Dear Nobody (2 page)

Dear Nobody,

As if the thing with my mom's boyfriend, Joe, wasn't bad enough—my step-dad came by last night without even calling, asking for money. Darrell is my half-sister Nicole's biological dad; my step-dad—really. At least, I USED to think of him that way.

I hadn't seen Darrell this drunk and violent since mom was five months pregnant with Nicole and Darrell threw her on the bathroom floor. Then he threw me after her—then the phone—and then the phonebook, too. He told us we had a half hour to get the fuck out and never come back. I remember mom lying on her side—on the phone with her friend, Jane. She said that she thought her arm was broken, and that she couldn't walk. She had fresh bruises along her neck and arms—along with the old ones. I looked at what my HERO; my FATHER—had done. I was trembling—I could not even speak. I've never been so afraid in my entire life. I remembered how I had always wanted a father. Be careful what you wish for. That night ended like so many others; lying on Jane's cot—crying into a pillow. At least we were safe there.

My mom gave birth and nursed my baby sister with her broken arm. She had to work at a grocery store to make money. I'll never forget how sad and disappointing it all was—I had no daddy again, or dog. No house, not even an apartment. No friends, nothing of my own. I'll never forget it—and last night was no different.

Dear Nobody,

When I was little, I was so proud of Darrell—I even bragged about him sometimes. I called him Daddy. I really looked up to him. I even wanted to be a housepainter just like him—even AFTER he started to do drugs and beat my mom up.

After a while, I just got scared of him, but I still loved him a lot—for who he'd been BEFORE the drugs. People would come to the house when mom wasn't home and sell him cocaine. I saw it once. I was in the second grade and he was babysitting me and Nicole when this shitty little white car pulled up in the driveway, blaring rap music. Two fat black guys with gold chains got out and came into the kitchen. Nicole started crying.

Darrell gave them money and they gave him a plastic bag full of white powder. It was coke. One of the guys was sucking on a little pipe. I asked what was in the bag and Darrell sent me outside.

I saw my friend Crystal out back and I told her to look through our kitchen window. Crystal peered in and then asked why there were black people in my house. In Saginaw, the town we lived in then, there were no black people at all. It was a very small town; it didn't even have any stores. Crystal told me how she was scared of black people, but since I had to go into Philly a lot, I had met a lot of black people and they were all really nice. I told all this to Crystal, but we were both still really scared about WHY these guys were in my house.

While my stepdad and his “friends” were inside the kitchen, I thought about the first time Darrell beat the shit out of me, when I was in first grade. It happened when I woke up one morning and walked into the living room. Darrell was sitting there watching TV, drinking a beer and eating a donut.

I hate donuts.

When I saw him there eating a donut (mom had bought a big box of them), I said to him, “You can have all the donuts.”

Next thing I know he jumps up and starts screaming, “WHAT?! WHAT?”

Then he came after me—and hit me. Mom was still sleeping. It fucking hurt. I cried and cried, even after he was done. I tried to figure out why Darrell did that, and wondered if he thought I said, “You CAN'T have the rest of the donuts,” like I was being a smart ass.

But then later, he came into my room, pulled me out of bed, sat me on his lap, handed me the donut he'd been eating and said, “Here. Eat that.”

I guess that was Darrell's way of apologizing.

Dear Nobody,

I walked in the house and before I closed the door behind me, I got that feeling. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it in the air. My mother looked at me, and didn't speak. My heart began to race. I felt sickened. How could this be happening?

We're moving away to the middle of nowhere—to Phoenixville!

Mom wants to make a “fresh” start. Thanks, mom.

Dear Nobody,

Ever since we moved here, I feel like I've got nothing anymore. It's such a small town that friendships here have been established years ago, and there's no room for even one more.

Sometimes I just get so bored of emotions. Sometimes I just get so bored of everything and I wonder if I'll ever be myself again. Maybe I just need a nap—or a new life. I've never been this lonely, and I know how it feels to be lonesome. Being a teenager, being alive, is hard enough—but I am lost. It's like I'm in a new world, a foreign country, all by myself—and I've got to construct a new life.

