Entry 11.2 (1989)

It snowed.  It snowed and not just a little bit.  Over night, a six inch blanket settled down in my neighborhood.  Unfortunately, the adult me was nuts.

Sasifraz had been in a raucous mood.  Since I had formally broken up with Leslie, the tension in the house had crept up until it was at a full boil.  Leslie harangued me about my misplaced priorities—implying that to break-up with Leslie was to reject Adrian as well.

Intellectually I knew that Leslie was trying to get me back for rejecting her.  Still, I was stung.  With the pain came Sasifraz marching out two-by-two with his host of one liners.

“You are impossible.  You blew it.  If Leslie takes Adrian away from you, you are worthless.  All your fighting me is for nothing.  You are worthless.  Death is the best you can do.  Why keep fighting the same old war?  Blood will surely make it bearable.”

I couldn’t always come up with the right answers to his questions.  But, by now, I knew how to ask for help.

On the night it began to snow, Leslie gave me a particularly damning demonstration of her anger.  Feeling emotionally abused, I could feel the rise of Sasifrazian rage.  I left and rounded the corner to our neighbor, Marsa.

“I’m sorry to bother you.  I really hurt.  I need a safe place to cry and figure out what to do.  Can you sit with me?”

“Sure, but I don’t know how to help.”

“Just sit with me and listen.  I’ll do the talking.”

I cranked out my story of the evening overcome with tears and pain.  But still Sasifraz pursued me.

While I was there, BJ called.  I brought her up-to-date.  I got off the phone.  Sasifraz was still on it.  I had broken down and bought razor blades earlier in the day.  Between Sasifraz and my own pain, the razor blades were burning a hole in my pocket.

At my wits end, I called Rahne.  I felt the critical mass approaching and knew that I could not last the night.  My ability to hold off the onslaught was dimming.  Further, the future looked filled with more pain than I had already broached.

* * * * * * *

(Don’t you think you are rattling on here?  I AM NOT RATTLING ON.  THIS IS IMPORTANT.  Well, for god’s sake, get to the point.  HAVEN’T YOU ANY PATIENCE FOR THE FINE ART OF PROSE, STYLE, OR TECHNIQUE?  None whatsoever.)

* * * * * * *

Rahne was staying with her friend, Rose.  I didn’t want to intrude.  But, the needs of the moment overcame me.  I blurted out my dilemna, biting back my tears asking if Rahne had ideas.

Rahne’s ideas seemed to run across the lines of saying exactly the right words that I needed to hear.  “I’d be glad to help you stay safe.  You can come over here.  You can sleep on the couch.  I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to.  I’ll come pick you up, or Marsa could probably drive you over.”

Gratefully, I thanked Rahne.  The first part of the act of self-preservation was done.

* * * * * * *

The snow came down all night, so I had no work the next day.  It was a long night.  Rahne greeted me with open arms and held me while I shook.

I took a Xanax or two—something my doctor had given me to take in a pinch when things felt out of control.  I couldn’t give Rahne the razor blades that were in my pocket.  I didn’t have the strength to take life on faith alone.

I don’t remember any more if Sasifraz came that night.  Mostly, Rahne and I waited out the drugs until finally I felt drowsy enough to sleep.

The next morning, no one had work.  Six inches of snow had fallen.  Within an hour of waking up, Sasifraz was back harassing me.  It didn’t take long for him to take over and spread his cheer to Rahne and her friend, Rose.

Sasifraz, of course, had my razor blades out and was disinclined to put them away or offer them in a trade.  Rahne engaged Sasifraz lightly and easily in conversation.  By now, the two of them had a working relationship complete with bantering and sarcasm.

* * * * * * *

(AH, FUCK.  NOW, I HAVE TO RECREATE THE CONVERSATION.  What’s so tough about that?  WHO THE HELL REMEMBERS?  IT’S LIKE A DREAM...)

* * * * * * *

“So, Sasifraz, what’s bothering you?”  Rahne prompted.

