Dear Nobody

by Gillian McCain

  When we got to the city, her dealer sold her one or two bags. He gave me one to be nice (because I was sick), and she was a good customer. Well, it was the first time I ever booted myself up and I don't know if I felt much effect at the beginning—the part that's supposed to be like, “WHOA”—because alcohol numbs, and I was almost drunk. Regardless, I felt good—better, at least.

  We drove back to Phoenixville to meet up with her friend, Geoff, and after awhile we all decided to go back into Philly to get some more dope. On the way we stopped at my house and I snagged twenty dollars from my mom's purse (I still feel really bad about that) and we were on our way, again.

  Geoff bought two bags. My new girlfriend, Vickie, bought one. I bought two (me being my dumb-ass self). Geoff booted up first—then Vickie went. I wanted to wait. I KNEW I should wait, but I was so impatient, that I asked him to boot me up with both of my bags. Geoff did and I felt really good. The heroin was called OAK TREE. I started to nod off, and when I opened my eyes it was night time. About fifteen minutes had gone by, but it felt more like an hour. I remember the guy slapping my face trying to wake me up, but I just kept nodding off.

  The next thing I remember is being in some parking garage getting lifted from the back seat into a wheelchair.

  I remember lots of yelling and when I opened my eyes I was being wheeled into an emergency room. Then I remembered the nurses taking my clothes off and all these people around me. It was like that TV show “E.R.”

  These are the bits and pieces that I remember: I remember my mom coming in and crying. I remember the machines beeping. I remember coming down, or back to, whatever…My mom told me that my grandpop came in all the way from New Jersey, because they thought I was going to die. I don't remember that.

  Then the doctors put me in an ambulance and sent me to another hospital. I barely remember the ambulance ride. When I got to the other hospital I went back to sleep, but I woke up when one of the machines started beeping. A nurse ran in. I was going back into respiratory distress. They put these oxygen canals on me and equipment to monitor my heart. I remember trying to tear them off. Then I fell back asleep.

  I still felt high the next day; my pupils were still the size of pin-points. But I came down, eventually (unfortunately), and the hospital said they had to send me to a residential treatment center for insurance reasons. Of course I fiercely refused, but I'm not eighteen, and they threatened to have me committed. So I agreed to go.

  And guess where I ended up? THE CURON FOUNDATION! Again.

  Can you believe it? It sucks here so BAD. I'll be here

  for fourteen days. They call it “stabilization.”

  If I thought this place was bad before—now it's even worse—it's like Concentration Camp Curon. The staff has changed and the rules are much stricter. We don't even have rec with the guys, and for cigarette breaks—we have to go on the other side of the building. But that's not all. The people who were in last time were like way cooler then the asshole losers in here now. The boys aren't even that attractive (with the exception of one, but he's full of himself). We never get to look at them anyway. Only one other girl, besides me, is in here for dope. ONE OTHER GIRL!!! The rest of them are just like these preppy little bitches that got drunk or smoked pot once or twice—before their mommy and daddy found out and sent them to rehab. So as you can imagine, I feel VERY lonely.

  I know you know how it feels to be here—missing dope and not being able to relate to anyone because they're all so fucking lame.

  Fucking Nurse Janis put me on three hour isolation today, because she heard I was talking during a lecture. Who THE FUCK do I have to talk to? I'm so lonely here. It's like living with all those bitchy, preppy girls from high school that ever called me a freak and tried to make me feel inferior and less of a human being.

  Sometimes people's cruelty just shocks me so much—that I start to think that it must be me? Sometimes I feel paranoid

  because I had a bad trip a while ago, and I don't know if the paranoia just decided to stay, or if I'm just being realistic?

  I bet I'm just being realistic.

  And those little bitches can bet their cardboard lives that if they keep fucking with me, I'll give them something “realistic.”

  Fuck man, nobody even stays up at night. Just me. Oh, I'm so pissed off and lonely here. Nobody understands me here. Fucking SHIT! I wish I could just call you. I can't even call my mom. Well, I should go. Fucking lights out. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with the light on so I can see what I'm writing—this is so fucked up.

