“What you got rollin’ around in that head of yours?” A bitchy voice asked. Only Marigold could sound that annoyed with twenty feet between us. I ignored her.
Minutes, or perhaps hours, later another voice with the vibrancy of a teenager stated, “You missed group this morning.” I ignored Jerrilyn, too.
“My husband is bringing pictures of the kids, later.” I ignored Veronica.
“You need to eat. You missed lunch and breakfast.” I ignored Sandra Joe.
I ignored everyone but the sky, staring out the window with my notepad on my leg and not one word to write. There are few things I regret in my life, short as it’s been, short as it almost was, and even fewer things I would ever change.
I’m about to break the fourth wall—or is it third, since this is print?—but you know me well enough by now to understand I am not a stickler to conformity, at least not as it applies to honesty. My parents will never read this story, and I hope this brings home to you how painful this is. I’m not ashamed of going crazy, but I’m still horrified of how I got there. I would change nothing of my life since then or before, but I would change the phone call I made and I would change taking all of those pills if I could, because there are some things no parent should ever have to do, and I’m not going to ask them to do it twice by reading this book. They shouldn’t have to live it, again.
All I knew was no matter how much or little I remembered of the night I was raped and no matter how it tortured me to think of it, wondering what else had happened that I could not remember, the pain I inflicted on my parents was worse. Worse than rape, worse than anything. I’d called them during an overdose and said goodbye when they were four hours away. I cannot imagine how long the drive must have seemed, what they said as they drove, or even if they spoke at all.
I thought of my best friend, Christine.
When I told her I was writing this, she told me to make sure and give her an Hispanic sounding name. So, I hereby dub her Maria Conchita Christina.
I’d spoken to her on the phone not long after I finally came to in intensive care. We cried together, as she ordered through her tears, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, do you understand me?” I can still hear her words and the pain in her voice to this day. What had I done? To so many, what had I done?!
My grandmother, normally so feisty and full of sass, could barely speak, murmuring, “Oh, Britty…Britty.” I wanted to take her tears, to make them become my own so she would never have had to shed them.
And it was somewhere amidst all the horror swirling about me I became cruel, angry at the world and wanting to destroy all I touched. I felt guilt and I loathed it, because acknowledging the guilt meant what happened was real. I really had done this, caused this.
“Brittni?” A voice called, begging me to turn and face the speaker. My cheeks were swollen, my eyes puffy and hot, but I wanted to be real, again, to shed the pain. I finally turned to face the door.
Marigold, Jerrilyn, Veronica, and Sandra Joe were at my door, Jerrilyn and Veronica sitting upon the floor, Marigold in a chair pulled to the doorway, and Sandra Joe leaning against the frame.
Bastards.
I didn’t want—but I longed—to be seen like this, vulnerable and finally open. A new tear crept down my cheek and I wiped it away, “You know, when I woke up I was so pissed at everybody. I was mad to be alive. Can you believe that? Mad to fucking be alive.
“There was a nurse staring down at me, talking to me. I can’t remember what she said, but I remember seeing my whole left arm covered in blood. I had pulled the IV out at some point and started bleeding. The bed was saturated all on my left and I could feel it on my skin. I asked the nurse for a change of clothes or a new ass gown. The bitch refused, can you believe that? She told me not until I ate. When she brought the food in, I lifted my arm and dripped blood all over it, then told her to take the shit away; I wasn’t hungry. I thought I was mad at her," I laughed bitterly, '-and I still think she’s a cunt for leaving me with blood everywhere like she did, but…the truth is something just snapped and all of the coldness I’ve ever had at any time in my life just exploded outward. I was cruel and a dick, just because I failed and had to face the reality behind my actions.
“All the nurses down there hate me now, you know?” I said, still laughing and still just as bitter. I glanced back out the window. “They do. I called them a lot of choice words. And they have every right to hate me. No, whoever just gasped, shut up. They do have a right to hate me. I verbally abused them, people who save lives for a living, my own sorry ass included, and I,” I shook my head and pounded the love seat with my fist, “-I shit on them for it.” I fell quiet. My friends sat with me in the silence, letting me have my break down.
Finally, I spoke again, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve hurt so many people I love and I can’t figure out how I can ever make this right. I always fixed stuff growing up, but how the fuck do you fix this? How? How do you say, ‘Your love wasn’t enough. I tried to kill myself and I didn’t give a shit what it did to you, but I’m sorry all the same?’ It’s not fucking enough, goddamn it; it’s not enough.”
The sun peeked out through the clouds, rays of light shining down on the town I’d once called home. It felt foreign to me, now. I was no longer a resident. I’d become its captive as assuredly as I’d become my own jailor.
“Maybe you start with a letter.” Sandra Joe said from the doorway, “You start by writing apologies to the ones you think deserve it.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll just trot on down to the gift store and pick up some nice Sorry About My Suicide Attempt cards while I’m at it.” I snapped.
“Sitting here hating yourself is so much fucking better, Brittni.” Sharp words coming from Jerrilyn; honey, have we grown a spine? “Mope, hate yourself, stay the hell out of lifes’ way and maybe life and everyone you love will forget you even existed. Is that what you want? Because it sure as hell didn’t sound like it to me. So, get the fuck up and start with a letter. That’s all you have to do for now and the rest of the shit will fall into place, but beating yourself up like this ends now, do you understand me?”
Her words echoed Maria Conchita Christina’s and the tone hit home. I was hiding in the dark and shooting every individual down who tried to bring me into the light, just like I always did. The suicide was an attempt to kill my body, and after failing, the venom became an attempt to kill my soul, to keep me from caring anymore. It wouldn't matter if I hurt others if I just didn't care about it. But it did matter. Oh, not in the hold-your-tongue-and-never-cuss kind of way, because I sure as hell did not plan on quitting cussing or speaking my mind, but I had to learn to let others help me, to let them hold me and warm me and love me instead of rejecting them because I did not feel worthy of such devotion, of such compassion. I cried and laughed at the same time, feeling liberated by the affirmation this—all of this—was still in my hands, and if I couldn’t make it up to everyone, by God I could damn well die (of natural causes or old age during a sex related activity) trying.
“What is so funny?” Jerrilyn said, still angry.
Shaking my head, I raised my hands in a resigned gesture. I got up from the love seat and rubbed my cheeks vigorously and walked toward the door. “Nothing. You’re a sexy bitch when you get mad.”
“Oh, God, shut up.” She smiled, relieved to see 'me' back and feisty.
I stared at each woman in turn. Jerrilyn had gotten to her feet as some point during my good crazylogue, but Veronica and Marigold still sat. After catching the eyes of each, including Sandra Joe, I found the words with ease, “Thank y’all. I’m so-“
“Uh uh,” Veronica smirked, rising, “No, I’m sorry’s. You don’t have to say them to us.’
“Thanks.”
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