The security of the Tenderloin has changed from the subtle reminder of the dangers of depression and a bottle to a world of temptation for a girl looking for an escape. Even as I stood today facing the peckerwood with the blade screaming his racist rant while his “old lady” reminded him we shared color in common, I found myself too numb to muster a sense of fear. It almost scared me how much I wanted to feel his blade. Desperate for emotions that don’t come easy, I spent my day faking a smile to every face I thought looked kindred in a crowd. I began to think about the last time I had longed to feel and absentmindedly began to touch the scars on my leg.
Fiending to cut is much like craving booze or drugs. I would desperately yearn for the euphoric feeling as I dragged a razor blade across my thigh. For many years, it was the only way I could cry. The first time I cut, I was only 12. Oddly, I remember the day I did it as if it happened yesterday. On a day that began as “normal,” I was alone in my room surrounded by my childhood friends of Barbie’s and stuffed animals. A latchkey kid since I was 5, my afternoons were typically filled with conversations with my fuzzy friends about my day. I couldn’t tell time yet nor did I know my home phone number, but I knew to put the key in the door and to find my after-school snack of oranges and peanut butter sandwiches in the refrigerator.
I had formed a semi-circle of blonde bodacious beauties as well as lobsters, bears, and dinosaurs around myself. There really weren’t any favorites, but only the big brown bear slept in my bed with me at night. I still have no clue what compelled me to leave my room and walk the narrow hallway back to the kitchen. I have no idea why I walked directly over the beige patterned linoleum floor to the silverware drawer. Instinctively I grabbed the metal butter knife and returned to my room as if I had done this before. After returning to my room I closed my door and sat on the carpet directly in the middle of the semicircle of my toys. I ran my finger up and down the blade pressing harder with each turn. Eventually my skin grew rough and began to peel revealing some of its layers. Next I ran the knife against my wrists. It wasn’t suicide I was after. I am not even sure I knew what suicide was. I just wanted to rub the knife against my wrists until I would see blood. My only witnesses from that day long gone after years of living in boxes turned their fur musty.
I remember finding it strange that the knife didn’t hurt. I also remember finding it curious I couldn’t cut into my wrists. That first time there was no blood. I couldn’t seem to drag the knife in deep enough, being too naïve to understand the dullness of the blade was conspiring against me. I continued this ritual for years trying different knives and different parts of my body. I slowly began to comprehend that my sick secret could only be kept if I opted for less obvious places. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the conspicuousness that led to my propensity for my thighs. My sensitiveness of my thighs finally allowed for me to feel the pain and the sight of the red seemed to bring relief.
And this was my ritual for more years than I care to confess. Nestled deep in my clothing drawer was my kit. I graduated from knives to razors. Disposable were my favorites as I took them apart and was left with 3 thin sheaths. Sometimes I couldn’t wait to get home from school just so I could reopen the wound I had just created the day before. It was years later before the wounds allowed me to cry. Finally I had the relief I was after marked by the color red and the salt of my tears.
And here I am years’ later yearning for this dope-fiend to participate in my ritual I had left behind long ago. As I felt the spray of his words of anger and could smell his own desperation, I recognized it was me who would be his co-conspirator in his crime. And the relief that I was after was not in the tip of his weapon, but rather in the knowledge that soon I would be walking away from all of this. Today I will mark my countdown to feel. My security no longer held in the hands of strangers or in the blocks of cement nor the graffiti on the walls in this land of the forgotten and suffering. I am still the latchkey kid opening my door to the semi-circle of fur. Now I have the cross-eyed beauty and her large loud friend greeting me as I make my meal. And there is comfort here nestled in my lap as the sound of a purr brings calm to the day.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Pacing
I can’t remember the last time I have felt this lost. Pacing for days, crawling out of my skin and no comfort to be found. Redefining myself with no luxury of time, overwhelmed at the thought that all that I have built was so quickly stripped away with a signature on the dotted line. Committed to compassion in a cold industry no different than any other bureaucracy. The thought of saying goodbye to my oldest friend is breaking me. Without the genuineness of the stripped down existence I have come to know as a second home. I no longer know where I belong. And truth is I am scared.
I am the child who disappeared before I was grown and the girl on the skateboard just to out roll the boys. I was the teen who died handcuffed to a door and the woman who sat besides men with no souls. Perhaps not having anything before made it easier to ignore the fear.
