The little kid part. Something about the little kid part. I cried in BJ’s arms—tapping into a vast emptiness—wishing my mother had not left me.
Sometimes, I felt guilty wanting to be held by BJ so much. But at times, it was really the only thing that the little kid part had to look forward to.
* * * * * * *
“J, I hate you.”
“Uh—huh.”
“You are no good. I want that arm. Slice.” Sasifraz gave me the mental image of a bow drawing across the strings of a violin.
“Look, maybe I will. Maybe, I won’t. But, no matter what, it won’t be up to you in any case.”
* * * * * * *
(OH, I’M ANGRY. Really, what’s it about this time? I’VE GOT TWO CHOICES TO WORK ON: MY MOTHER OR MY FATHER. So? I DON’T WANT TO DO EITHER. BOTH GIVE ME A SENSE OF THE UNSPEAKABLE. So, take a break. WHAT ARE YOU? HEAD COACH OR SOMETHING? Close, you’re getting close.)
* * * * * * *
(1972)
Lucifer and Alfer Centurie started meeting regularly. With the help of Martineau, they picked calm, relaxing spots to visit.
Lucifer and Alfer Centurie started meeting regularly. With the help of Martineau, they picked calm, relaxing spots to visit.
Lucifer was into cool grassy meadows with gentle breezes. Alfer Centurie preferred dramatic scenery inspiring awe. They compromised on summer mountain meadows with great views in many times and places.
“I can’t get through to J.” Lucifer was explaining his frustration with J one day.
“Have you tried introducing yourself as someone else?”
Lucifer was aghast. “The psychic plane demands absolute honesty.”
“Then, present yourself as your truest part. You’ve had many names all with the same absolute essence. Just pick one.” Alfer Centurie was beginning to get it. Of course, he was a lot better at solving Lucifer’s problems than his own.
It was a novel approach to Lucifer. For the first time, he had a glimmer of his creative potential. “I’ll try it.”
* * * * * * *
Something about the nature of mental hospitals does not allow for absolute mental health. Maybe, it’s the premise that mental health can be brought about by rough handling. In my case, nothing could be farther from the truth.
One of the staff’s prime directives was to prepare me to return home. Naturally, this entailed sending me home to my father’s house on week-ends. (What can I say?) It was a move that was not really in my best interest.
* * * * * * *
It’s not hard to figure. It was like returning to the tomb for me. My father’s girlfriend, Fern, had moved in while I was gone. Fern created more emotional wasteland for me to wade through.
Of course, Fern and my father drank constantly. Fern was into Screwdrivers—vodka and orange juice. She drank in the morning, afternoon, and night. No occasion was too trivial to drink over. My father drank bourbon and water. It was the only drink his doctor would allow him or so he told me.
It all left me with a feeling of total isolation. Nowhere to turn and only drunk people to be with. Upon returning to Western, all I could do was play to my own self-destructive addiction and cut my arm—every Sunday night like clockwork.
Now, all the staff wanted to do was to get me to stop. “Why does she do it anyway? Such a foolish child,” they said. (They were always a little slow.)