The Hole Within

CHAPTER 29

The day Liz got married was a blur. I was to be her maid of honor. I showed up half-drunk using sin-sin to hide the smell of alcohol and cigarettes on my breath. She was too wrapped up in the moment to even notice. I was shell-shocked. I felt betrayed, though I knew the day had been coming. She was leaving me for him. A man. Just like all the times mom left me for a man. Somehow, I got through the torturous event. I left as soon as I could. I write:

You said goodbye –

My god! This can't

Be happening to us!

You said goodbye –

Pain fills my body

I hold back the sobs

You said goodbye –

Why do I always

Love too much?

You said goodbye –

What can I do to

Fix this black hole you left?

You said goodbye –

All I can say is

I love you

You said goodbye –

And never doubt that

You love me too

You said good bye –

Out in my car, I felt the hole inside of me yawn open like a black abyss. Though I knew this was coming, that it was inevitable, but my heart was broken just the same. I began to sob so hard, so inarticulate with grief, that I could not understand my own thoughts. The pain I felt was too monstrous, all consuming. I had to give it a voice. I had to let it express its fury. I engaged the cigarette lighter. I sat waiting for it to heat and took off my watch. The lighter popped out and I removed it, its coils burning red. I positioned it over the back of my wrist where my watch face had been and pressed firmly. The pain was exquisite in its intensity yet it still did not quell the pain inside. I continued to press as smoke curled up and I smelled the sweet smell of burning flesh. I pressed it until the smoke died down and the pain subsided. Assuming the lighter was now cool, I chanced a look and saw the coils pink glow covered with white ash. It was still hot but I no longer felt any pain. The neat round circle of burned flesh was black rimmed by a red blistering swelling. I probed the burn with my finger. Nothing. It was dead flesh. "Well, that is interesting," I mused with detachment. I put the lighter back in the cars dash, strapped on my watch, put my car into gear and pulled out. The dead black skin eventually peeled off leaving behind a purulent bumpy open wound which constantly leaked fluid. That burn to over a year to heal. Doctors later said that I should have had a skin graft. Today I am extremely self-conscious of the scar and wear a watch whenever I go out. Its thin white scar tissue remains a reminder of that day. I write:

You're gone and

I'm alone with

What's left

An empty

Shell

A body in

Pain

An emotional

Time bomb

Just waiting for

The timer to

Stop.

I drove, heedless as to where I was going. I ended up in American Fork and drove to a friend's house. He was a guy I met at one of my Narcotics Anonymous meetings. I had changed out of my dress and into jeans and a t-shirt on the drive over. It's quite an accomplishment to take off a dress and put on jeans without pulling over! I showed up with a bottle of Bacardi and he invited me in. We drank and smoked outside in his carport. My voice became more animated the drunker I got. I wanted to be blitzed. I needed to annihilate the profound hurt inside. To quiet the noisy voices in my head. As I talked I noticed something wet on my face. I looked down and was surprised to see that I had vomited down the front of myself. It was funny. Hysterical. I have no idea how I ended up getting back home if indeed I did. I may have passed out and stayed the night. He may have taken advantage of me. I have no way to know. By now my drinking often ended in blackouts.

***

I was evaluated by an independent psychiatrist for the Social Security Disability. It was a forty-five-minute session going over my hospital admissions, overdoses, diagnosis, therapy notes from my different therapist, etc. After about a month I was approved. I asked to see the psychiatric report he made and was dismayed to read his prognosis. He had judged my chances of living a normal productive life as poor. Part of me wanted to rebel against such a dour outlook but a bigger part accepted my fate. I was, after all, going to be dead by twenty-five.

I flirted with the idea of running off to Salt Lake and becoming a prostitute. It was as good as life as any, and easy way to make money. What stopped me was the fear of living on my own. I had no idea how to go about getting into the business and did not relish the idea of living on the street. Looking back now I am glad for that fear.

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