“Bothering me,” he responded with his customary mock humility.  “Nothing.  I just have a job to do.”

“And, what is your job?”

“I’m in charge of aiding and abetting self-destructive tendencies.”  He smirked.

“Remember, we talked about you having a new job?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m really good at my present job.”

“I know.  I know.  But, how about a new job?”

“I don’t think so.  My specialty is blood and that’s not easily replaced.”  With that announcement, Sasifraz jumped off the bed and said he had to go.

Silently, Rose stepped in front of the door.  Rahne moved nearer to Sasifraz and took his arm.

“What’s this?”  Sasifraz gestured at Rahne’s hand.

“I won’t hold you if you get back on the bed.”

“Okay.”  Sasifraz edged one blade part way out of the box in his hand.

“Sasifraz, you have to keep the razor blades in the box.”

“I like them out better.”

“Sasifraz!  You have to keep them in the box.  It’s not okay with me for them to be out.  Put it back in the box.”

“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?  Don’t you think it’s a work of art?  Very fine art work?”

“I can’t quite see that.  Put it back in the box, and we can talk about it.  Put it back in there!”  Rahne urged and pointed her finger at the box.  “I’ll talk to you, but you have to keep them in the box.”

Sasifraz edged the blade back in with his thumb.  “Really, I don’t know how you can resist them.  They are a great killing machine—light and easily transported.  I don’t know why everybody doesn’t use them.  Slice.”  He made a gesture across his arm relishing the feeling.

“Sasifraz, what makes you want to kill?”

“It’s my job.”

“Yah, I know.  But, how did you get that job?”

“The Dead Man taught me everything he knows.”

“What did he teach you?”

“He taught me how to kill.  I’m good at it.  In fact, I’ve killed four kids.”

“What kids?”

“I don’t know.  They’re dead now.”

“Who were they?”

“I can tell you their names.  Do you want to know?”

“Sure.”

Sasifraz counts off on his fingers.  “One was Mandy.  One was Sarah.  One was Jesse or James.  I’m not sure.  Maybe Jesse James.”  He looked up with one eyebrow arched impressed at his own joke.  “The last one was Stephen.”

“How old were these kids?”

“Three, five, seven, and nine, respectively.  And, I killed them and that proves how good I am at my job.”

* * * * * * *

From time to time that morning, Sasifraz would leave.  I would lay gasping on the bed as if for air—racked by shakes convulsing my stomach.

I would whisper a loud, “hi” to Rahne and that would signal a recess.  Rahne and I made drug decisions and tried to negotiate what I had to do next to try to get on top of the situation.

It was some time into early afternoon before I was able to give Rahne the razor blades in exchange for a piece of Rahne’s jewelry—a little pinky ring to act as an anchor for me to hold onto.  But, it was late afternoon that day before an accumulation of drugs and less of Sasifraz’s visits enabled me to feel safe enough to go home.

Of course, the big issue of the day was who the hell those kids were.  Rahne asked but I didn’t know.  I recited their names and ages over and over to myself wondering.  “Mandy, Sarah, Jesse (James?), and Stephen.  Three, five, seven, and nine.”  I had never heard of them before, and I didn’t know how they were related to me.  Though, somehow I knew that they were very important.  It seemed like a trivial Sasifrazian boast, but I knew I would have to follow the story to the end.

I met the Gentle Wind at home that evening and went to bed early to sleep the deep sleep of the drugged and exhausted.

* * * * * * *

It was a month later when Sasifraz made the startling announcement that he was willing to consider changing his job.  Despite the fact that I already considered myself to have been on an adventure, things changed so that it felt like the adventure really began in earnest.

(HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?  How the hell should I know?  MORE TO COME.  THERE’S ALWAYS MORE TO COME.)

Part 2, Entry II.1 (1989)

It had been a long struggle for the adult me.  Full of details of gruesome murders silently hidden from the world and an indomitable effort to stay alive while facing the details.

