Dear Nobody (15 page)

Dear Nobody,

It rained all day today. The rain can be so sad. Maybe it's all of those times that I refused to cry, or couldn't cry, coming back to me. The whole world's tears that have never been cried; and all the clouds look like tears yet to come. The storm is supposed to move on by tonight—I hope I can do the same. At least Traci knows about my disease—and about me getting raped—and doesn't judge me or think it's my fault.

Dear Nobody,

I'm so bored. I'm so confused. My life is still so empty. No friends, bad dreams, no life. I'm going to try to get a job as a hostess at some restaurant, or maybe at this nursing home. I'm only gonna work where other kids are working, so maybe I can meet some people to maybe be my friend or pass time with at least or something.

I don't want to be friends with anybody from this stupid, mean town. Nobody here relates to me. Nobody here is even anything like people I'm used to being around. I hate it. I'm so sad here. My life feels so lonely and pointless.

After I study for my GED (diploma) my mom says I can go to college this fall. I hope so. Maybe even this summer I could go to college in Atlantic City and live at my grandparents house. I don't know. I just hate being lonely. It hurts, it sucks, it's sad, it's scary, it's DANGEROUS. I feel so miserable. Here I am, missing the friends I had—the life I had. I want a way back to that. A lot of people have lives. Why can't I?

I dropped out of school. That's where everybody meets their friends. I have no high school friends. I have no good memories. Nothing. I'm sick of it. It makes me want dangerous, bad things. Drugs—hard drugs—and people who are bad for me, but I don't care, because I'm so lonely and no matter what their intentions are at least they're talking to me…

Dear Nobody,

I woke up today to the sounds of locusts and birds. I stretch my legs out and arch my back and feel that ache that's always there after a night like the last. There are no sheets on the mattress—but dry vomit is lying right next to me. I must have woken up earlier and threw up. At least it's already dry. I scratch some of the puke off the bed, and then roll over to face the wall. I can't sleep any more.

I get up out of bed, close my window and walk downstairs without looking in the mirror. I'm exhausted. I go into the bathroom and piss for what feels like fifteen minutes straight. Man, I'm thirsty. I'd kill for a soda. Caffeine would get me to feel better. My mouth feels like cotton and booze. I walk into the kitchen and stumble into the refrigerator—unable to walk straight. Maybe I'm still buzzing but my balance has been off lately. I put a pitcher of juice to my dry lips and gag. The scent of that sweetness nauseates me and reminds me of the sickly sweetness of the peach flavored vodka I had been drinking the night before. There's no milk, so I guess I'll have to drink water. I'll mix it with Strawberry Quick. I've got to get this taste out of my mouth. There's already pink powder all over the counter. I must have made it last night, too.

I look in the mirror before walking out the door. My hair is tangled and sticking to my face. There's vomit crust in some of it. My face is puffy and my eyes are swollen. There's eye make-up on my cheeks and eyes. It's smeared. I do the best I can to wipe it off with my fingers. My hands are kind of shaky. I feel weak. Oh shit I'm getting nauseous. I run to the bathroom and throw up. The scent and sound make me feel even sicker. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, unsure of if I'm finished puking or not. There's already vomit all over my tee shirt. I've been wearing this shirt for three days now. My pants are dirty and a little too big—I think I've lost weight. Oh shit, here it comes—there's the sound of it splashing into the toilet. I feel a wave of vomit rise up in my throat again. Some splatters up on my face. After it's all out, I sit on the floor and drool on myself because I don't want to swallow any of this taste in my mouth.

My head hurts. I think I banged my elbow on something. Fuck I can't wait to get drunk. It's around eleven. People will be on their lunch break—they'll get it for me. I'll get a 40 because I only have three dollars left.

It's hot and sunny outside. I walk down the block. I'm sweaty and smell sweet like alcohol. My mouth is dry. Shit I feel gross, so full of toxins. I don't have my shoes on and my socks are getting dirty, but I sort of like the way the little stones feel under my feet. My feet are sort of numb but that's okay—I can't feel them blistering from the hot pavement.

