1:34 p.m. - Jan. 11, 2003
My mommy
I have a sickness inside of me. Burning, aching hunger which I cannot feed. I place food in my mouth that finds its way to my belly. Nourishment. No more dizziness. No more weakness. Eat. Just a little bit more than yesterday and just a little bit more than the day before. Food. Diarrhea again this morning. I shouldn't have had beer last night. Two beers. That's all. Doesn't take much. Thankful that I only had to drive around the block to get home. Drowning sorrows with someone whom I do not know well. I see clearly, even through the fog of alcohol, that he is not well. A whole lot less well that I am. A sickness that I cannot understand. But that is his STUFF. I sat with him as he rehashed old memories that make him ill. I hear his stories. I hear his doctors talking through him. No worries. I listen. I realize now, today, that it was very unhealthy for him to sit there, with me, and drink...and think...and re-live things that should've been long gone from him. But he holds on. I understand this. Only two beers. It got late, quick. A glance at the clock reveals 9:45PM. I borrow his phone to call home, to see if I had any voicemails. None. Friday night. Almost 10PM. No word. No word from him. "Sorry that we couldn't connect tonight (Thursday), but leave your weekend open."
Be at my beck and call, woman.
I didn't stay at home and wait for the phone to ring. I didn't go home. Direct from work to the bar. A quick drink with a friend became two drinks and lots of sad conversation. I saw the madness behind his eyes. The madness that haunts him. Damn. Haunts me today still. So we sat there - me without any voicemails and him, with so many sad stories of failed suicide attempts, betrayal, lost love, torture and obsessions. Seventeen of them. Obsessions. I wondered if I was on the way to becoming number eighteen. I excused myself sometime after 10:30PM. Drove that one or two city blocks home. Still no messages. Sat down to write. I dug around the bottom of my closet, for my old broken laptop that refuses me entry. Just the damn letter S, scrolling, uncontrollably across the page. But there was no denial. I was granted access. I sat there, amazed only for a moment, that my laptop was actually working. I thought - for sure - that it would seize up at any moment. Tried not to get my hopes up. Just wanted to write. Laptop must've known. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Illness and madness spewed forth from my fingertips and I let it flow. Flow. Flow. Flow across the page. Then I stopped. And I read, out loud, what I had written. And as I read with ferocity those words that had been written by my hand, the phone rang. It was almost midnite. I answered hello. It was my mother. How did she know that when I had just written the last line of madness, that I was on the verge of adding, "I just want my mommy." She couldn't have known. Could she? Why is my mother calling me at home on a Friday night, at almost midnite?
She found a book of poetry that was published my senior year of highschool. Pegasus. 1987. I had 7 (or was it 9?) poems published in that book. My highschool sweetheart illustrated one of my poems. This book is very near and dear to my heart. But all copies had been lost with no hope for recovery. I had given my last copy to my grandparents. But, after my grandfather passed and my grandmother became ill, this last copy was also lost. For many, many, many years. We searched everywhere for it. Nowhere to be found. I gave up hope years ago of finding it. Too many moves. Too many things. Lost in the shuffle. I let it go. But she found it. She found it and she stopped to call me...at midnite...on a Friday night...to tell me. She knew how delighted I would be and how much this book means to me.
I wanted to tell her how sad I was. How I just felt sad. This she always seems to understand. When I was a teenager, sometimes I found that I was just blue. Couldn't figure out what or why exactly - I just had BLUE days. And - on these days - she would find a way to open me up...and to get me to cry. With her magic touch and her magic way of saying, "Sometimes you just feel a little weepy" she would sit there and comfort me with little words. And her magic touch.
Wow.
Mom memories flood back to me and they are all happy and beautiful now. I have let go of the anger and the resentment. I let go of the poison. I replaced it with the love in my heart that I have for her - and the love in her heart, that I know she has for me. We more forward, through the fog.
Today I woke up in my cozy bed. I slept well. Lisa called from Atlanta. We shared our latest men troubles. It is what we always talk about. Every single time we are together. Every last time. Men troubles. We bitched and we moaned and we gave each other support. I showered and went to breakfast. It was already noon. I ate well. I sat in a booth at my favorite little greasy spoon. I ordered 1 egg, scrambled. And grits. And bacon. And whole wheat toast. And a HUGE coke. I ate most of the grits and that felt good to me. I ate all of the toast and it was yummy with strawberry jelly. I ate a piece or maybe two of bacon. Old-fashioned big ass chunk of bacon - the way that it should be. Mmmm... But the eggs were not allowed entry into my body. Nope. Just couldn't do it. And I wrote. Again. Just a bit. On a scrap of paper that I found in my purse. And I drank that coke. And I smoked two cigarettes. And I listened to conversations of strangers. I paid up and walked to my car. A stranger. A man. Tall. Older than me, but not old. His eyes were on me as I walked through the parking lot. I looked at him and kept on walking. His eyes remained on me. When I passed, he made eye contact and said hello. I said hello back. We smiled. I felt better. A smile from a stranger. I drove to the car wash. Yes, on this cold as shit day...and washed my new baby. Birds had shit all over her. Poor thing. I cursed the birds for shitting on my car. Zipped up my newly purchased, garage find - my $400 leather jacket which I paid $20 for. I scrrubbed and I sprayed and I washed all the little bugs away. Bird shit no more. She looked beautiful. Felt the rumble in my belly. Movement. Had to go. Quickly. Drove home. No messages. 1PM. Sat and shat. And it was good. A small explosion. Where did THAT come from? Let it go. I feel better now. Called Sasha. Left a message. Called Clint. Left a message. Got in my car and drove here, to Clint's house. He's not here this weekend. He's in Galveston, with his love. I am here only to write. Again.
And so I have written. And it's damn cold. My fingers hurt from the cold. His heat is off. Must've taken his cat to Galveston, with him. I didn't, haven't and won't turn on his heat. Instead I put back on my jacket...and wrapped the scarf my mother gave me for Christmas around my neck. Better. Still cold. But better.
Only happy thoughts. Only beautiful happy thoughts. And pretty things.
I want to be worshipped.
