Broken People (20 page)

Chapter 22

The ride

FAT KID.
I have lived the majority of my adult life not necessarily respecting figures of authority. As a young adult, I respected authority, but now, I did not. I always tried to treat people in a position of authority with respect, but that didn’t mean they deserved it or had earned it. It’s just the way I was taught as a child to treat people. Police officers fell well within the limits of the professions of authority that I did
not
respect. It took a really down to earth cop for me to truly treat him with respect. I have no earthly idea what a cop would have to do to actually earn my respect.

“Did you realize that you wer
e swerving from lane to lane?” the officer asked, peering at me through his sun glasses.

“I did not, no,” I responded as I attempted to plug my telephone into the phone charger.

“Well, I suspect you did not realize it because you weren’t watching the road,” he responded, as he pulled his glasses down a little bit.

Attempting to plug the cord in, and get my phone charging, I didn’t
respond immediately, nor did I feel the need to do so. I never quite understood the feeling of necessity to kiss a police officer’s ass. Everyone did so, for fear of some form of repercussion if they did not. I was not one of those people that felt that need. I was never intentionally rude, unless they were complete assholes, but I wasn’t unnecessarily nice either.

“Sir, you were weaving in and out of your lane, you were speeding,
and you did not immediately pull over when I activated my lights and sirens. Additionally, it appears that you were attempting to elude me. I will need to see your proof of insurance, and registration.”

I thought for a moment before I responded. I hated cops. They certainly all weren’t idiots, but they all
acted
like idiots. I was driving a car with a dealer’s tag on the back. Obviously, it was a demo, a rental, or a loaner. The window sticker was still in the rear window. And seriously, trying to elude him? This car could easily go 200 miles per hour. I didn’t try. Had I tried, I would have succeeded. I contemplated pressing the gas pedal to the floor, just leaving him standing there. By the time he realized what had happened, and reacted, I would be four miles away. Instead, I responded.

“This car is a loaner car. My car is in the shop. I do not have a
registration, as it is not my car. Also, I do not have an insurance card,
because it is not my car
. Lastly, I wasn’t attempting to elude you. I didn’t see you,” I responded as I placed the cell phone, charger inserted, on the passenger seat.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t fucking with your phone, I would not have pulled you over
. Driver’s license, please,” he said in a monotone voice.

From time-to-time, something happens that makes us realize that we need to become humble. Humility can be a good thing, in moderation. Acting humble or swallowing a little pride can be tough, depending on the circumstances. I was feeling as if I was being fed my pride
with a stick as I tried to muster an answer for this guy.

“
Sir, I have a driver’s license, I just do not have it with me. It is inside the glove box of my other car, the one in the shop,” I responded apologetically.

Removing his glasses, and placing them in his pocket, he responded. “You are required to carry your license
with you at all times. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” I responded as politely as I could force myself to.

“Well, why are you in
this
car while your license is in the glove box, of all places, in the
other
car?” he asked, placing his hands on his hips. His right hand rested a touch lower, close to his service weapon.

“Sir, it’s a really long story. I apologize, but that’s where it is,” I responded, trying to focus on his
Adam’s apple, and not look him in the eye when I responded.

“I want to hear it. In fact, I am going to
require
that you tell me,” he said as he raised one eyebrow. Although it probably didn’t, I felt that his hand crept closer to his pistol.

“W
ell, okay, you asked. I run an Internet blog where I help people get through problems in life that they may not be able to get through alone; alcoholism, drug addiction, teen pregnancy, suicide, bulimia, anorexia, obesity, bullying, and parental issues. And, here’s the story. A few days ago, I was certain that I was going to die from a heart attack. I was in the coffee shop responding to emails from my blog. My heart was acting funny, and I began to sweat. I’ve considered death a lot, and have always wanted to die in a manner that left a mark. Something that would make people stop and pay attention, or make them gasp in disbelief. So, I was sure I was going to die on this morning, and when I died, I wanted to create a huge fuss at the coffee shop I was going into. I wanted the paramedics to have a hard time identifying me when they arrived, so I left my ID in the car, and tossed my car keys in the trash on the way into the coffee shop, making it more difficult for them to find the ID,” I paused for effect. He stood, attentive, and stared at me. He apparently wanted more, so I gave it to him.

“
Later, in the coffee shop, after reading an email, I realized a girl that I had been communicating with was in the process of committing suicide. I needed to contact someone immediately, and to do so, needed my cell phone that was also locked in my car. In the haste, I couldn’t find the keys in the trash, so I threw the trash can through my passenger side window, and retrieved my cell phone. I then called someone to attempt to save her. She was found hanging, and is now in the hospital. My car went to the shop, along with the driver’s license, which is still in the glove box. The shop loaned me this car, and I drove off from the dealership, never realizing that my ID was in the car that was being repaired. I bet you’re glad you asked, huh?” Focusing on the top button of his shirt, I waited for a response.

