“Talk about shit perspective.” She said limping, half-cry, half-laugh. She went to her tic-tac cabinet, “I’m gonna lay down awhile Willodean—get a sleep perspective.”
She poured out a handful of pills and swallowed them without water.
“Okay.” I said upturning my mouth. How she takes pills without water is beyond me. I can barely take an aspirin without a jug of orange juice following it. I gathered my wits about me while she hobbled off to the living room. The television volume went up and the squeal of her rocker rang out amidst the many voices in my ears. Maw Sue had never been able to sleep without noise. She said it matched the activity in her head. I hate silence but I hate the head noise too. So I’m not sure where I fall into on that spectrum.
I lollygagged outside for a while, exhausted from my crying spell. All I could think of was our talk. The whole talk. Every word. Before long, I ended up in the garden. Just me and the shit perspective. I ran my fingers in the dirt, laughing out loud thinking about what she said. I grabbed a few strawberries and forced them down my throat. The whole time I’m thinking, “Oh my God I’m eating a product of shit, shit, shit.” I fought the urge to hurl with each bite. The gaggle in my throat didn’t go away until I learned to concentrate on the sweetness of the strawberry, and not how it was cultivated. Shit perspective. I looked at the petals not the thorns. I was never able to eat another strawberry without thinking of that story. Damn you Maw Sue.
Weeks passed, neither of us mentioned the bedroom incident again. It was simply a shared silent awareness between us, the tangled messes of our gifts, our curses, the petals and the thorns. It was the unspoken madness that was, that is, and that will always be.
Weeks later, on a rather hot July evening, Maw Sue paid me fifty cents to help weed her garden. I had my back turned the other direction, hearing her hoe blade slice through the dirt and weeds, repetitiously, then they stopped. In the silence that followed, for a split second my mind went there. There being the same realm it always goes when I think the worst of the worst. My heart palpitated, my windpipe clogged and I couldn't breathe. I stood suspended as my thoughts whirled in the little house of horrors where everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Images flashed—ravaged me like a savage, tormented me. I just knew I’d turn around and find her face down in the hot dirt, her body mangled and twisted, the blade sliced through her right side—dead. Jesus Christ with a hoe! What is wrong with me? Bang! Bang! On the head with a hoe! Stop it Willodean, just stop it! Trying to keep my crazy thoughts at bay, I frantically turned around. Relief surged through me. She was propped up against the hoe handle with that look in her eyes, glaring at me.
“What?”
“You accumulated any shit lately?” She said raising her chin ever so slightly, followed by a big ‘ole rip roaring snuff spit.
“If you mean, have I ate strawberries, then that would be a yes.”
“Pretty sweet ain’t it? That’s what I mean by perspective.” She winked. “Enjoy the fruit while you can honey, cause when you grow up, shit hits the fan and it’s all downhill from there.” She let out a hardy laugh and kicked the dirt up with her feet. “You know what the difference between a sleeper who gets shit on and a seeker who gets shit on?”
“Uhh—no” I gave her a where—is—this—going look.
“Fruit” she says matter of fact. Oh. Great. More Farmer’s Almanac stuff.
“Hmmm…” I said wondering.
“Simple as that. Seekers grow and do something with what they have, regardless. Make lemons out of lemonade. But Sleepers, naw, they just dry up and wither on the vine. Perspective. Get it?” She pushed up her glasses as if she was waiting on me to answer her, but she didn’t wait at all. She just spouted off a long list of tips and antidotes from the garden gods.
“Good trees produce fruit but honey—it’s the shit that makes ‘em sweet. Haaa!” She let out exuberant heckle as if she was entertained with her own words. “God can produce more in the dark than he ever could in the light. Ain’t that sumthin.” When she looked up a ray of light hit her face and she went back to weeding and I did too. A few minutes later, I heard a Code 4 coming from the back porch of our house. Lena was yelling out the supper bell scream. That gave me exactly two minutes and thirty eight seconds to get home before her temperature gauge went hot. I said bye to Maw Sue, plucked a few strawberries for the road and walked home at a mediocre pace. The whole time I'm all up in my head.
