17 April 2000 ~ Jo the piledriver, the Wes'side stalker, and my cheap paternal gene donor...

Well, things have been getting progressively worse. I'm dead broke, to the point where I'm seriously considering stripping as a last resort (either that or a paper route, but I'd rather take my clothes off for sweaty gross old perverts than wake up every day at 4AM.) Peter told Jeff he was moving out because of the way I was treating him, although I haven't been notified of this yet. And this morning, I had an argument with my dad. It can't get much worse, honestly. Oh yeah, and my mouth tastes like cheddar-cheese Chex mix, which might sound appetizing, but it isn't.

So yesterday I spent the day in the psych ward of the local hospital...

...as a visitor. My friend Jo is there, being treated for clinical depression, and I dropped by to say hi. I ended up staying for like, four or five hours, though. Jo and I played Skip-bo. I think she cheated. Yes, even drugged up, drawing pictures with the word "DEATH" emblazoned on the bottom like gross things emblazoned on Danzig's album covers, even singing "American Pie" in a half-hearted way and throwing mini-fits about not being allowed to have Pepsi in her room, Jo is one of the strongest, most vital people I know. Even taking up residence in a place that makes you unwrap your sanitary napkins so you don't try to kill yourself with the little pink wrappers (I'd love to know who's sick enough to try THAT!), Jo kicks my ass in the sanity department. I've missed seeing her around. She's such a great person. And such a great friend. It's not many people that I consistantly say that about.

So I spent the day with Jo. And Chad dropped by, and Miriam. Jo's a popular girl, I'll tell ya. And even though I stayed for four or five hours, I was kind of uncomfortable about the whole thing. I remember my mom being in that very ward in that very hospital, and I could only visit once because the visiting hours were really strict, or something to that effect. I remember my mom crying; I remember coloring or writing or something, kind of trying to wish myself away... I remember... I guess I don't really remember, except the greyish dead feeling of that ward... The kind of sick feeling that you're in a place where people are in so much pain that they'd drink battery acid to try to die, immune to the pain because the emotional pain is so much stronger, where people's desire to die is so strong that it triggers an ingenuity that makes sanitary-napkin plastic envelopes look like the way to heaven. And my MOM was there. I guess I was about eleven or twelve. I remember the tables. The weird retarded-looking people wandering around, the sleepy girl in pajamas not caring that she was in pajamas, the way they search your coats and bags and everything, the way they won't let you bring plants or glass soda bottles or plastic bags or any of the other weird objects I typically carry with me... I've become old hand at psych wards through the years; I've been a great visitor and I know the routines. I knew the routines before most kids know how to make spaghettios by themselves.

Darkness. Greyness. I didn't like Jo being there with all of that greyness. I wanted to take her home and let her sleep in my bed with the radio on for a little while. I wanted to take her home and let her watch TV and bring her orange juice and diet Pepsi. I wanted to turn on the rap-station on TV and tell her stories about all the damn freaks at work; that's what Jeff and I do when we're both feeling low and there's no alcohol. It usually works a little bit. Jo didn't belong there. Jo's got the strength of a fucking piledriver. I just wish she could find a medication that works for her and that she could get on with her life. She's got so many more important things to do, things that would be so easy for her to accomplish, except for that stupid depression thing. She is so much better than that. She deserves so much better. I wish diet Pepsi and hugs and sleeping with the radio on could do the trick.

After the whole hospital thing -- I really didn't mind spending time with Jo, it's just that I'd really rather it be under better circumstances -- I went out with Chad. We went to his house. He fell asleep and woke up as I was about to sneak out the door and walk home. Real exciting, enh? Yeah. Well, he drove me home, and as he was about to drop me off, he noticed a car watching us from behind. I thought nothing of it, but Chad was insistant that it was bad news. He drove around the block. Four times. The car followed. It chased us for almost fifteen minutes, I'd guess, before I was finally fed up and got out of the car, making threatening gestures like, "yeah, I fucken DARE you" at the car. As it drove past slowly, I saw three sets of eyes glued angrily on me; not laughing like a bunch of college pranksters, but eying me suspiciously.

I stood on my porch, waiting for them to come back, waiting for confrontation. Nothing. I went inside and called the police. For as pissed off and ready to fight as I was, I was also scared to death. What if they had guns; this was the Wes'side, and people on the Wes'side HAVE guns... The police took a description and said they'd search the neighborhood for anything suspicious. I was not relieved, especially when the police cruiser went down my street four times and failed to see the group of frat boys standing on the sidewalk smoking weed and vomiting in their yard.

I went to sleep after three hours of talking to Jeff about growing up in the outskirts of Binghamton, way past the cowfields, where the biggest entertainment is walking to Green Brothers Apple Hills and buying a carton of berries, a couple of apples, or a bottle of sparkling grape juice. We talked about the freak who used to drive around the block twenty times a day going four miles an hour in his big brown piece of scrap metal. Jeff says he was some kind of warden, some county guy who was checking on the area. I always just thought he liked to drive around the block. We laughed about him for quite some time. Then we turned on the music-stations on TV (DIGITAL!) and laughed about rap for awhile.

I woke up this morning, showered, and was about to throw a shirt on when the phone rang. Topless and cold, I answered. It was my father, calling to tell me he'd claimed me on his income tax forms because he felt he'd been supporting me throughout the year... Stupid fucker. I took a deep breath and said, "I'm sure you don't feel the slightest bit of guilt about telling the world what a fantastic father you've been, financially, to your daughter, who happens to be destitute and could use a few extra dollars on an income tax return, but, by the way, in case you didn't notice, no, you haven't been supporting me. I'd be real glad for a dollar or two, but, hey, no problem, go ahead and make money off of your daughter who has nothing -- GO RIGHT AHEAD! It's about all that matters to you anyway. I assume that answers all your questions, and I am now hanging up so that I can get dressed and catch a bus to go to work in twenty minutes so that I can eat my next meal. Goodbye." I hung up. I hate my father. I really do. If he got hit by a bus right now, I would mourn the fact that someday I'm going to get married and have children, and he's not going to be around to know he wasn't invited to the wedding or the baby shower.

Wow, that sounded horrible. I sometimes have trouble believing the kind of hatred I have for him.

It's April 17th...

An anniversary of sorts...

I guess I'll not get into that right now. I've had a bad enough day. Maybe tomorrow we'll talk about April 17th...

Always,
~Helena*

"...and there's no wind left in my soul..." --Pink Floyd