  Please don't forget about me. I love you forever.

  XOXOXO

  Mary Rose.

  PS. I wish you were here (!)

  (Just kidding—kinda.)

  Dear Nobody,

  I want to go home. I hate this place. Well, maybe not home—but definitely not here. It has been seven days since I got here. Seven days since I last did heroin.

  I hate the showers here. These towels are so harsh—they feel like sandpaper. My skin feels raw. Today after I did my chores and they let me shower, I put my leg up on the metal towel rack to dry off my skin. When I put my foot on it—the rack slid down a little and I noticed the loose screws tracking scratches that were already on the wall. Somebody must have put their foot up there before. Someone else in rehab—someone probably just like me.

  As I dried that leg, I noticed the bruises on it. There are bruises everywhere on my body. I don’t know how any of them got there, except for maybe the few on my arms. I always told myself that I’d never shoot up—but deep down inside of myself, I knew I was lying. I’ve gotten pretty good at that.

  So here I am—dripping and naked in a bathroom without a mirror in a drug rehab. It’s not like I need a mirror anyway. I know I’m ugly—but I haven’t always been this ugly.

  The dirt under my nails is as black as charcoal—and there is so much of it that it’s like my fingernail is clinging to the dirt, rather than the dirt clinging to my fingernails. The palms of my hands are torn open. I think I got most of the rocks out. I’m watching the bones moving under the skin on the top of my hand. They look like little strings—and my fingers the puppets that dance at the ends of them. The scrapes on my elbows and knees look like little muddy streets disguised as wounds. Maybe I’ve got a world on my body and the scabs are its streets now.

  I wonder if there are any drugs on my streets?

  PHOENIXVILLE, PA

  FALL, 1997

  Dear Nobody,

  Alright, I haven’t written in this book for a while. Well, since August, when I overdosed on heroin and went back to rehab for two weeks. Anyway, when I got out, that guy, Geoff, and the girl, Vickie, found me again. That was cool. Sure surprised me. The guy, Geoff, is cool, and Vickie, that’s his best friend, and now she’s my friend, too. So it’s like October now, and we’ve been hanging out ever since. We’ve gone to lots of raves and shit since then.

  Dear Nobody,

  Last night I got FUCKED UP, because I thought that I wouldn’t be doing dope for a while, because today I was starting some outpatient rehab in Wyomissing, and was going to stick with it for six weeks. Well, I went there today, and it’s all fucked up. It’s supposed to be with other kids my age, but no other kids my age are enrolled. So I’m supposed to be the only one in an adolescent lecture group—but since I’m an adolescent, I’m the only one in my group?

  Uh, no, I don’t think so.

  I don’t mind going to meetings and shit, but this place is just STUPID. No wonder I’m the only one going. It might not have been that bad if other kids went (like the program said).

  Back home, I like hanging out with Geoff and Vickie, but all they ever want to do is get high. Not like there’s anything wrong with that (like I can talk or something), but school started last month.

  DAMMIT!

  Dear Nobody,

  So, Geoff’s kind of
like my boyfriend now. When he’s drunk he tells me how much he thinks about me. When he’s sober he doesn’t talk to me at all. But I’m not sure—I think he might really like me.

  He’s been away for a few days and I wonder if he still feels the same? I heard absence makes the heart grow fonder. I say, “Out of sight—out of mind.” I haven’t talked to him since last week anyway, so who gives a shit. He hates talking on the phone. AND he refuses to talk to me if I am pissed at him. But I don’t mind.

  I REALLY like him.

  Oh, and he’s a virgin!

  I can’t wait to break him in!

  Dear Nobody,

  Well, its 2:30 p.m. and I’m waiting for this movie to be over so I can get ready to go out tonight. Hmm, I really have to get a job. This going out every night is getting pretty expensive.

