The suburban white princess who slammed me from behind immediately informed me that the accident would interfere with her plans to show off the botox that she that was just pumped into her eye sockets. I said “I've been hurt.” I realized I was addicted to lateness. Afraid of my past, afraid of loneliness, afraid of failure. I found myself trapped in an Atlanta apartment with a woman who I considered a dear friend and her abusive lover who had turned her violence toward me. I realized I was not trapped, I realized I was addicted to this kind of drama, I realized that everything could be traced back to my own choices. I had chosen to enter this apartment and this situation, on an attempted vacation no less. Amidst the screaming, the threats and the intense pain. The look in my friends eyes that said she was some where else far away from the love we had for each other. I decided: So over it.
Chronic pain lives in the nervous system The information came to me at a time in the fast where I was experiencing the unnerving effects of withdrawal. Disturbed and acutely perceptive, tethered to the earth by a thread, consumed by surreality. Everything – the pain, the hunger, the memories – a product of my mind. My pores, breath and nasal passages exuded toxins. My flesh smelled mildly rotted. It's not like the poison live in any one part of my body, my spine or my muscles, it was the result of a misfiring of my brain. The malfunction oozed out of everything. My sleep schedule no longer governed by sugar highs and food comas, I began to rest in regular intervals and rise with the birds chirping to appreciate the sunrise. I exhibited a controlled irritability. Began to trust that the people in my life would remain attached despite this temporary condition. I slept soundly and woke peacefully trusting each day, despite the unique circumstances, would similarly involve temptation, challenge and resolve.
eat something
She told me she was worried about me. I suspect that no mother really wants to hear that her offspring is not consuming any food. So I allowed her the worry. But what I really needed was a replacement car. Correction: what I really needed was a replacement car and I needed to tell them that this is what I really needed from them. What I really needed was a replacement car, I needed to tell them this is what I really needed from them and I needed to hear them understand these statements. It was about this time that the shitting started. It poured out of me like piss out of my asshole. It warranted this kind of crude analogy. I promise you. It was a relief in the most basic and pure sense. It came and went in waves quite frequently from week 1 – 3. The hunger pains built and gained momentum until they climaxed, explosively, in bevy of shit that had called my colon home for a lifetime. In the mean time I underwent extensive talks with my parents. My father insisted that he was not the person I thought he was. He said all of it was a misunderstanding. He misunderstood me and I, even more importantly, misunderstood him. First it made me confused, then confusion gave way to anger and anger gave way to hurt. Then the pain broke in a bevy of shit. I called my mother while driving and unloaded on her everything I could think of. I told her that I was scared. The accident was scary and I needed to hear that everything would be OK. I told her that I needed a mom just like any body else. What ever went down in our home between us, all of that ugly that drove me out of the house and into the struggle that consumed 7 years of my life estranged from parents, brother and extended family. I needed them now. I carried all that with me: impacted feces and judgment, poison and blame. To the market, the office, across the border and back again. Physically, emotionally and spiritually an incredible burden lifted, a sense of clarity took hold. My mother asked I asked
Why you so upset? You remember all the broken down cars we drove as teenage girls breaking down I said Those suburban nights had me scared, Ma
Issue 3
Page 12