“You couldn’t have made that
story up,” he said as he pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket.

Placing
the glasses back on his face, he continued, “Have a nice evening, and quit fucking around with your cell phone when you’re driving.”

I watched in the side view mirror as he walked to his car, and got inside. I sat and waited for what was next, certain this was not over.
It couldn’t be over, he had not written me a ticket yet. As his car pulled away, he turned to me and nodded as he passed by. Speeding away from my stationary position, his car got smaller and smaller until it just disappeared. As I started my car back up, I wondered why all police officers were not a little more understanding, a little more compassionate, a little more human. As much as I hated to admit it, this was a pretty reasonable lesson that all people should not be placed in a mold or in a category. I reached into my left pocket, confirming my post-it note was still there. As I did, I thought; this guy was actually a cop
and
a human being.

Pulling away, I sped up to 80 miles per hour and set the cruise control. Thinking of the police officer actually being human was both comforting and disturbing.
The thought of liking a cop was unsettling to me. I hated cops. But, this officer was different. I guess it was time for me to practice what I preached, so to speak. We are all a little prejudiced, but realizing just how much was sometimes enlightening. As I made a mental note to not categorize people or have preconceived notions about them, my phone rang. Looking at the screen, I saw that it was my brother. I let it ring ten times before I answered.

“Hello,” I s
aid, acting as if I did not know who was on the other end.

“Hey brother, we’re getting together this weekend. I’m going to barbeque and everyone is going to be here. We were hoping
you would make it this time,” he said in his typical cheery tone.

“Yeah, I will be there,” I said flatly.

“Dude, you didn’t even ask when it was going to be. Are you coming or are you going to say you’re coming again, and not make it?” he asked, whining.

Little brothers, regardless of age, are always little brothers. They look up to their older siblings. As children, my brother and I grew up as friends. As we got older, we became best friends. For several years, as young adults, we were inseparable. In time, we have grown apart. Truth be known, I have grown apart from my entire family
, and from people in general. My brother never quite understood what happened to me, or what changed. No one really did. I just separated myself from friends, family, and loved ones. It happened, over time, after I got out of prison. As much advice as I could give others, I could not make myself fully understand or correct the thoughts or feelings I harbored.

“When is it?” I asked.

“It’s Saturday at noon, the day after tomorrow. Are you going to make it?” he asked in a wishful tone.

“Yes, I will be there. Listen, I have to get
…I am right in the middle of something,” I said, trying to get off of the phone as quickly as possible.

“Alrigh
t, brother, see you Saturday,” he said, as he hung up.

The entire time I was in prison, I couldn’t wait
to get out and see my family and friends. I counted the days until I could see everyone, and dreamt of the things that we would do. After I was released, it quickly became apparent that my mind wouldn’t allow me to get close to the people that I once loved. Subconsciously, I believe that I had developed a deep fear of separation. The fear was so deep seated, and so profound, that I would not allow myself to be attached to or to care for anyone. This fear also prevented me from allowing anyone to become attached to me. Since prison, I had not been in a meaningful relationship. I had tried several times, but as soon as I felt truly attached to someone, or if they expressed a desire to see me, I ended the relationship. I also became so distant from my family that I really would prefer to never see any of them again. I literally had to force myself to see them.

When I did finally force myself to see members of my family, I always enjoyed it. This enjoyment would turn into a desire for more, or a want to return back to normal. This would soon resort back to the separation, which eliminated all potential for future pain.
Becoming fat and repulsive soon followed my recognition of these problems. Exiting the freeway, I began thinking of my brother and I, as kids, and I began to smile.

As I parked the car in the parking garage, I began to feel sick. This wasn’t going to be easy, but I felt that it was necessary. I reached int
o the console of the car and retrieved a piece of gum. After I chewed it a few times, I got out of the car, closed the door, and looked at my reflection in the window glass.
Change isn’t always easy
, I told myself as I walked away.

Walking to the elevator,
I looked down at my shoes. Canvas sneakers. I couldn’t recall when I bought them, but they were repulsive. The soles, barely attached, flopped when I walked. I lifted my right foot, and looked at the underside of the sole. It was worn through. I continued walking, wondering about the probability of me actually buying a new pair of shoes. When I got to the elevator, the door began to close. Just before completely closing, a hand grabbed the door and stopped it. It then reversed, and opened, revealing an almost empty elevator.

I got in, and began to push the third floor, seeing that the button was already illuminated. The gentleman in the elevator was about six foot two, two hundred pounds, and balding. H
olding a bouquet of flowers, he looked at me through small rimless glasses, and did not speak. I stepped to the corner of the elevator, and stood. During the short two story ride, he looked up and down my frame as if he were sizing me up. He focused on my shoes for a moment, and mumbled something. I considered giving him a piece of my mind, and chose not to. The elevator reached the floor, and the door opened. As it did, he motioned for me to get out first.