  Dear Nobody,

  Um, okay, so I’m just sitting here, watching a movie. Its quarter to ten. I should be out with you-know-who, but Geoff called earlier to say that he was sick and there’s no way he’s leaving his house tonight.

  Man, it sucks, because I got all dressed up and I look kind of extra nice.

  Oh, well, there’s always going to be tomorrow…

  Dear Nobody,

  So, I’ve fucked Geoff two and a half times so far. It didn’t really count the third time—because it was only for, like, two seconds. The other times were a little longer—kinda. One time I passed out (when we were right in the middle of it) and he got mad at me. So last night I got really wasted and hung out with his friend, Sam. Sam is really cool; I think he’s like the perfect person. He and I started kissing and it was TOTALLY fun. Sam’s really ugly, but we had sex anyway—just so I could piss Geoff off. Later I told Geoff about it, but I don’t think he really cared.

  Too bad I’ll be dead soon—or I’d fuck all his friends and REALLY try to hurt him.

  Dear Nobody,

  Yeah, I fucked your best friend

  I know your pissed, don’t pretend

  Ha, ha, ha, I fucked your friend

  Who’s the one laughing in the end?

  I’m the queen heartless bitch

  Your friends all want me, it doesn’t matter which

  Yeah, I fucked your best friend

  And I liked him more

  Because I’m the best-revenge-whore

  I fucked your best friend

  Now he’ll have the stories to tell

  Because I fucked you both straight to hell

  I fucked your best friend

  And now he wants me more

  He’s not really your friend and I made sure

  I fucked your best friend

  Because for you it is too late

  Now you can think of who I’m fucking when you masturbate.

  Dear Hayley,

  Right now there are 27 rolls of film in my book bag that I need to develop. They're from last weekend, and it's so strange because that weekend I spent in a flop-house with people I thought hated me. Sam and Vickie got kicked out of it because I got in a fight with someone that was being an ass… Okay, I threw a bottle at my ex-boyfriend Geoff, because he was sitting on the couch when I walked in.

  Anyway, at this other club, the girl who decided who can come in and who can't come in—almost didn't let me in, because when she met me last summer—I was puking everywhere and so fucked up that I couldn't walk. I didn't remember it, but apparently SHE DID. Anyway, we got in for free, but they only let Sam in because HE had money. I know, doesn't make any sense to me either.

  Well, I walked in and I'm telling everyone about the other club we just got back from (the Tabernacle). Sam and Vickie wouldn't dance, so I was dancing with these really nice gay guys instead. A few girls danced with me, but everyone else was looking at me and rolling their eyes or laughing at me. Sam and Vickie were in a corner the whole time while I danced. I have pictures, but they may not turn out, because it was so dark in there. I really hope they do. Anyway, after we left, on our way to that flop-house, I asked Sam, “why were people acting so weird toward me?”

  And can you believe this—he told me it was just because I look “punk-ish,” and that it was a “GOTH” club!!!

  How fucking ridiculous!

  Well, I had fun anyhow.

  Miss you,

  Love Forever,

  Mary Rose

  Dear Nobody,

  I got a job to pay for all this going out—at McDonalds. FUCK that place. I hate it there. I dropped out of school, so now I work a forty-hour work-week. Eight hours a day. My boss is a real asshole. Fuck him, too. He’s this bitchy little queer that’s always screaming at me until I cry. Fuck HIM. Or “her.” Whatever IT wants to be—fuck it either way. Anyhow, I haven’t shown up for the past two days. I’ll get suspended if I do it one more time.

  FUCK IT.

  I also got in a fight with Geoff, and we haven’t talked for forever. I mean we got in this huge fight. BIG. And he’s the only one with the car. Vickie had a car—but it broke down one night. Yeah, that was fun. NOT! Anyway, maybe I’ll call him and apologize. Now that I have this job and all, I want to go out and spend money. But I don’t want to do it alone. I’ll call him tomorrow—maybe. I’ll definitely call Vickie though; maybe she can hang out with me…

  Dear Nobody,

  Geoff and I kind of made-up today. I was the one that called him—I wonder if he feels how I do? I’m sure I love him—in some fucked-up way. I just feel like he can’t really be honest with me. I’m honest with him (for the most part). It’s just so hard not to fuck up. See, I used to get so pissed at him for the little things he did, but now it’s like I spend more time apologizing to HIM. And it’s like he always already knows when I’ve done something stupid, like he’s got fucking sonar or something.