In the intervening months, I had come out of the painful cycle long enough to realize that I had to break up with Leslie.  With that realization came the next near fatal blow to my self-esteem—Leslie was not willing to share the Gentle Wind as we’d agreed so long ago.

The murdering brutality of my father moved into the background as I passionately fought to care for myself through yet another life threatening crisis.  With that effort, I learned volumes more about myself and my ability to survive.

* * * * * * *

Every so often, in my battle with Sasifraz and The Truth, I would come up for air and notice my life.  To my dismay, I discovered my life with Leslie was unsettling and unsatisfying.  Each time I came up and looked, I felt panic and dove back in the Sasifrazian arena.

It was the month before Adrian’s second birthday when I came up for air again and acknowledged that I had to take action.  I had run out of mental maneuvering room.  I had no more ledges on which to perch unspent feelings.  I had to do something. I broke up with Leslie without fanfare, without probation, and without regret.

There was only one bond between Leslie and I.  It was Adrian.  It took Leslie only minutes in the scheme of things to realize that the tie to my heart was Adrian.  So, being in a vengeful mood, Leslie yanked it without fanfare, without probation, and without regret.

It was something about the combination of events—the timing in my existence—which caused me to stumble and then rise up within myself with more power, more strength, and more will then I’d ever thought I could muster over the last two years. 

Leslie missed her cue.  I did cut myself once under the stress of being threatened.  But, by the time Leslie laughed about leaving razor blades around the house for me to kill myself, I had had it with killing myself for what other people had done to me or were doing to me.

It marked the most significant event of the 18 years of my relationship with Sasifraz. On March 7, 1989, Sasifraz said that he was willing to consider not hurting me. 

I felt myself grow faint.  I had thought that Sasifraz was as untouchable and unreasonable as my father.  His willingness to begin to negotiate signaled a new beginning for my life and a coming out on the other side….

This memoir does not purport to be the truth in any factual way. It is only my experience and perceptions of what occurred.  In that way, it may not have any factual basis in any other person’s reality, and I do not claim it to do so.

Pictures

Jerry and I, 1972:

Jeri, a volunteer, myself, and Kathy, a patient friend, 1972:

Me at my father’s apartment when I let the girls convince me to let them put make-up on me one time only, 1972:

Me at the ocean (my father and Fern not pictured), 1972:

Karen, 1973:

Kantor and a student, 1972.

Kantor and I, 2018.

Entry 61 (1988)

The Pain rolled out like sheets of anger.  The adult me found it difficult to move forward or to move back.  I sat frozen on my bed waiting for something to tell me what the next move was.  I could not cut my arm.  I could not not cut my arm.  So, I sat waiting.  Puzzling out the solution to the problem.

Somewhere deep inside, a voice wanted me to call Rahne or BJ or whoever it was that could tell me what to do next.

* * * * * * *

(I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE.  You don’t have to.  I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE.   You don’t have to.  I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE.  Ok, so don’t.  I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE.  I CAN’T WRITE ANY MORE.  IT HURTS TOO MUCH.)

* * * * * * *

One minute, I was listening to that voice inside trying to decide who to call.  The next minute, it was Sasifraz relentlessly badgering me to do myself in or at the very least bleed a little.  Finally, as there seemed to be no end in sight, I made a call to BJ and left a message.  Then, I called Rahne.

“Hi, Rahne.”

“Hi, Joceile.”

“Have you got a minute?” I asked thickly, feeling my tongue roll around the words.

“Yes.”

“Rahne, I have the disease again.”

“Yeah, what’s going on?”

And, it began.  A discussion that varied only a small percentage for me on a theme that never seemed to leave my life.  It was either, “I’m angry;” “I’m upset;” “I want to cut myself:” “I want to kill myself;” or the ever popular language of implication:  “Sasifraz is being very noisy.”

(Now, I know I’m supposed to love myself, but I get very tired of this.)

To which Rahne replied patiently, “What’s going on Joceile?”

Sometimes, I was able to come out with it pretty quickly.  Sometimes, I stormed around in this direction or that before I got to what was really bothering me.