Where is my fruit? Is there a fatal flaw in me, incapable of producing anything good—only chaos and confusion? I looked at the strawberries in my hand and then up at the sky. According to Maw Sue’s philosophy, the shit apocalypse could come any minute. Was I ready? I didn’t fully understand the concept of good trees, bad trees, fruit bearing, tilling soil or cultivating shit piles till they produced immaculate tasty strawberries, heck, I haven’t learned about the gift, much less how to control the curse and now I have to worry about fruit? Grown-ups have too much to worry about that’s for sure, it’s no wonder they’re all bat shit crazy. I reckon for now, I get to be a kid and that’s about the only shit perspective I can deal with.
Gardenia Kisses
It took one person to believe me. That person was Dr. Patricia Beaker, one of two psychiatrists in Pine Log. One person. A total stranger to believe in the crazy me, believe in the child me, believe in the adult me, believe in the voices inside me, really, really believe that all of those things and more were a constellation of one unique individual with promise, with hope. She was that person. She was my person.
The first visit I barely remember. It’s like a foggy dream. I had two panic attacks in one hour until she put me on tic-tac’s. Who’d thought I’d end up like Maw Sue? After finding the right pill, it meant I could actually become a functioning member of society. Looking back now—it was my turning point to a better life. It didn’t happen overnight, or in a year, but it did happen. It was a process of learning. It was a process of unlearning as well.
When I first moved in with my parents, I spent months inside my bedroom, sleeping long hours, never going outside, not talking, or caring, or living. I was in a state of limbo. I had sporadic episodes of psychosis where all I could think of was die, die, die. Pain spurted out of me like I danced on tomatoes which wasn’t tomatoes but my heart, which I tried to stomp, crush, and put it out of its misery to make the pain stop. I cursed the beats of my heart with each breathe. I was lost in torment, held up inside the house inside me. It was a vulnerable place, wandering inside the inescapable rooms that I built, over time, those I constructed board by board, misery by misery, fear by fear, nail after nail of pain. I felt like two different people, a woman, a girl, someone else, unnamed. I'd visit the little girl in the house inside me but I'd never let her come with me. I had to have control. She did not like it when I left her. She talked to me in my dreams, in my long slumbering sleeps where I begged her not to let me wake up. She never listened to me. She was grit and courage. Stars and moons. Faith and hope. I was a broken kite. Blood and tears. No wind.
Sometimes, on rare occasions when I couldn't think straight, she would throw out her magic and put me under a spell. I believed her words, her promises, her lies. So, I’d let her out of her rooms, to roam freely but only for a little while. The understanding was that she had to go back in. That was the rule. I was trying to make a point. Make her see how cruel it was out there. I allowed her to take a small peek into the raw reality of the world I had denied her, long ago—so she could see that she was better off, alone, in the Dumas of Umbra, where she is safe, protected. But no matter what I said, or did, she continually reminded me of who I was, even though I didn’t see what she saw. She’d tell me stories of great and marvelous things, of people and places, of families and of love. Great love. An unfailing love unlike any other. This intrigued me of course, since love it all I ever wanted to begin with. She talked of magic and mystery too. She gave me glimpses of hope and it was never inside a hope chest. But of course, at the time,
I wasn’t completely broken, either, not yet. This was during one of my back and forth, stay and go, marriage or divorce moments when I temporarily stayed a few nights, here and there, with my parents, in hopes that Branson would come to his senses. He never did...but I always returned to him. I had to make it work. Fix things. Do what I do. Hoping for hope. Before I’d leave my parent’s house, I’d shove the little girl back in her safe room, lock the door and silence her, again.
Returning to Branson proved the wrong decision. Once again. This time he had more power, knowing I was on meds. Kick the dog on the way out kind of power.
“So—you un-crazy yet?” He’d say several times a week as he grabbed a six pack on the way out. What he didn’t notice was the certifiable crazy woman's eyes. If he'd paid any attention whatsoever he would have noticed the slight glimmer of contemplation in her eyes. She was getting stronger. The kicked dog had a plan. Inside the private therapy sessions Willodean Hart Spates had found her place. Her centerpiece. Her voice. And the woman, the girl, the certified crazy lady was making ready an escape.
