Wednesday, April 10, 2013

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 21

Chapter 21 

I’m staring at a picture I just drew in my new journal. And it isn’t a circle as per Pen’s instructions. Hmm . . . ok, now that’s just plain weird, Liz. Valium induced? Has to be. Who draws this kind of crap? A toddler maybe.
In less time it takes to count to one, Psycho Voice replies, “You pathetic little wimp, Lizzie. Still can’t connect the dots? I leave a trail of bread crumbs all over the place and all you do is eat them. What more do I have to do to get your f**king attention?”
I ignore the insults, and start scribbling as if my life depended on it. Words, words, words, mere words. Still, I write fast and furiously, feeling oh so very disconnected with the process. When I finally put the pen down, I read over what I wrote.
        My body is an empty vessel. My Blood runs dry. My spirit has departed … for now. My thoughts are outside of me now … and they remain invisible and elusive. So I can’t grasp them and put them back in. Which is really what I need to do to become whole again. See, some of my thoughts are attached to my spirit and instead of plasma my blood contains some of my thoughts. My body is home to all my thoughts and if they’re gone what’s left in my body? Isn’t that what happened in the hospital? I Lost all my thoughts at that time. Went into Mental shock as it were. So now begins the titanic struggle to fill myself. 
         Is this some form of poetry? Check that; some form of baaad poetry? I took poetry in college. Maybe this is the type of abstract poetry where you toss a bunch of words onto a page, then wait and see where they land. Good thing I’m not an olympic gymnast; a score of 0.0 for missing the landing and bouncing off the wall!
A few minutes later, Oh boy, this is fun. I’ve drawn a big fat circle on the next page. I’ve written the word ‘ME’ in the center of the circle. WHOOO ME? I giggle, yes you, bucket head.  But as I begin to fill in the tabs outside the circle with the names of every parental figure who had ruled my childhood with an iron tongue, my mood shifts dramatically. I hate, hate, hate this writing shit. Worry intrudes, a silent tormentor. I drop the pen. My stomach starts to churn like holy water in a barrel of moonshine. Let the unraveling commence. Only this time, a husky malevolent whisper slithers into my mind to finish me off. “You hear me, girl?”
       I slam the journal shut, the bile rises to my throat, and I hit the floor. The voices pour out of my mouth again, this time, crying, “No, Lizzie . . . stop, stop, stop, stop!” For an hour I wail and crawl. My husband tries to get me to take the valium, but a childish voice refuses. “Me’cine bad, bad, bad.” Finally, out of total exhaustion, I collapse to the floor and mercifully fall asleep.