Inevitably, Rahne was tolerant.  Most often, she was caring and loving.  But, it was still so hard for me to ask for help and still so hard for me to not hate myself when I did.  Although, the act of asking in itself was caring.

I sighed a thousand times.  But, it got only a little bit easier, because I trusted Rahne.  And, it got harder, because the memories were so bad.

* * * * * * *

(THE WOMAN.  HOW THE FUCK DID I REMEMBER THAT?  I’VE FORGOTTEN RIGHT NOW.  I’m sure it will come back to you.  EVERYTHING SEEMS TO.)

* * * * * * *

It was long about this time when I realized I was suicidal.  I had been having a conversation with Rahne about arm cutting, and I used the word suicidal.  Rahne commented on it.  All of a sudden, I realized with clarity that I was indeed SUICIDAL.  (A blinding flash of the obvious.)

Years before, I had stopped using the word and put it out of my mind.  I “just” cut I arm.  I wasn’t really going to kill myself.  Therefore, I must not be suicidal.  Now, incredibly and a bit sheepishly, I realized that wanting to die was what arm cutting was all about.

Rahne and I had a good laugh over that one.  That I could cut myself on and off for ten years and forget that the real issue was living or dying.  I realized that denying being suicidal was a way that I had protected other people and encouraged them to not be concerned about my arm cutting.

The realization was a turning point for me, but now I had to deal with the real issue.  Did I want to live or die?  And, if living was the choice, how the hell was I going to do it?

END OF PART 1

(Thank you for reading.  Part 2 follows.  Pictures on next page.)

Entry 60 (1972)

“The Lonely Man.”  In the pre-dawn years of what the younger me felt was another lifetime, Sasifraz, during kinder moments, had told me a story.

In Western, I wrote down the story and shared it with the staff.  An intensely honest person, I simply could not say that I wrote it. I had to attribute it to the man in my head.  (This could have been a clue for the staff.)

In a move characteristic of the staff, Carolyn coolly informed me that there was no man in my head and that, if it came from my mind, I wrote it. I tried to explain but finally shrugged my shoulders--resigned to Caroline’s intolerant resistance to other possibilities.

Never once did the staff follow up the story with a question. Although, I, or Sasifraz for that matter, could hardly have made the meaning more plain. I guess they attributed it to their belief that I was “just playing games.” Even though, that attitude gave me nearly no room to communicate at all. “Say it right or don’t say it,” seemed to be their motto. I didn’t say “it” any more.

* * * * * * *

The Lonely Man

A tall, gauntly man walked along the sidewalk with his head down.  He walked slowly and wore a long black overcoat. He walked into a hotel on the corner and brought his head up to look around. The man went over to the manager and asked if he could rent a room for week. The manager said yes, and the man paid cash.

The manager led him up the stairs to the man’s room. When the manager was about to leave, the man said, “Now, don’t let anyone bother me.  Make sure you leave me alone.” The manager said fine and left.

That night at about five o’clock, the man called for dinner. The manager brought dinner up and knocked on the door. The man took his dinner and then screamed at the manager, “Don’t bother me. Leave me alone. Make sure no one disturbs me.” Then, the man slammed the door and screamed, “Leave me alone.”  The manager shrugged and went down the stairs.  

The next morning the man called for breakfast and the manager brought up his breakfast.  The man took his breakfast and then screamed at the manager, “Do not forget to leave me alone.  I don’t want you or anyone bothering me.”  Then, he slammed the door, and the manager left.

The same thing happened for lunch and dinner that day.  By the end of the day, the manager was confused but not really mad.  This went on for the next four days.

On the fifth day, the man again called for breakfast and screamed, “Leave me alone, I tell you.”  Then, he slammed the door, and the manager dejectedly left.  This happened for lunch and again for dinner, and then the manager was mad.

On the sixth morning, the man did not call for breakfast, and the manager wondered about him.  He didn’t call for lunch either, and the manager thought maybe he should check on the man.  However, he got busy, and by dinner he forgot and figured that the man was probably all right.