Therapy was revolutionary. For the first time in my life, I had someone who listened and gave the voice inside me, a landing strip, a place to sit, a centerpiece of validation, acknowledgment and existence, even in the craziness. For a year, in secret, I planned, prodded, took notes, and stashed money, underhanded, without detection. I prepped. I made ready. I made the bed. But I did not live the lie.
At last, the day of freedom came. I stood before Branson and let 'er rip. I spoke my peace. I said everything I’ve always wanted to say.
“I am leaving you,” I said, “and I will not be back this time.”
He must have seen the look in my eyes, because my last words broke him. And low and behold, that’s when Branson suddenly transformed into this whiny, crying, bellowing, wasp of a man who suddenly, no holds barred, loved me, was sorry for his wicked ways, lost and now found—seen the light—drank the wine of Jesus—CHANGED! I was taken back with his actions even though Doc warned me it would happen and she warned me what I would feel like, and want to do when it happened. And she was right. For a few minutes I wanted to recant. Stay. Kiss him, make up. Hope for hope. It was the hardest thing keeping my focus and not caving in to him, his lies, and manipulation. “I am leaving you.” I said again. Grit and courage. Stars and moons. Faith and hope. When I didn’t react in the manner he was used to—he turned into the man I remember. The same jerk. Talk. No change. Manipulation, no change. Control, no change. It was just like Doc said. She called it the Saul affect. Saul, a man chosen by God to be a King, decided to do it his way and not God's way. Of course, he made a mess of things, repeatedly. When everything was screwed up, he’d fall on the altar, cry and blubber like a grown baby, pray, whine and tell God he was sorry, and ask for forgiveness. God being mercifully, gave it. Then Saul got up, went out and did the same shit as before. Un-changed. True repentance is change, a regenerated, not completely perfect, but working it out, see the positive effects, change. Saul, like Branson, didn’t truly repent—they were men who were just sorry they got caught. Seeing this weak character in Branson was riveting, I admit. He cried a river of tears at my feet. The make-him-pay side of me, wanted him to grovel for days and kiss my frosty ass, and show him how it felt to be mistreated. I was ice-freaking-Southern-sweet-tea on a hot day, cold. There would be no furniture dragging. No hope chest hoping. I was done. And this time—I meant it.
Weeks later, while the divorce was in process, my ability to say no went overboard. It was freeing. Evidently, too freeing. I liked to hear my voice say it.
“No. No. No.” I’d say it to myself just to clarify that I could say it at all. I sang the chords of music in it. “No, no, no, no, no, no, noooooo.”
My life was a big, fat no. I was no longer willing to say yes, to be walked over, stepped on, abused, and ignored when everything in me screamed no. Sure, I still sink in and out of funks, occasionally hoarded up inside the house, visiting the various rooms that haunt my soul, remembering things I shouldn’t but I have learned to accept that it's a part of me now. It belongs. I hear a child’s voice, a woman’s voice, a teen’s voice and various others wafting through the hallways, the open spaces, crying out their woes, hidden regrets and nuances. But I have a choice now. I can say yes or no. I get to choose.
***
Even now, after all that’s happened, it’s still hard to be alone. The reality of it breaks me to pieces some days. Each day I make myself get up when I could just as easily stay in the bed and let the shadows take me to the numbing room so I don’t have to feel a thing. But I know where it leads,, so I pull myself up from the tender breakable places, those vulnerable to touch, to feel, to see, to hear and I rise anyway. I see the thorns but I also see the blooms. I stand with grit and courage. I envision the stars and moon and look for hope and faith. I look because I have a choice.
I constantly struggle against forces that want to take me back to a past that will kill me. Yet, now it’s no longer about Branson, or marriage but something deeper inside me that presses me, pains me. It scares me with its unknown, unrecognizable hand, a hidden room inside the house. My eyes focused on Branson for so long, I lost sight of myself, my problems and my past. I lost me—but deep down I was lost long before he came along. But how or why, I don't recall. Where memories should be, there is blankness. I’ve lived so much for others—I don’t know how to live for myself. Doc says it’s called Co-dependency. How about that? It has a name. She gave me a book to read called, “Co-dependent No More.” By Melody Beaty. I read it in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down and that had never happened before. The first chapter was like reading my life in print, different names, different cities, but my life, my pain. I no longer felt all alone in the world. There were others just like me. The things I discovered about myself, and about others, was flat out eye opening. For the first time, my eyes were not on others, but me.