When you know nobody, and nobody knows you, it's impossible to make friends by accident. I try to tag along discreetly, and aloof, but I end up seeming like the tag along I am:
“Who's that
girl? Why does she keep following us around?”
I follow people, hoping for affection, acceptance—a home. From clique to clique, group to group, I follow, only to be kicked aside—and at the end of the day, I am always left alone, droopy-eyed, and miserable—like a lonely, unloved puppy with its tail between its legs, and misery in its heart. I can only hope, and keep inviting myself along, keep following the group, hoping they won't mind.

HA—I used to be a leader—the center of my group of subjects, and now I've been banished to an unfamiliar kingdom.

Two months ago I'd have NEVER been a tag along! And now I consider myself lucky if there's anybody around to tag along with.

Dear Nobody,

Lately, I'm having trouble remembering what it was like to have people around that are not so different from myself. The weekend is coming up. Hopefully it'll be okay. If even one guy calls me, or one decent girl wants to hang out, it'll be a good weekend.

I hate this. I'm obsessing over my loneliness. I dream about friendship—using the faces of strangers and laughs of unfamiliar voices.

I feel like a real life loser—and the game is life. I'm failing everywhere—academically, emotionally, socially, and even intellectually. I am losing myself on a bet. A bet that I can survive, that I can still be what destiny wants me to be. That soon my “losing streak” will end, that someday I'll get inspired, that someday I'll find God's gifts.

For now, I've got no choice but to get by on my dreams; and hope at least one of them becomes reality's beauties.

Dear Nobody,

A few nights ago Joe came here from Reading on some job. He brought with him two very attractive guys in my age range. They were both very polite and pleasant. We got drunk and smoked some weed. One of the guys was VERY cute, and the other was talkative and cute—but the quieter one was my favorite. He and I talked, and it ALMOST made me feel human again. I'm not sure how fucked up he was, but I was pretty blasted. He was dancing, and he tried to get me to dance. I guess I wasn't fucked up enough—or maybe I just liked watching him dance more?

Grrrrr
—he was the nicest looking guy I'd seen for a while.

I was too fucked up to remember what we talked about, and I can barely remember them leaving.

I woke up early the next morning, knowing that today was a new day, with new nameless faces.

Dear Nobody,

I feel sick, like I have the flu or something. I've got fevers, pains, headaches, sore throat, no appetite, vertigo, exhaustion and I can't breathe. I can't even cough to try and clear my lungs. My Tylenol with Codeine is barely helping, even if I take tablespoons instead of the usual teaspoons.

I really hate sickness.

If one thing in the world could be erased, I'd pick sickness. Then all the money spent on research and healthcare could be used to cure hunger and poverty. After that, it could be used by organizations that would help animals and women, children, or the defenseless. After that, it could be spent on improving the educational system. (And whatever is left over could be used for space exploration).

Dear Nobody,

I was admitted into the hospital with a lung infection. They found a virus in my lungs similar to TB (tuberculosis). The doctor said that my immune system was “in the wrong gear” and attacking my hips. So this obstruction in between my hip socket and hip bone was slowly pushing apart those bones. I lay in bed at the hospital for over a week with traction strapped to my hip.

When I was first admitted, the doctors pulled down my pants and underwear—and stuck a four inch needle straight into my hip socket without any Novocain. It hurt like hell; and I was SO humiliated.

Later, the doctors told my mom that if she had waited any longer to bring me in—that my hip may never have healed. I would either not be able to walk, or have a terrible limp my whole life. They said they didn't know how much damage had already been done.

Dear Nobody,

I'm getting out of the hospital today. I'm not getting much better, but my condition has stabilized. I don't care either way; I just want to be home. Before I left, the doctor lectured me on everything, including an awful conversation about “safe sex.”

AS IF I DIDN'T ALREADY KNOW!

Dear Nobody,

After leaving the hospital, I was confined to a wheelchair. Most of the girls at school were nice to me, and suddenly became my friend, out of pity. I would rather they just ignore me, than feel like someone's charity case. The boys at school were still horrible. It wasn't before long that I cried more from someone teasing me, than from my bones being slowly ripped apart.