The seventh day came, and the man still hadn’t called for any food.  The manager was concerned, but he forgot about the man during the course of the morning.  At lunch, he called the police.  They arrived, and the manager led them to the man’s room.  They found him dead.  He had committed suicide.

On the table, a note was found.  It read:

Dear Manager,

I begged you to come and talk to me.  But, you would not listen.  You left me alone.  Why didn’t you come to see me?  You and all mankind will die alone in your own little worlds.

The Man

Entry 59 (1988)

My mother called before I got home from work.  She left a message that Leslie dutifully passed on.

“She said she wants you to call her tonight.  She wants to talk to you about her lawyer problem…She also made a request that I said I’d pass on, but I didn’t think it’d go over too good.  She wants to know if she can take me and Adrian to see ‘Jimmy.’”

Jimmy was Jeanette’s name for my father.  It was the cutesy version of his middle name that his mother had always called him.  Although, everyone in Jimmy’s current life called him “Fro”—the shortened version of his first name.  It always made me a little sick that my mother pretended that Jimmy was still around.  For me, he left long ago or maybe never existed.

Leslie added, “I said I’d pass it on.  I knew you wouldn’t go for it.  I didn’t think he was someone we’d want Adrian to meet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I told her you’d be home tonight.”

“Well, she can go fuck herself.  I’m not calling.  It’s my night off.”  I thought a moment.  “Well, how ‘bout you.  Leslie, would you want to see ‘Jimmy?’”  I added a sarcastic twist when I said “Jimmy.”

“Hell, no.  I don’t want to ever see that man again.”

That satisfied me, but it wasn’t long before the phone rang.  I yelled out, “If that’s my mother, I’m not here.  I have a date all night!”

Leslie let the answering machine take the call.  I heard that indeed it was my mother and a tremendous wave of anger rolled over me.  It was the anger that gets kindled in a moment and was attached to what felt like centuries to me.

I started with the easy anger first.  How many times had I listened to whatever my mother’s current crisis was, and Jeanette never, or nearly never asked me how I was doing.  If she did ask, I figured Jeanette listened to, oh, maybe three sentences tops…on a good day.  It made me so angry to think my mother just expected me to be there to forever pour energy and support down a hole that never ended.  So easily, I was reminded of my childhood, my early adulthood, and my now.

I gingerly approached the anger about taking Adrian to see my father aware that the anger could easily spill into an overwhelming terror of my father in general.  It wasn’t like I hadn’t confronted my mother about my father raping me.  Jeanette’s response had been two-fold.  “I don’t think he did, but if he did I’ll never forgive him.”  Followed by a phone call on my answering machine weeks later threatening me if I proceeded to tell anyone else.

If I was willing to overlook my mother wanting to take my daughter to see a rapist, I could never overlook anyone wanting to take my daughter to see a killer.  Although I had not confronted my mother on that issue, I knew my mother would surely deny it.  In fact, my mother may not actually have it in her conscious memory.  Though, I felt certain that somewhere my mother knew it, and she wanted to take Adrian to see a killer.  She who allowed a killer to live with me, and she who was in such denial that she would risk my daughter by introducing her to him.

That was the unforgivable part to me.  I felt my anger was justified.  I knew that, although the crazy woman who called today probably meant no harm, my little kid part was more than justified at being angry at what the crazy woman had let happen in the past.  I let my adult part feel righteous indignation at the thought of Adrian coming within miles of Frobisher.

* * * * * * *

Though a good part of my life felt lonely, now in particular, I felt I was facing some of my loneliest times ever.

Staying up late at night, afraid to go to bed, I seldom had someone to share my thoughts with.  Driving to work and driving home from work, I toyed endlessly with whether or not I was facing a real truth—or something conjured unreliably by a mind that couldn’t be trusted.

There were no answers at this point.  I was aware mostly of having a lot of work to do and face the greatest challenge of my life to date—and stay alive.