Too tired to really write, I feel unable to even catch the thoughts that race through my mind like particles of dust being swept up by the wave of a hot breeze. My anger displayed in alone moments in my car as I curse those around me. Even the exhaustion from the day that began at dawn has not lulled me to sleep. For a moment today as the rain fell upon my head as I stood in the silence of the trees and the hills, I could breath deeply as the flitters through the trees harmonized with nature’s songs. My world colored in grays and greens since Friday brightened by the sight of the yellow of an enormous slug. I think about the red of the Viking, which has always brought calm and I long for just a moment in his arms. And now that night has fallen, I feel the urge to crawl on my floor like the accused awaiting trial familiar with the routines behind the gate. I recognize the panic like waves lapping at the shore, as the clouds above turn dark. And I repeat to myself, “I am strong, I am strong.”
I am the child who disappeared before I was grown and the girl on the skateboard just to out roll the boys. I was the teen who died handcuffed to a door and the woman who sat besides men with no souls. Perhaps not having anything before made it easier to ignore the fear.
Too tired to really write, I feel unable to even catch the thoughts that race through my mind like particles of dust being swept up by the wave of a hot breeze. My anger displayed in alone moments in my car as I curse those around me. Even the exhaustion from the day that began at dawn has not lulled me to sleep. For a moment today as the rain fell upon my head as I stood in the silence of the trees and the hills, I could breath deeply as the flitters through the trees harmonized with nature’s songs. My world colored in grays and greens since Friday brightened by the sight of the yellow of an enormous slug. I think about the red of the Viking, which has always brought calm and I long for just a moment in his arms. And now that night has fallen, I feel the urge to crawl on my floor like the accused awaiting trial familiar with the routines behind the gate. I recognize the panic like waves lapping at the shore, as the clouds above turn dark. And I repeat to myself, “I am strong, I am strong.”
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Firefly
I found myself wandering from room to room to room looking for any trace of him having been there. I knew it was silly of me to want to hold on to some forgotten item, but it was the closest thing I could have to holding him near. I almost giggled at my reaction to his toothbrush no longer glistening from use. For some reason, the house seemed emptier, quieter than before. And I kept wandering, finally plopping down at the kitchen counter staring into my kitchen. It seemed like hours passed before I took a breath. I couldn’t sit still, my brain firing thoughts so rapidly and me crawling out of my skin. And it was late. I began to write and erase and write and erase until my body hurt from sitting as each muscle beckoned me to simply go to sleep.
I wanted to find his sent on my pillow as I crawled onto my bed, while allowing myself to feel the sadness. The night air was warm as my exhaustion betrayed me with no ability to sleep. And even the rumble of the cross-eyed beauty’s purr provided no comfort. I was confused by the sorrow as the lump grew in my throat. And I longed to feel him tender and warm even while recognizing I was fooling myself.
Ultimately he was just a stranger to me with his impenetrable walls contradicting his inviting arms. Perhaps it was that. Maybe we were no different than two fireflies in the night, sending out signals no one else understood. I am not even sure we understood as we found ourselves attracted to one anothers’ light. And we did glow, even if it were for just a little while. And like the little flies shimmering in the night, I soon found myself alone glimmering with the possibility that he and I could radiate as an us. But now here I am wandering from room to room to room looking for his light that no longer shines.
I wanted to find his sent on my pillow as I crawled onto my bed, while allowing myself to feel the sadness. The night air was warm as my exhaustion betrayed me with no ability to sleep. And even the rumble of the cross-eyed beauty’s purr provided no comfort. I was confused by the sorrow as the lump grew in my throat. And I longed to feel him tender and warm even while recognizing I was fooling myself.
Ultimately he was just a stranger to me with his impenetrable walls contradicting his inviting arms. Perhaps it was that. Maybe we were no different than two fireflies in the night, sending out signals no one else understood. I am not even sure we understood as we found ourselves attracted to one anothers’ light. And we did glow, even if it were for just a little while. And like the little flies shimmering in the night, I soon found myself alone glimmering with the possibility that he and I could radiate as an us. But now here I am wandering from room to room to room looking for his light that no longer shines.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Ah Nicotine...
It's the crack of dawn as the caffeine slowly makes it way through my veins. Nicotine cravings remind me of the years I spent cigarette in one hand coffee in the other. I think about how often I used to deny being a smoker even while I was taking a drag. The smell would still be lingering on my fingers and my hair. I was convinced there was no evidence; no smell on my clothes or in my hair. But yet, I can always detect that distinctive smell on everyone else. Funny how invisible I felt I was.
