thinking of the little girl inside me that wanted
affection that was always denied.
I was a sensitive child, and all my
life growing up, I was taught to believe being this way was a sin, and that it
was wrong of me to have feelings that were easily hurt. My loneliness over the
years was obvious and tangible; I'm surprised I couldn't cut it with a knife.
If I had never created Friend, there would be a huge void in my life.
I could feel more tears building up
behind my eyes. A very clear emotion ran through my body, ravaging it and
rendering my heart even more useless than it was before.
First, I was annoyed at myself. All
I seemed to do lately was cry, cry, and cry. I was forever whining about my
hurt feelings and always running away to take shelter from the cruel, cruel
world.
Secondly, at the same time, I was
tired. I was tired emotionally, spiritually, and now, thanks to my blood-loss
episode, even physically. I realized then that my wanting to die came not from
the misery brought on by others, but by the ennui I inevitably experienced from
enduring the same misery for years. I'd try feebly to stand up on my own and be
happy. Someone would take me down a notch with words or actions. I'd retreat
and cry, and then the whole cycle would start again.
I was tired of this song of mine,
so sick of hearing these lyrics, and yet I did not have the strength to move
beyond it. I yanked my hair angrily, hoping for a brief distraction in pain.
Suddenly, a deafening alarm went
off, making me jump. In fact, if it weren't for those bed rails, I would have
fallen on the floor. After a second, I realized it wasn't an alarm, but the
in-room telephone that sat on the little table to my right.
I was getting a call? Are
telemarketers doing their thing in hospitals now?
Remembering to take a deep breath
to slow my speeding heartbeats, I reached over, grunting as I did so. I needed
to get up and practice using my legs—or any of my muscles, for that matter.
"H-hello?" I asked the
phone. I groaned inwardly when it responded.
"Morgan. WHAT or should
I say WHO has gotten to you now?!"
Mommie Dearest.
"Mom? How did you–?"
" You put down your
father and me as emergency contacts with your apartment building manager, I'm
afraid. So yes, we know how you overdosed on drugs and cut yourself open while
high, or tripping, or whatever you kids call it. BUT , I know your
gentleman caller is nowhere to be seen. You're a goodtime girl, but no one
wants to be anywhere near you when things get serious, because you've already
spread your legs!"
"No, Mom, you don't
understand. That's not even close to the truth! I was–"
"Were you or were you not
naked when the ambulance came?"
I released a breath I didn't know I
was holding. God, that really did look bad, didn't it? "No, well, yes, but
I was naked because I was going to take a shower but…" I didn't know how
to finish that explanation. I was on my way to taking a shower and she called me, telling me about the picture or, should I say, accusing me of
prostitution.
I had so much bottled up inside of
me, so many comments about her hurtful words and emotionless demeanor that I
had accumulated over the years. More than anything I wished to express
everything to her, but I couldn't find the corkscrew to release it all and tell
her what I thought. I lacked the guts to do it, to tell her what I think and
how I feel about her. My current job consisted of cutting yards of cloth,
ribbon and string. My past jobs consisted of ringing up cheeseburgers and
putting clothes back on hangers. It had never even occurred to me to ever sell
myself or dance exotically.
But how could I begin to explain
myself to someone who already decided I was guilty?
She interpreted my sudden silence
as guilt. "Well, Morgan, I don't know how to deal with you anymore. You're
an embarrassment. But I'm an optimist, you see. I hope one day you'll come to
your senses. Do you want me to send you clothes to wear home?"
"Thanks, but I
affection that was always denied.
I was a sensitive child, and all my
life growing up, I was taught to believe being this way was a sin, and that it
was wrong of me to have feelings that were easily hurt. My loneliness over the
years was obvious and tangible; I'm surprised I couldn't cut it with a knife.
If I had never created Friend, there would be a huge void in my life.
I could feel more tears building up
behind my eyes. A very clear emotion ran through my body, ravaging it and
rendering my heart even more useless than it was before.
First, I was annoyed at myself. All
I seemed to do lately was cry, cry, and cry. I was forever whining about my
hurt feelings and always running away to take shelter from the cruel, cruel
world.
Secondly, at the same time, I was
tired. I was tired emotionally, spiritually, and now, thanks to my blood-loss
episode, even physically. I realized then that my wanting to die came not from
the misery brought on by others, but by the ennui I inevitably experienced from
enduring the same misery for years. I'd try feebly to stand up on my own and be
happy. Someone would take me down a notch with words or actions. I'd retreat
and cry, and then the whole cycle would start again.
I was tired of this song of mine,
so sick of hearing these lyrics, and yet I did not have the strength to move
beyond it. I yanked my hair angrily, hoping for a brief distraction in pain.
Suddenly, a deafening alarm went
off, making me jump. In fact, if it weren't for those bed rails, I would have
fallen on the floor. After a second, I realized it wasn't an alarm, but the
in-room telephone that sat on the little table to my right.
I was getting a call? Are
telemarketers doing their thing in hospitals now?
Remembering to take a deep breath
to slow my speeding heartbeats, I reached over, grunting as I did so. I needed
to get up and practice using my legs—or any of my muscles, for that matter.
"H-hello?" I asked the
phone. I groaned inwardly when it responded.
"Morgan. WHAT or should
I say WHO has gotten to you now?!"
Mommie Dearest.
"Mom? How did you–?"
" You put down your
father and me as emergency contacts with your apartment building manager, I'm
afraid. So yes, we know how you overdosed on drugs and cut yourself open while
high, or tripping, or whatever you kids call it. BUT , I know your
gentleman caller is nowhere to be seen. You're a goodtime girl, but no one
wants to be anywhere near you when things get serious, because you've already
spread your legs!"
"No, Mom, you don't
understand. That's not even close to the truth! I was–"
"Were you or were you not
naked when the ambulance came?"
I released a breath I didn't know I
was holding. God, that really did look bad, didn't it? "No, well, yes, but
I was naked because I was going to take a shower but…" I didn't know how
to finish that explanation. I was on my way to taking a shower and she called me, telling me about the picture or, should I say, accusing me of
prostitution.
I had so much bottled up inside of
me, so many comments about her hurtful words and emotionless demeanor that I
had accumulated over the years. More than anything I wished to express
everything to her, but I couldn't find the corkscrew to release it all and tell
her what I thought. I lacked the guts to do it, to tell her what I think and
how I feel about her. My current job consisted of cutting yards of cloth,
ribbon and string. My past jobs consisted of ringing up cheeseburgers and
putting clothes back on hangers. It had never even occurred to me to ever sell
myself or dance exotically.
But how could I begin to explain
myself to someone who already decided I was guilty?
She interpreted my sudden silence
as guilt. "Well, Morgan, I don't know how to deal with you anymore. You're
an embarrassment. But I'm an optimist, you see. I hope one day you'll come to
your senses. Do you want me to send you clothes to wear home?"
"Thanks, but I
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