Why am I here?

Why am I DOING this?

Dear Nobody,

I hate this town, I hate these morbid people, and most of all, and worst of all—I am beginning to hate myself. I'd have never even thought such a thing (let alone write it) back when I had friends.

I hate being this lonely. It's dangerous. No one is here for me, ever. I am alone. I come alone, and I go alone. I was born alone, and I'll probably die alone…

Dear Nobody,

Oh God, I miss Dylan. Almost eight months later, the loss of my best friend still makes me cry. I think I probably started to drink so much because Dylan is gone. Dylan was like my drug. He made me happy no matter how sad I was. He could always get me to laugh. We completely understood each other. We were each other's family when our real ones weren't there. He was not only my best friend, but my only true friend. I loved him so much; like a brother I grew up with. I admired him profusely more than any person I've ever known. He was that kind of friend I saw being around forever—his kids playing with my kids.

Once I had a dream he came back and saw me. It was so wonderful. But then I woke up, in this lonely room, back into my lonely life and realized he's gone. Oh God help me, I miss my Dylan—please send him back to me!

Dear Nobody,

My life has become a dormant haze of boredom and bad hygiene. Day in and tedious day out, I am stuck in the same hole that I've dug for myself—out of my own apathy. Every morning before I open my eyes to face another day in the bland and ill-fated world of being a fucked up junkie girl in America, I take a few minutes of my soon to be wasted day to imagine the places I COULD be waking up—from whorehouses to boarding schools; from a rain forest in Brazil to a desolate igloo in Antarctica—I've imagined them all. But paintings and drawings are all I'll probably ever know of these lands I dream of.

Is it my fault that I may never see these places, these preoccupying dreamlands of mine? Or have I seen them already, merely by pondering their existence? Do I exist in the land I live upon now, even though I cease to wonder about its existence? No, this land I live on now does not exist because I don't believe in it. Maybe that's why I think of it as such drudgery to be here.

I am comfortable in my boredom—I prefer it to my misery. While those other worlds may offer excitement and energy they may also offer pain and grievance. For now I'll have to be content with this world I'm in now.

But I'll still dream…

Dear Nobody,

I HATE MY LIFE.

I mean that more than I've ever meant it before. I realize it could be worse, but I also realize that it could be much, much better. Matter of fact, it was, once, a long time ago, and ever since then it's been decaying way past the point of “okay,” or “just bearable.”

Now it's blistering and intolerably painful.

I have NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.

No love, no hate—no passion. I have no education, not even a high school diploma. I've got absolutely no friends. Not even a best one. I am so LONELY.

It's terrible. I feel so close to hell.

I haven't even got my health. It's always half-way there—taunting me with the possibility of a “real” life—yet always ready to remind me that illness is just around the corner.

Never compromising.

Never just letting me live, or just letting me die.

I am always shackled in-between.

Dear Nobody,

I have to say that while last summer was bad—it was heaven compared to this one. Last summer I was just getting into partying and all of that. In the winter, it got to be about more than just partying too much. I NEEDED to drink. I started smoking crack and doing coke frequently. Actually I did anything I could (Garbage Head). I was coming home drunk almost every night. In winter—after I was raped, I cut back a lot. I stopped using as much and only drank on the weekends—and my mom and probation officer never found out. In the spring, I began to cough blood again and began to use alcohol to numb the chest pain. After that incident in school—I stopped genuinely caring about anyone, except for my own self; if you couldn't get me fucked up then—FUCK YOU!

It only got worse this summer. I can't leave the house unless I'm tipsy—and when I do leave—it's to go get more liquor. I can always find someone who could buy for me. I don't think about anything else—except alcohol and drugs. As soon as I wake up, I drink—and won't not stop until I pass out for the night. I'm really skinny and pale. My eyes are always bloodshot and heavy. I have a big black eye and I always smell like alcohol. I have countless bruises. I've started to do things when I'm sober that normally I'd have only done if I was fucked up. I'm losing weight and look like shit… I think I'm gonna have to go back to rehab….