I remember years ago, the way I used to walk down Market Street, almost as if I was tiptoeing past the bodies wrapped in blankets and boxes. The air would be still as the city began to wake and no one would notice the curly-girl with the coffee and the smoke. I would walk past the shop owners who would be slowly opening up their metal gates and begin the process of hosing down the evidence that too many people have no where to live. And I truly felt I belonged as I made my way to Boedecker Park before they built the fences. Just like every nowhere man the suits would step over and never even notice, they'd look right through me as we crossed paths. I nod hello to the girls done with working for the night. I wonder if I look as tired as they do and whether the bruises on their legs will ever go away.
I contemplate the comfort of my bed but I'm now on the clock handing out these sticky smelly rubber sheaths that will never be used by the men grabbing them. They linger and speak to me grabbing handfuls of Trojans, Durex and Kimonos. And even though they all know I am here every week, they grab more and more. I ignore the comments they make as they size-me-up from head to toe. I smile at the compliments as the hungry and the toothless offer to take care of me. I am only 22 years old and I don't try to pretend I understand the life anyone here has lived. There's the guy with one-dread who enters the park shuffling his feet and mumbling. I never say hello or he'll yell at me all morning. I never understand who he thinks I am. Then there's the super-tall guy, last week he was a famous lawyer, this week he is a surgeon. He stops by my table to tell me about the patient waiting for him at the unnamed hospital he works at while his 5th of gin peaks out from his pants pocket. Then there are the girls. They stop by to tell me where they will go to get their surgery once they have the money saved. I compliment their dresses and hair and ignore their 5 o'clock shadows and hormone-induced breasts. Of course, what they really want is a cigarette and truthfully there's a brand new pack in my pocket I hope no one notices. I am convinced no one does, even as I reach for one and light it.
I remember years ago, the way I used to walk down Market Street, almost as if I was tiptoeing past the bodies wrapped in blankets and boxes. The air would be still as the city began to wake and no one would notice the curly-girl with the coffee and the smoke. I would walk past the shop owners who would be slowly opening up their metal gates and begin the process of hosing down the evidence that too many people have no where to live. And I truly felt I belonged as I made my way to Boedecker Park before they built the fences. Just like every nowhere man the suits would step over and never even notice, they'd look right through me as we crossed paths. I nod hello to the girls done with working for the night. I wonder if I look as tired as they do and whether the bruises on their legs will ever go away.
I contemplate the comfort of my bed but I'm now on the clock handing out these sticky smelly rubber sheaths that will never be used by the men grabbing them. They linger and speak to me grabbing handfuls of Trojans, Durex and Kimonos. And even though they all know I am here every week, they grab more and more. I ignore the comments they make as they size-me-up from head to toe. I smile at the compliments as the hungry and the toothless offer to take care of me. I am only 22 years old and I don't try to pretend I understand the life anyone here has lived. There's the guy with one-dread who enters the park shuffling his feet and mumbling. I never say hello or he'll yell at me all morning. I never understand who he thinks I am. Then there's the super-tall guy, last week he was a famous lawyer, this week he is a surgeon. He stops by my table to tell me about the patient waiting for him at the unnamed hospital he works at while his 5th of gin peaks out from his pants pocket. Then there are the girls. They stop by to tell me where they will go to get their surgery once they have the money saved. I compliment their dresses and hair and ignore their 5 o'clock shadows and hormone-induced breasts. Of course, what they really want is a cigarette and truthfully there's a brand new pack in my pocket I hope no one notices. I am convinced no one does, even as I reach for one and light it.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A View from the 'Loin
I am sure it was the narcotic stupor that brought on the flood of memories of a time that was much like Boston in the dead of winter. It’s funny to think of the Tenderloin as this dark place when really it’s quite plain with indistinct buildings and sporadic gated parks that are stripped of all character. And many of the residents are even less evident due to their nocturnal nature. During the day, the Tenderloin is much like a bog in both its smell and stillness. And as the darkness of night creeps through its streets, the tenor changes. Like a sleeping animal, the neighborhood begins to stir. And yet, it’s still not quite dark. Perhaps the word I am looking for is shady.
It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.
Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?
I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?
How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.
I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.
I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.
