older(s)
now
I feel:
Tweety's No 1 Fan!
avatar 6/4
32 flavors and then some...
// Welcome to Frewville: Part 1
| 02/13/2005 - 4:51 p.m. |
what's this, you ask? see last entry...
~~~~~~~~~~
Submitted to ACW class: Thu, 2/10/2005
Last revision: 2/12/05
i�m starting tomorrow.
my stomach hurts.
fuuuucccckkkk.
that�s all.
scared and missing you,
m.
Reply at 4:55pm
M.,
I will be thinking about you and cheering you on from the sidelines.
I would be happy to talk with you. Leave me a message and let me know when you are free.
C.
1/22/2004, 7:35am
On Bells Mill Rd, I brake to a hard stop for the red light at Ridge. I flip the butt of my seventh cigarette this morning out the window, and glance at the clock. What in the fuck am I doing up at this godforsaken hour? Across the intersection, the name of this painted slab of tar and concrete changes to Spring Lane. I am running early. Excessively early. For Christ sake, M, for once in your life, could you have just driven the frickin� speed limit? The light turns green. My stomach hurts.Once across the wide and busy Avenue, the comfort of its noise and vitality recedes harshly. I have entered the outer edges of a foreign land. I crawl down the first hill, up its counterpart, left around the curve. Another hill, and there is the first sign. �The Renfrew Center� it blares, featuring a painfully pink rendering of its country-club logo, a drawing of The Gazebo against the background of The Manor House and an unseemly number of abstract puffs that are purported to be trees. My stomach hurts.
A quarter-mile further down the road is a cruder sign with painted lettering, directing �visitors� to make a right turn into the main parking lot. I maneuver my dented little Civic down the narrow drive, the steep hills, and sharp curves. Surely, they could spare a fraction of the advertising budget to build a safer entry for all us poor malnourished souls. Past the third stop sign, the gravelly road opens to a large parking area where only a smattering of vehicles is currently located. Beyond the far side of the lot is a walkway, bordering a collection of trailers to which the more novice of Renfrew�s turn-style stable of therapists are banished--until proving their competence, and/or adding more letters to the end of their name. I park in the spot nearest to the driveway, closest to the means of escape. Bloody hell, my stomach hurts.
It is now 7:38 a.m. on the morning of my pseudo-voluntary surrender. Small waves of nausea accompany the orchestra of jagged knives tearing at my gut in a metallic symphony of my betrayal. I am breaking my holy vows of obstinacy, committing blasphemy against the dogma of hopelessness. Only C., the singular owner of bona fide influence over me, could goad me into partaking in this preposterous exercise. Damn her. Damn you, bitch. I turn up the volume on my CD player, wail the Houdini Blues along with Kristen Hersh:
Oh no, don�t you put me in that boxI dig into my bag for my traveling pill bottle. So many pretty colors, so hard to choose just one. Or three. I manage to light another Marlboro with my trembling hands, and take a deep drag of glorious carcinogens while pondering my options. Lasix is a definite no; I�m already dehydrated and I don�t even like that shit besides. A Stacker is a given. The real question is: to Phen or not to Phen? I already anticipate the irksome reality that I will soon have to engage in self-imposed abstinence for the sake of this tedious game...I add a blue pill to the yellow in my palm; find two legitimately prescribed maroon capsules, and three ibuprofens for good measure. With a big gulp of diet orange soda, I down the handful with one swallow, and shove the bottle into my glove compartment.
You know what you can do with those locks
Bet your life I�ll come crawling out again
You�ll have to deal with me then
You�ll hear me in the wind...
I take two more puffs on the cigarette in my left hand before using it to light another. My right hand rummages through my backpack for any other contraband. Gum, a couple sugar-free candies�and a pack of razor blades I had forgotten were even in there. The clock now reads 7:52. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is happening. I swallow down the bile rising to my throat, and for the thirty-seventh time in as many minutes, I consider turning my car around and getting the fuck out of dodge. I�ll head west, keep driving until I�m safe--back to California should be far enough. But that bitch�s spell is inescapable, incessantly and greedily feeds on that rarest of phenomenon--my need, and after all this time and all the bullshit, an infuriatingly desperate one still--for another�s approval. My stomach hurts like a mofo.
I push open the door before rolling the window up and turning off my car. I plant two feet on the ground and will my rubber legs to hold me up. I pull the L.L. Bean Original over both shoulders, slam the car door, press the lock button on my keyless-entry, and listen for the confirmatory beep. I place my Tweety lanyard and keys in the front compartment, get another cancer stick, return pack and lighter to zipper pocket, and look at myself in the car window. Hair�short, green, gleefully and unevenly chopped by me. A black turtleneck peeks out from the very baggy and effectively shapeless kids-size-14 overalls. I wear a leather jacket, no make-up, and my best don�t-fuck-with-me face. The ever-present Birks complete the vision of apathy.
With a deep and shuddery breath, I turn around and begin the trek towards my plank of death and doom, the 8:00am appointment that begins my Day of Admission and Day-Patient Orientation. Beyond the trailers, I continue on the walkway past The Residence, through The Gazebo, and arrive at The Manor House. I stand in front of the No Smoking Area sign, trying without success to peek inside through the window blinds as I suck down my cigarette like an asthmatic with an inhaler.
At 8:01am, I drop the butt on the ground, step up to the double-door, and turn the knob slowly. With a pasted on smile, the obscenely cheerful receptionist tells me to have a seat. �Amy will be right with you, hon.� My stomach hurts.