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After my visit last Tuesday I tried to keep my focus on studying for a huge Principles of Biology exam and preparing for Thanksgiving dinner. I told Dr. K about all of my weird goings on. The inability to concentrate, the frustration, fading out while people are talking, the desire to hug my knees and rock, the urge to bang my head, or stick my fingers in my ears and yell “BLAH,BLAH,BLAH”. I confessed that sometimes I have the urge to lower my chin, knit my brows and shake my head rapidly back and forth like a headstrong child. I am concerned about the insistence of these yearnings and how much effort it takes to deny them.

“I think I am having a nervous breakdown.” I tell him. “You are not having a breakdown. This all started when your husband lost his job and you thought the therapy would end, correct?” he asks. I nod wearily. “You are recovering memories and feelings and these feelings leave an aura of sorts. You are experiencing therapeutic regression.” he says. “The problem is you do not have enough support and the treatment plan is inadequate. I think that your decision to go in-patient for two weeks during Winter break is a good idea, but you should also be coming in here twice a week. What happened with my suggestion of running a tab?” he asks with a concerned expression. “I’m filing for bankruptcy, I don’t want to be unable to pay you back!’ I wail as I reach for the kleenex. “Well I think it is time to focus on treatment, I know you have goals and school is important but you have to make a choice.” he says earnestly.

Courtesy of claz28

That night I woke up at around 4:00 am, that seems to be my witching hour, memory time…I am around 7 or 8 years old. I am walking around the corner from my house, clutching a note. I am on my way to buy weed for my mother without money. As I lay in this strange, gray, netherworld between my memory and my bedroom I am gripped by anxiety. My breath is drawn in short, shallow puffs. My stomach is in knots, I feel overwhelming dread. I want to open the note, the anxiety is about the note, what does it say? I am too obedient still to open the note, years from now my own sense of preservation will be stronger. I ring the door bell and wait for what seems an eternity, fervently wishing that he is not home but knowing I cannot return without the drugs.

It is daylight and I can never get over the horrible disorientation that occurs when I step out of the madhouse into the sun-bathed streets where all is good, normal and so damn bright. Doesn’t the universe realize I am dying a little bit every day? How dare the sun shine down on yet another one of my many misfortunes? I am nearing the faux brownstone row houses where the drug dealer lives. Wait a minute, I know this story already, everyone knows it, I’ve told everyone that I used to buy drugs for my mother when I was little! But there is so much more to it than that isn’t there deary? There is the note!

He answers the door. He is Jamaican (I know that is so stereotypical, isn’t it?). He is not wearing a shirt, his skin is dark and shiny. He is smiling and this makes me feel sick to my stomach. I smile my best smile as I hand him the note. I feel such apprehension as he steps back and motions me to come inside. he begins to open the note. What will be expected of me? What do you mean what will be expected of you? Where are you going with the buying the dime bag story? First of all, you don’t have any memories of anything so how do you remember this?!?!?!? Don’t be silly, don’t you remember that this is what made you afraid of your mother’s notes even the ones for school? Remember how your heart would pound, and your face would flush and you’d feel so ashamed? Where do you think that started?  You don’t even like to write notes for your children! Remember her IOU notes to the corner store for cigarettes? Even when you knew what the note said your hand would shake as you handed it over? You always felt relieved when they just handed you the cigarettes and let you leave… Preposterous! I am trapped in this memory and the only way out is through. Feel it all the way through.

I can see the inside of the apartment. The curtains are made of heavy fabric and they are drawn shut. The same murky darkness that envelopes my home more often than not also resides here. Thin slivers of optimistic sunshine pierce the darkness and cast strange shapes on the walls that hurt my eyes. There is a couch, loveseat, small tv. The kitchenette is separated from the living room by a half-wall. There is a dinette table pushed up against the half-wall. There is a scale, plastic bags of weed, and little manila envelopes on the table. I am standing there trying to be good, trying not to fidget, or cry, or pee my pants which I want to do desperately. As I lay in the bed I am flooded with deep hopelessness. I am trapped in my situation. I am worthless and nobody cares about me. I must do what I am told even though it makes me feel helpless, unprotected, dirty, and ashamed. The shame is overwhelming. All I remember after this is the steel door with many locks and a peephole finally opening. I step onto the landing and am assaulted by my nemesis the sun. I have a dime bag in my pocket and I am completely disoriented. I float back around the corner to my home.