It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.
Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?
I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?
How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.
I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.
I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Blue-Eyed Boy
And I remember the days walking through the Tenderloin looking at the scattered bodies on the street
The calls from a friend having seen him nodded out and my dog vigilantly standing guard
And each time I swore it would be the last
I always knew where to look, even if it were only to confirm he was still alive
It seemed like forever ago we sat in our sunny kitchen making art and laughing
And I cried too, sometimes for me
Hopeful to wake from the nightmare and to discover he was no longer a zombie
Instead he was a slave to the needles I would sometimes find hidden in the bathroom or tucked neatly away in wooden boxes from places we had once visited when he was alive with promise
What happened to the blue-eyed boy who cried in the store overwhelmed in the aisles?
The skeleton, who once could hold me with his strong arms brightly colored by mementos that held meaning
What happened to the man who brought me flowers in threes and sketched drawings of our future with kittens and trees?
I remember the day I slipped the keys in the door, only to be greeted by our pup, red stains upon her paws and the trail leading from the kitchen
There he was, lying still in a pool
And as I stood over his body so blue, I held my breath feeling shame over wishing it was over
I waited to make the call, knowing the presence of others would remind me this was really happening
Thoughtlessly I removed the tie from his arm and collected the balloon and the spoon
And I watched as they took him away leaving me the stains on the kitchen floor
The calls from a friend having seen him nodded out and my dog vigilantly standing guard
And each time I swore it would be the last
I always knew where to look, even if it were only to confirm he was still alive
It seemed like forever ago we sat in our sunny kitchen making art and laughing
And I cried too, sometimes for me
Hopeful to wake from the nightmare and to discover he was no longer a zombie
Instead he was a slave to the needles I would sometimes find hidden in the bathroom or tucked neatly away in wooden boxes from places we had once visited when he was alive with promise
What happened to the blue-eyed boy who cried in the store overwhelmed in the aisles?
The skeleton, who once could hold me with his strong arms brightly colored by mementos that held meaning
What happened to the man who brought me flowers in threes and sketched drawings of our future with kittens and trees?
I remember the day I slipped the keys in the door, only to be greeted by our pup, red stains upon her paws and the trail leading from the kitchen
There he was, lying still in a pool
And as I stood over his body so blue, I held my breath feeling shame over wishing it was over
I waited to make the call, knowing the presence of others would remind me this was really happening
Thoughtlessly I removed the tie from his arm and collected the balloon and the spoon
And I watched as they took him away leaving me the stains on the kitchen floor
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Good Day for IT?
I suppose I could declare yesterday a good day for IT. After injuring my back last month I now dedicate a few breaks a day to laying on an ice pack on my office floor. My routine includes closing my door, grabbing my Ipod and propping my legs up in a 90 degree angle on a chair. I perform this ritual thoughtlessly while tapping my feet to the beat of my music. And while my staff isn't privy to my closed-door activity, I found myself "exposed" far beyond my usual inappropriate disclosures when my IT person strolled right into my office.
Now i really don't mind people walking in and I am usually clad in a favorite pair of jeans, but yesterday was anything but typical. Dressed for the heat in a floral skirt, I was relieved I had at least chosen to wear underwear when the computer tech strolled in only to catch me on the floor with my skirt poured down on my stomach. I probably could blame the painkillers for my lack of attention in locking my door and my slow response time in covering myself. I am not quite sure what was more appalling; the sight of me exposed on the floor or the little bit of drool that tends to accumulate in the corner of my mouth while i am in my narcotic-induced stupor.
I am not quite sure who was redder yesterday given both our overuse of the word "sorry". But I am quite sure that today we are both feeling quite akward toward one another despite my return to denim.
Now i really don't mind people walking in and I am usually clad in a favorite pair of jeans, but yesterday was anything but typical. Dressed for the heat in a floral skirt, I was relieved I had at least chosen to wear underwear when the computer tech strolled in only to catch me on the floor with my skirt poured down on my stomach. I probably could blame the painkillers for my lack of attention in locking my door and my slow response time in covering myself. I am not quite sure what was more appalling; the sight of me exposed on the floor or the little bit of drool that tends to accumulate in the corner of my mouth while i am in my narcotic-induced stupor.
I am not quite sure who was redder yesterday given both our overuse of the word "sorry". But I am quite sure that today we are both feeling quite akward toward one another despite my return to denim.
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