back, won’t he? God, will you be my father while Dad is away? Jesus, why did this happen?
Hours spent in a chair by a window turned into days. She would be there when her father returned. She wasn’t there when he left, but she would be there when he came back. She would be waiting in her favorite chair next to the window. Then they could carry on with their smart discussions and clever jokes. His absence would just be a tiny black spot in the great scheme of her life.
But he didn’t return.
Phone calls were rare and awkward. E-mails were bleeding with sorrow. Nights spent crying held no sleeping relief. Dreams were nightmares and smiles were washed away with tears. Blank sheets of drawing paper were crumpled and notebooks were torn into pieces. The unfilled papers mocked her, spat in her face and laughed at her unaccepted pain.
The girl had heard of self-abuse before. She didn’t know how it helped, but questions were no longer in her being. No questions were asked, no questions would receive an answer. There was no one to calm her quizzical mind. There was no one to hold her and tell her just hold your breath, it’ll be over soon. There was no one who would sit with her in the silence, in the beautiful silence filled with wonderful, painful memories. There was not someone, but there was something.
Blades drained her of her blood, pills drained her of her pain, and alcohol drained her of her questioning mind. If there were no questions, there was nothing to make her remember the man who used to answer her questions. If there was no pain, there was nothing to weep about. If there was no blood, there was no strength she had to portray in an elaborate masquerade. Substances and SIB: her two best friends.
Summer turned into fall, and fall turned into winter.
Winter turned into spring, and spring turned into summer.
She’d already lived a lifetime and a year within six months.
Phone calls were more frequent, but now filled with a heated rage between the girl’s mother and father. E-mails were nonexistent. Questions were no longer buzzing around the clever girl’s mind. For every question that sneaked into her mind a pill rolled down her throat. For every streak of memory and for every image of a stable, collective family seen, a new scar played across her flesh.
The teenager no longer cared what she thought; thinking was overridden with pills and blood. Friends controlled her. Music manipulated her mind. She wanted it that way. She had been let down by one of her good adult friends. Had she loved him? Love-love? No, you cannot love what’s not there. He had never honestly ever been there. In person, yes, but never in heart. She only had two friends, now. Only two friends. There was no God. There was no father-figure up in the clouds somewhere. He wouldn’t, couldn’t allow something like this to happen.
Questions spewed from the cracks in her intelligence, buried somewhere under pills and blades. The painkillers from those beautiful orange cylinders and the blades from her pocketknife collection could not silence the flood. It had been so long, so very long since she’d put forth her aptitude. How could they believe in something that didn’t exist? Why are you pressing this on me? I don’t want it; I don’t believe it. So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
The church went up in a blaze. Sometime in the middle of the night, she painted her most wonderful masterpiece in the parking lot, and struck the match that would incinerate the lives of everyone she knew.
Shackles found their way around her scarred wrists and ankles. Men in blue took the girl away. What a turn around: citizen to criminal. She sat on her wrists uncomfortably, her whole future went down the drain like her blood had not too long ago. She shut her eyes.
So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
The girl smiled to herself. Manipulation would weasel her out as it always did. Her first offence, a class B Felony. Like a plaque on a wall. The worst thing second only to murder. Like a plaque on a wall.
The teenager wriggled and writhed her way from trouble with a clean criminal slate. Like it never even happened. Her heart gloated. Back to the pills, back to her blades. No more questions, no more pain. Only more destruction and more scars. Her two best friends.
Her two best friends.
Her two best friends that never ceased changing and shaping themselves in the form of demons with evil smiles and shiny new CDs that in and of themselves were like therapists pumping through her stereo, giving her exactly what she needed. Her two best friends that took the shape of midnight runaway escapes and a higher intensity level of destruction. Like the best worst drug addiction that could be stopped, but never would.
Her two best friends that grinned along with her and never stopped shouting,
So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
Questions never appeared again. They no longer willed a fight against the self-destruction she so favored. She had established a set of laws all on her own. She no longer needed a father figure to correct her. She no longer needed to question her guidelines. They were hers, set by fifteen years that in themselves held a lifetime; set by suicide attempts and scars; set by an enthralled rage of mockery, bullying and being bullied; set by the monsters inside her head and set by the pills that counteracted them.
She would survive
She would fight, rip, tear, and claw her way to the top.
It would hurt, it would take every bit of her, but she would do it.
They would never take her, they’d never get her.
They’d never take her alive.
“This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events”
I wrote an autobiography, and I want to write it to you.
“Your regular decorated emergency
The bruises and contusions will remind me
What you did when you wake
You’ve earned your place atop the ICU’s hall of fame
Camera caught you causing a commotion on the gurney again”
She was an intelligent child. Smart, one could say. Clever, another could mention. Too smart for her own good even another might snicker. Even as a little girl she wondered how things worked; she marveled over machines and clockwork. All the little pieces, how could they all be so very different, yet all become one single thing? She asked questions upon questions. Daddy, why does our dog act that way? Dad, why are the planets the first things to be seen in the nighttime sky? Father, why do humans only use ten percent of their brain? What is in the other ninety percent? Dad, why don’t you believe in God like the rest of the family?