Umm, are you trying to tell me she traded me off for a dime bag?!?!?   For ten fucking dollars?  Seriously?!?!!?  That’s all I was worth? I was only 7 years old fer chrissakes. Oh my God, I can’t do this, I can’t do this right now, it is the day before Thanksgiving, I have an exam this morning! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, I can’t do this right now. So I am very sorry Lil Phoenix, but you need to take your dime bag and your shame and trudge your little sorry ass up the stairs and get the hell out of my head because I CAN’T DO THIS RIGHT NOW!!!!!! Well I just thought you should know. *shrug*

So I went to school, took my exam, came home, ran errands, started cooking supper around 2:00 pm. I tried to explain to my hubby that I had the sneaking suspicion that I was traded off for a dime bag. I manage my now signature grin/grimace at the end. He looks horrified. “This is why I hate your mother and feel like shooting her in the face.” he says darkly. I start drinking wine at 6:00 pm. I entertain a guest whilst cooking non-stop. I cook until 2:00 am. I can barely sleep and I honestly prefer sugarplums to dime bags dancing in one’s head for nocturnal entertainment.

Thanksgiving morning I awake at 6:30 am and I am unsure that I am in or will ever be in my right mind again. My dad drops by at 11:00 am just to say hello. I blurt out that I am considering going in-patient and I have been having really bad flashbacks and that things were “much worse than he could possibly imagine”. (ok guys, collective gasp of breath and cry of “oh no” a la The Mr. Bill Show)  My father had a pained expression and although he insisted that my past has no bearing at all on my present he did say he thought it would probably be good for me and he was somewhat supportive in a new-agey, holocaust-denier sort of way. He even gave me a hug, probably the sort of hug I’ve waited for so many years for. It was anti-climactic and did not even penetrate a millimeter of my suffering.

I wanted to shout, “Do you know what she did to me? What she made me do? That I was only worth ten bucks to her!” The whole time he is talking I am trying to be a good girl. I am blinking back tears and gulping down sobs. I don’t yell horrible truths that will ruin his holiday and turn his tastebuds to bile. I keep smoothing my apron like some kind of frigging Stepford wife. When I feel myself shaking I clasp my hands behind my back like a sous chef awaiting an inspection. Am I really going to make it through today?

It almost seems like I can feel Lil Phoenix tugging on my apron, “Scuse me, I need some help over here. I’m awful tired and awful sad lady.” she says in the quiet tone of a good girl. Get out of here kid, your bugging me, I have a turkey to cook. I play lots of angsty, alt-rock and I clean my work surfaces and every dish in between the courses I prepare. BUSY BUSY BUSY, I’M A BUSY BEE. Thanksgiving seems to go well, the food turns out pretty fabulous, well not the pies, but that was my first time.  When we go shopping for a microwave on Black Friday with the girls I surprise myself when I ask my husband,”Can I get a stuffed animal?”.

He gives me a VERY strange look, but I don’t give a fuck, I actually feel pretty bad for Lil Phoenix right about now and she sure perks up at the thought of a stuffed animal. A stuffed animal, all for me! I can hug it and squeeze it so tight! I walk around Walmart until I find the rather paltry stuffed toy section (curse this video game culture!) I find a decent sized, floppy dog. I grab him around his midsection tightly. I place his head beneath my jaw and move my chin back and forth across the man-made fibers. “Hmmm.” I sigh as I feel the knot in my belly uncoil for the first time in almost 3 days. “He is very soft but I think I can find a bigger one.” I mutter. All three of my girls are wide-eyed. They look like they are watching a vagrant take a shit in the Electronics aisle.

I make my husband take me to Toys r Us. I am on a mission now. The stuffy section is rather pathetic here as well. I grab a black bear and go through the same ritual I performed at Walmart. I almost decide on the bear when I see the hippo. It is gray with beady little black eyes and pale pink nostrils. “Ooh a HIPPO!” I coo as I snatch it and rub my chin across its head ecstatically. “Oooooh, so soft, feel the tail.” I offer the tail to my perplexed daughters, only the youngest takes me up on the offer.

I feel the greatest sense of comfort and delight every time I hold her. Her name is PipPo the Hippo. She has a big nose, and a huge rump just like me! 🙂

Ye Olde Transitional Object, PipPo

I am tired now, I swore I wouldn’t write anything until I finished my research paper but it needed writing and I am sick of always punishing myself. Good night all, I await your comments……………