I am still fearful of my own choices, but regardless, a choice has to be made. Another struggle is dating. Doc says it’s not good to date right now. I told her she didn’t have to worry because I feared relationships like the plague but it didn’t stop my insecurities about being alone. I am vulnerable and easily swayed, susceptible to the promise of love. I observe and watch other couples and my heart wanes for what they have. My soft needy soul makes me a likely candidate for anything damaged, or needs fixing or repair. It’s a wonder that broken toasters and vacuums don’t follow me home more often. Fix me! Fix me! I am a magnet for broken people. I bypass all the warning flags. I accept major character flaws as merely lack of love, not getting enough womanly attention and nurturing. Poor thing. Let me take care of you. You need me. To avoid my own flaws, I will give myself totally, wholly and undivided to you, forsaking my own sad and miserable life, so that you and only you, become my life, my passion, my purpose, my object, my being, my reason for living. When I can no longer suck the life, I desire from you, I’ll become insecure, obsessive, and a lunatic. I will give you the right to trample over me as you please, boots, dirt, tire treads; you name it. Roll on over. In turn this gives me the right to slaughter you with the defamation of your own character flaws, which I deem the absolute clear-cut reason for our demise in the first place. You will blame me—I will blame you. I will scream yes but really mean no. An influx of resentment will harbor between us, anger and bitterness. We’ll inevitably screw each other up and have screwed up children. The cycle repeats itself until the whole world blows up in cinders of crazy people screaming at each other and pointing blame. Yeah, that’s about the just of what would happen if I dated, so I’ll listen to Doc and refrain.
***
I sit in the waiting room, biting my fingernails, my mind crashing, banging and spilling out epistles of drama. I haven’t needed to see Doc in a long time. I was good on my own, for so long, journaling, dealing, confronting, all that, but now…
“Willodean.” Doc said peeking out the door. “Come on in.” She smiles. I jump up
nervous and follow her inside, closing the door behind me. Immediately I am assaulted by smells. Succulent angels, drops of heaven make me weepy and intoxicated until my eyes are blinded by the white brilliance. A tall vase of white flowers sits inside the bay window. The luminous scent is aching to my soul and a sword in my heart.
“Have a seat Willodean. By the way, you look great.”
“Thank you.” I said smiling trying to hide my pain inside. I sit in my usual place and grab the square pillow, holding it next to me, a replacement for my man pillow. Need. Yearn. Want. Doc grabs her notebook off the shelf along with my thick, encyclopedia file.
“So…let’s see.” She rambled through my crazy log. “You haven’t been here in a while. Last time we spoke you were doing great. The meds were working. Right?” She looks up at me. I nod. “Oh, and you found a job. You moved into your own house. All good. So…” she taps her pen and pauses a long time. “What brings you here today, Willodean?”
I gulp and sigh. Why can’t I answer? My lips instantly clamp down as if holding back a lifetime of words that refuse to eradicate themselves. Doc waits calm, cozy and collected as if she could drink tea and stare down Charles Manson without so much as a blink. Why am I here? My eyes focus on the tapping sound of her pen when I notice the silver ring on her finger. Instantly it trigger memories.
“I—I found a ring.” I said like a gust of wind.
“You found a ring?” She scribbled curiously and glanced up. “Okay.”
I told her about the jacket demon, the ring, Branson’s pictures, and all the unfinished projects I started but never finished. The hope chest that didn’t hold an ounce of hope, my instability, the visions, the little girl that haunts me, Maw Sue’s bedroom, her three husbands, her strange rituals, Aunt Raven’s death, the Mason jar and the rose petal people, the shock therapy, the old stories, legends, curses, my birth, the shadows, the house inside me, the rooms I built and the voices that live there. Doc wrote so fast and furious you’d thought she was recording history. As for me, my head spun as if I had just vomited, excretions, bile and bitter juices.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 33