Yesterday, I had just gone to lunch and was pushing along in my wheelchair, when some boys started making fun of me. They were being so cruel. I just sat there, on the verge of tears, and got so angry and so sick of everyone and all of my humiliation and torment that my shame turned into fury and rage and hatred. For them and for myself.

I looked at all of them—and screamed as loud as I could:
“Shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!!”

They all burst out laughing, like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. The little ugly, crippled girl was crying. One boy got right into my face and said, between laughs, “What are you gonna do? You can't even stand up!”

I felt my face growing hot and my body filling with adrenaline. I gripped the side of my wheelchair with my hands and stood up, screaming,
“I'm standing now assholes! I'm standing now!”
My legs were in so much pain that I could barely talk, but I didn't care—I didn't care that everyone was staring at me and laughing. I didn't care that it was hard to breathe. I didn't care that if I fell I could seriously hurt myself. I pushed myself forward and took a few steps. It felt like two metal bars were being pushed into my hips. The pain became too much, and I fell back into the wheelchair, sobbing.

The boys who had been teasing me looked like they'd seen a ghost.

Hot tears were running down my cheeks, but I was proud of myself. I felt like I had taken back a little piece of the dignity that the wheelchair, the hospital, and the other kids had stolen from me.

The boys told everyone what I had done, about getting up like that. And I thought for a minute that everything would be okay. It wasn't. Then everyone started calling me a faker. They said I was pretending to be unable to walk for sympathy.

Later that day, I started crying in the middle of biology class—and had to be carried out of class in the teacher's arms. They took me through the hallway into the nurse's office. My mom came and got me. I haven't been back to school since.

Dear Nobody,

I HATE PEOPLE! At this point, almost everyone can just violently die, and I would sit back and laugh and say,
“MAY THEY BURN IN HELL!”

I should have been born with a dick so the world could suck it.

I want to grow eight hundred feet tall and scream,
“FUCK YOU!”
so that the whole damn world hears it. Then I'll cut off everyone's middle finger and make 'em shove it up their asses—that way, even deaf people will get my point.

Dear Nobody,

Today I found a ring I'd lost some place years ago.

The ring is supposed to look gold, but the paint on it is peeled and tarnished. There's a small pink diamond on it, and a little, tarnished, golden-ballerina that loosely hangs from the diamond. It used to be worn on my ring finger, but now it only fits on my pinky. My mother bought it for me when I was nine, because I had just started dance lessons. The class was fun and I always looked forward to going to it twice a week. My dance instructor said I was really good. I made some new friends. And I didn't even mind having to do exercises before we started dancing.

At home I would dance, almost all the time—sometimes all night, until I had to go to bed. In our old house the basement was set up as my playroom and I brought a tape player down there and would dance. I always got a lot of costumes for Christmas and I loved to dress up and smear-on globs of make-up all over my face and put on performances. I would beg my parents to come downstairs for my shows. Neighbors, friends and visitors—no one was safe. If you came to our house, you would be nagged, begged and tormented to watch one of my performances. And one performance was never enough. If I had already talked you into watching one, you'd end up seeing three. I'd try to get you to stay for the whole entire tape if I could.

At the beginning of my “performances” everyone would act very impressed; but after a few songs they'd start looking bored and would tell me that this was the last song they were staying for. Sometimes I would dress my friends up in costumes and have them dance with me. But I would get really bossy with them—and we'd usually end up stopping in the middle of a song—either because I was shouting at them for getting in my way—or for not moving out of my way fast enough!

I always pretended that the green wall that I faced was rows and rows of people—who all knew my name and adored me. Yeah,
I was famous
. I would announce myself before turning on the music using a fake voice. Sometimes I introduced myself with a make-believe name, but usually not. I LOVED it!

Then my mom got divorced and we moved into a small two bedroom apartment—and the only place I could dance was in the living room. My cartwheels shook the TV stand—and the neighbors downstairs complained about the noise I would make flipping around.

So that's when I signed-up for dance lessons again. And I was loving it—until I had to quit because of my condition. My immune system was doing some strange things—something that had to do with the salt in my body and the obstruction of my hip joint. It was one of the most devastating things that has ever happened to me. It was four years before I was allowed to dance again.

And now it's happening all over again.