As I walked down the hallway, I could hear his footsteps behind me. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me turn around. If I heard his footsteps get much closer, I would turn around and let him know about encroaching into my bubble space. I continued to walk toward 316, looking at the numbers beside the doors, but not fully turning around. When I got to 316, the door was closed, and I could hear people speaking inside. Laughing, talking, and having what appeared to be a good time. I stepped beyond the door, to 317, and took a deep breath. The man with the flowers stopped as well, looking at me. I motioned for him to pass by, and he looked at me and smiled as he stepped into the door marked 316.

I reached into my pocket and checked for the post-it note. Confirming its existence, I took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Change isn’t always easy.

Chapter 23

I can fly

BRITNEY.
I felt myself rise above the body that lay beneath me on the floor. I watched as Michelle stood and ran outside the garage. As she returned to the garage, frantic, she talked on the phone. She began to perform CPR on my lifeless body, as she screamed my name. I watched the entire time, but I felt nothing but calm. I tried several unsuccessful times to reach out to Michelle to touch her, call her name, and tell her that I was alright.

I watched as Michelle cried, and got into the ambulance behind my body. I could feel what Michelle was feeling. Although Michelle and I have never been close friends, we have been friends. She was not only concerned with my welfare, and my well-being, but she truly felt responsible for what had happened. I could feel Michelle’s pain as the ambulance pulled away. Feeling her pain caused me a grief that I have never felt. I tried to wake myself up, to make myself breathe, sit up,
or speak, but I had no control over myself.

As we entered the hospital, I became strangely comfortable with what I had become, yet
I wanted to return to my former life. I tried to float to where I could touch Michelle as she cried and pleaded to be allowed to accompany me in the emergency room. When she claimed to be my sister to gain access to where my body was, I began to cry.

The fascination of being alive in a spiritual sense soon evaporated when my father arrived.
As my body lay in the bed and the heart monitor beeped, my father sat and cried. He didn’t speak, but I could hear what he was thinking. I could feel what he was feeling, his pain, his regret, his wonder, and his shame. As he sat in the chair and wept, waiting for my mother to arrive, he offered to God to trade his life for mine.

I desperately tried to cause my spiritual self to become one with my physical self. As my father wept, I wept with him, regretting the feelings I had, regretting the hatred, regretting the selfishness I had felt. Feeling my father’s love for me was the greatest gift I could ever have. His love for me filled my heart.

My mother arrived, and wept uncontrollably. My father comforted her, and although she did not speak the words, she blamed my father over and over for what had happened. She began to think that she knew that I was unhappy. She felt as if she knew this was going to happen, and she blamed my father. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it was not his fault.

Later that night, as they sat and wept over my body, the guilt that they began to feel was tremendous. They began to take responsibility for what happened. The guilt was tearing them apart. Their love for one another was beginning to fall apart as they stood over me. Each time a doctor came into the room
, my father began to hope deeply for my recovery. After speaking to the doctor, the hope soon faded, and the guilt returned.  I desperately wanted to reverse what I had done, but my spirit and my body remained separate, incapable of making a connection. If I could just touch my body, fill my body with my spirit, I felt that I could be alive again.

As the days passed, when there was no one in the room with my body, my spirit would
wander to my childhood memories, memories of my mother brushing my hair, and my father holding me in his arms. Their fascination with me as a child was incredible, and these feelings of love and pride filled me and gave me warmth.

After five
days, Marc came into the room, alone. He laid his leather coat beside my body and wept. As he wept, I felt his love for me. Not a love that was expressed through thoughts or words, but a love that exuded from his every pore. Like my father, he offered his life to God in exchange for my recovery. He asked God to take his life if I could not recover. Regardless of where my body lay, Marc wished to be with me in spirit. As he stood and wept, I cried uncontrollably.

Michelle arrived while Marc was there, and introduced herself. The gratitude Marc felt toward Michelle was uplifting. He thanked her verbally, but the gratitude he felt inside could not be expressed. His heart swelled when she spoke, when she wept, and when she told the story. Michelle stood, humble, as Marc mentally placed her on a pedestal. As Marc left, Michelle picked up his coat, and offered it to him. Marc responded
that he no longer needed it, and told her to leave it in the room, beside me.

The next day, Marc, Michelle, and my mother were in the room talking. The guilt f
elt by each person was unbearable. They felt as if there was something they could have done to prevent my suicide. In spirit, I felt guilty. Guilty for being selfish, for not understanding, for not realizing, as Marc always said,
time passes and things change
. Pleased to see Marc in the presence of my mother, I yearned to live, to be alive, and to physically be able to proceed in life. If able to live life again, I would do so with appreciation and vigor.

My father entered the room, holding flowers. As he did, he turned and hugged Marc. As they touched, my father felt affection for Marc. He felt love.
Feelings of what could be, between Marc and I began to fill me. I wept as they hugged. As my spirit floated above my body, I filled with regret.

If I could just touch my body, fill my body with
my spirit, I felt that I could be alive again.