The teenager and her father would have conversations, long and intellectual. Almost as if she was talking to a college professor. She loved those conversations, even if they were rare and at times short-lived. She didn’t care. There was one other human begin who understood her questions and challenged her to seek the answer. Her father pushed her intellect, opening her eyes to new things full of wonder and beauty. He persisted she grow in her abilities. Drawing, writing, wood carving, painting. He inspired her and helped her improve. He never judged, only encouraged.
But one day it all stopped.
No more conversations. No more challenges. No more. All lost in a flood of tears and mournful wails and a dropped wedding ring. The connections between the girl and her father were severed when he slammed the front door shut and drove out of the driveway. Away, away, and away.
The girl’s mother and brother mourned. They cried and made fools of themselves with their grief. But she refused to shed a tear over the trivial. The girl began to ask questions of a different kind. Mom, where is Dad going? Mother, why did he leave? It’s only for a little while, right? Brother, who are you crying? Dad will be back, won’t he? God, will you be my father while Dad is away? Jesus, why did this happen?
Hours spent in a chair by a window turned into days. She would be there when her father returned. She wasn’t there when he left, but she would be there when he came back. She would be waiting in her favorite chair next to the window. Then they could carry on with their smart discussions and clever jokes. His absence would just be a tiny black spot in the great scheme of her life.
But he didn’t return.
Phone calls were rare and awkward. E-mails were bleeding with sorrow. Nights spent crying held no sleeping relief. Dreams were nightmares and smiles were washed away with tears. Blank sheets of drawing paper were crumpled and notebooks were torn into pieces. The unfilled papers mocked her, spat in her face and laughed at her unaccepted pain.
The girl had heard of self-abuse before. She didn’t know how it helped, but questions were no longer in her being. No questions were asked, no questions would receive an answer. There was no one to calm her quizzical mind. There was no one to hold her and tell her just hold your breath, it’ll be over soon. There was no one who would sit with her in the silence, in the beautiful silence filled with wonderful, painful memories. There was not someone, but there was something.
Blades drained her of her blood, pills drained her of her pain, and alcohol drained her of her questioning mind. If there were no questions, there was nothing to make her remember the man who used to answer her questions. If there was no pain, there was nothing to weep about. If there was no blood, there was no strength she had to portray in an elaborate masquerade. Substances and SIB: her two best friends.
Summer turned into fall, and fall turned into winter.
Winter turned into spring, and spring turned into summer.
She’d already lived a lifetime and a year within six months.
Phone calls were more frequent, but now filled with a heated rage between the girl’s mother and father. E-mails were nonexistent. Questions were no longer buzzing around the clever girl’s mind. For every question that sneaked into her mind a pill rolled down her throat. For every streak of memory and for every image of a stable, collective family seen, a new scar played across her flesh.
The teenager no longer cared what she thought; thinking was overridden with pills and blood. Friends controlled her. Music manipulated her mind. She wanted it that way. She had been let down by one of her good adult friends. Had she loved him? Love-love? No, you cannot love what’s not there. He had never honestly ever been there. In person, yes, but never in heart. She only had two friends, now. Only two friends. There was no God. There was no father-figure up in the clouds somewhere. He wouldn’t, couldn’t allow something like this to happen.
Questions spewed from the cracks in her intelligence, buried somewhere under pills and blades. The painkillers from those beautiful orange cylinders and the blades from her pocketknife collection could not silence the flood. It had been so long, so very long since she’d put forth her aptitude. How could they believe in something that didn’t exist? Why are you pressing this on me? I don’t want it; I don’t believe it. So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
The church went up in a blaze. Sometime in the middle of the night, she painted her most wonderful masterpiece in the parking lot, and struck the match that would incinerate the lives of everyone she knew.
Shackles found their way around her scarred wrists and ankles. Men in blue took the girl away. What a turn around: citizen to criminal. She sat on her wrists uncomfortably, her whole future went down the drain like her blood had not too long ago. She shut her eyes.
So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
The girl smiled to herself. Manipulation would weasel her out as it always did. Her first offence, a class B Felony. Like a plaque on a wall. The worst thing second only to murder. Like a plaque on a wall.
The teenager wriggled and writhed her way from trouble with a clean criminal slate. Like it never even happened. Her heart gloated. Back to the pills, back to her blades. No more questions, no more pain. Only more destruction and more scars. Her two best friends.
Her two best friends.
Her two best friends that never ceased changing and shaping themselves in the form of demons with evil smiles and shiny new CDs that in and of themselves were like therapists pumping through her stereo, giving her exactly what she needed. Her two best friends that took the shape of midnight runaway escapes and a higher intensity level of destruction. Like the best worst drug addiction that could be stopped, but never would.
Her two best friends that grinned along with her and never stopped shouting,
So what if I burn in hell? You’ll burn long before me. What will I say to his face when I die? I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll say I did what I did, because it was fucking fun.
Questions never appeared again. They no longer willed a fight against the self-destruction she so favored. She had established a set of laws all on her own. She no longer needed a father figure to correct her. She no longer needed to question her guidelines. They were hers, set by fifteen years that in themselves held a lifetime; set by suicide attempts and scars; set by an enthralled rage of mockery, bullying and being bullied; set by the monsters inside her head and set by the pills that counteracted them.
She would survive
She would fight, rip, tear, and claw her way to the top.
It would hurt, it would take every bit of her, but she would do it.
They would never take her, they’d never get her.
They’d never take her alive.
“This was no accident
This was a therapeutic chain of events”