Hurricane

Sometimes, I look back on my life and really, really wonder how I got here. Not the people around me, not to the affection I so badly, do not, deserve, and certainly not my child could tell or show me how. Its as if I lived a movie, but as the credits roll in, I can’t remember the plot or how it started. I know it started with a boy named Mikey, and miraculously ended with a girl named Izzy. In between, the film is fuzzy and I sometimes forget the casts’ names.

I can’t forget the scars, and the nightmares that the film caused. I can’t forget the pain and the anguish I felt behind the scenes. I won’t forget the way the movie peaked, and near the conclusion, I nearly lost everything.

When I think of it, that’s the only part I truly remember. I actually remember being one of the main characters. Worst supporting actress, though.

Everyone seems to “know” the entire story, and ask me about it, as if I want, or can, remember. I wonder why, since they liked to gossip so much about it. They seem to know the facts. Well, they don’t. No one but Mikey knows, and in my deepest psychosis, I know what happen too.

A went to a doctor, recently, and he told me he could hypnotize me back then and bring all the memories out, and I plan to do so. I want to get the facts, I want Mikey to stop hating me, and I want Izzy to live like she should; without shame and hurt. I even went to Mikey and told him my plan.

“You fucking bitch.” Were the first words to leave his lips.

“Excuse me?”

“You plan to sell this story, turn it into a book, don’t you?”

“No. I am going to write it down, but I promise, it’s only for Izzy.”

“You fucking bitch.”

It still hurts that he hates me so much. I don’t know why, I mean, I’ve done everything he had asked of me. I was everything he wanted and needed, I would flip on a dime for him. That, I can remember.

I can remember before we got so erratic. I can remember the better times, times before it all went to hell.

“They made TV movies of this shit, remember? Why do you want to write it down?”

“It’s for Izzy.”

“For Izzy? For fucking Izzy? She doesn’t need to read about it. She’ll see the movie, one day, on fucking Lifetime. You’re stupid.”

It still hurts my feelings that he talks to me this way.

“I don’t understand why you hate me so. I only did what you asked me to.”

“You threw me under the bus! I told you before!”

“No I didn’t! He said you wanted me to—“

“Shut the fuck up!”

He looked stressed out, and I knew he would never love me again. No matter what I said or did, he would never, ever love me again. Even if I told him I still love him, he would probably laugh at me and wave me away.

So, now, I’ll see this hypnotist and record my session. I wrote down specific questions, and hopefully, I’ll get my answers.

This is all for Isabel.