  I know that he and his friends think I’m some crazy, slutty, dirty bitch. But I really don’t care that much because they really are assholes. But I’d give anything to see what Geoff says or does if they talk shit about me. He probably fucking goes right along with them. I don’t know, maybe I deserve it.

  Oh shit, I miss him. I haven’t seen him for a while, and on the phone, I’m always the one talking, and he just plays his music and kinda ignores me. Most times, I’m not even sure he’s listening to me. Maybe he likes me for something besides the person I am? I’m not sure.

  God I love him. It’s just like every once in a while, he’ll say something really brilliant and pretty, and I’ll think of how amazing he is.

  Then he’ll say something really stupid and I’ll think he’s fucking retarded.

  Dear Nobody,

  I got my first paycheck and spent most of it partying with Geoff. The rest I lent to him (or his friends). Last night, he didn’t have enough money to get fucked up with because he’d just bought a new car—so I helped him out a little—like I’d been doing ALL WEEK. Then, even after my immense generosity, Geoff asked to borrow MORE money. I told him, no, that I still wanted to hold on to some of my money, but that I would at least give him gas money. THAT wasn’t enough for him. He got a really smart-ass tone with me—and began to raise his voice. It was embarrassing because he was yelling at me in his garage and his folks were home.

  All I wanted was to have a good night.

  So I told him that, but stuck to my decision about not lending him any more money. Well, he flipped the fuck out! I mean BLEW UP! He suddenly screamed at me, “YOU SELFISH, SPOILED LITTLE BITCH!” My jaw dropped. Selfish? SELFISH? I had given him everything he asked for, but just this once, I deny him—and this is the gratitude I get?

  Geoff said he was taking me home. I cried all the way in the car—while he yelled at me. Then I thought, “Fuck sitting here listening to all this bullshit,” about me being a “selfish greedy little bitch” because I wouldn’t give him any more of MY money—that I had worked so hard to earn. I started to yell right back at him (n
ot wanting to lose any more of my pride). Geoff pulled the car over, and told me to get out and walk home. We were miles from my house—at night—and I had no idea where I was, or how to get home.

  So I refused to get out of the car. I buckled my seat belt to emphasize the fact that I would NOT be getting out, until I was safely in my own driveway. Geoff responded with more yelling—FEROCIOUS yelling. Then, being the gentleman he is, he got out of the car, walked over to the passenger side and opened my door screaming, “IF YOU DON’T GET OUT, I’LL GET YOU OUT MYSELF!”

  I clenched my fists at my sides, ready to strike if he so much as touched me. I’ll bet he knew not to touch me—because he didn’t. He just stood there and kept screaming at me. I screamed back, telling him how I had given him virtually everything he had ever asked me for.

  Geoff screamed at me the entire way home. By the time we arrived at my house my hysterical crying matched his screaming. I gave him $2 for gas money for taking me home. We didn’t speak for a few days after that.

  Dear Nobody,

  Last night Vickie and I drove to Sam’s house to wait for Geoff, planning to all go out together after he arrived. I figured it’d be a shade awkward, but guessed he and I would basically just ignore each other. My dreamlike optimism led me to hope Geoff might even apologize, or at the very least just be nice to me. Dream on, Mary Rose!

  When he arrived (half an hour late), he started frantically screaming at me again. He even yelled at Vickie. He gave me the money he owed me—which was $5 short—and started screaming even louder when I mentioned that he had shorted me. Then, as we went to get into the car, he screamed at me and Vickie that we could not go with him and Sam. She was as shocked and appalled as I was, so we finally got in her car and left. We went back to my house and watched a movie.