A few weeks before Dylan died he and I were in my basement hanging out. He was telling me about a dream he had where it was judgment day. He said skulls were flying around in the sky and he was surrounded by lightning. He said no one would help him—not even me. Dylan said in the end, everything was destroyed—and he woke up screaming.
Dear Nobody,
It’s been a few weeks since Dylan’s suicide and I’m still not over it. Geoff has been a dick about it. He can’t deal with me when I “get like this.” We got into another huge fight and haven’t talked in a while. Just what I need.
Dear Nobody,
Man, I haven’t written in this damn thing for a while. So, everything’s getting like VERY complicated now. I’ll put it this way. I’ve been doing a lot of drinking lately. A lot. More than I’ve ever done, AND THAT’S A LOT!
Plus (I WAS BUZZING WHEN I WROTE THIS), I was drunk in public. I got arrested all of the times, except for once. So I have a $165 fine that will probably have to be paid by me doing community service. My hands, knees, and elbows are all torn up from when that cop pushed me down while I was running from him in the cemetery. Then he fucking held me down and put cuffs that were way too tight on me.
I forget how many times I’ve been cuffed since then….
Dear Nobody,
Geoff called last night to apologize about Dylan. His words surprised me—and so did the gentleness of his voice. Hearing his voice was like hearing a song that you once thought was so beautiful and special that when you hear it again, you forget why you ever stopped listening to it in the first place.
I still remember. Maybe I always will.
As beautiful as that song was—it made me cry. It saddened me beyond belief; the melody of his tune always changes—its either deception, insult, apology, or a declaration of love.
Geoff’s voice still haunts me—a song I can’t quite recall all of the words to—stuck playing in my head.
Dear Nobody,
I am so happy right now. I am in love. Geoff makes me so happy—I smile and don’t even know it. My heart beats and skips when I think of him. My stomach rises and falls whenever I see him. My legs weaken and my breath leaves when I speak to him. He makes my beauty even more beautiful—my spirit even more spiritual.
This feeling is MUCH MORE than just a feeling. He has put his entrancing spell of fascination on me. He creates even brighter and better dreams for me than the ones I thought before were so vibrant and big. I am lost in an indulgence of ecstatic joy and virtual bliss. Reality has no effect on me—he has become the only object of my reality.
And the sex is getting better. I wouldn’t say he is a “sex god” or anything—but he IS improving. Last night, we did it on my mom’s couch. He kept saying, “No, I don’t want to,” but I talked him into it. He finished after like fifteen-seconds. I told him next time it would have to be longer—or I wouldn’t let him use my phone to call his mom for a ride home.
The next morning my mom came into the living room, wakes me up bitching and asking why my underwear’s on the floor and the back door is open? What a HYPOCRITE! It’s not like I haven’t heard her and Joe doing it before. Like mother—like daughter.
Dear Nobody,
Geoff and I are finally getting good at this whole “sex thing.” Sex is so exhilarating! Who knew? Every time is like the most spectacular feeling! It pushes me in and out of consciousness, taking me at first to new galaxies; then dimensions—until I feel like I’m in TOTAL OBLIVION! Not like a void—but in a place where my elation is so prominent it becomes even more tangible than the physical aspects.
I think the key to evolution is in sex.
I can become anything or anyone during it.
And it’s not even the sex that dumbfounds me—it’s the orgasm part. It’s like my body was made with a built-in pharmacy between my legs. During sex, I am higher, more vulnerable, more excited, nervous and more relaxed—than any chemical drug has ever made me. During sex an indescribable rush happens to me and elation takes me—I am under its control. It pushes me to a level of consciousness that could easily be mistaken for unconsciousness. It enslaves my mind and body. It feels like I am in a trance that will confuse me later; but I’m so emotionally and physically expedited that I don’t care WHY I feel it—I just care THAT I feel it. It’s like a misty, fragile sort of depiction.
Human words could not describe the places I have visited.
I feel like me and Geoff are the only two people ever to visit this universe we created—and since we created it as one—we become the only organism in this new universe.
PHOENIXVILLE, PA
WINTER, 1997–1998
Dear Nobody,
I’ve been getting really sick again; probably because of all the drinking. I was forced to go back to school. Almost none of the kids there know I’m sick. So I just stomp around school, looking like a fucking rag.
Since getting sick again, I’ve become one of the palest people there—and I have black hair now, so I kind of stand-out next to those pretty, blonde, tall cheerleaders. I’m not as tall as everyone else and I’m only ninety-seven pounds right now. My legs and hips have been hurting like hell lately, too—so I slouch and limp a little when I walk.
I’ve been getting this loud, chronic cough lately—and everyone turns to look, and roll their eyes, and say a lot of stupid shit about me. Yesterday, I was standing in the lobby at school and started having this nasty coughing spell. Sometimes when I’m at school I just try to swallow that vile shit I cough up—or hold it in my mouth until I get to a bathroom. But by then I’m REALLY sick—the taste is awful!
I really didn’t care what the people standing there thought—I just walked in between this big group of jocks standing by the trash and spit this big-ass wad of green, bloody, chunky phlegm in the trash can. They all cringed—and told me how “attractive” and “ladylike” I was, and some other shit I’m trying to forget. Since like third grade certain people have called me “Germ” for doing shit like that. Now if I’m at school (and I don’t care who is around) I just spit on the floor. They thought I was repulsive before? I’ll SHOW them repulsive. Mucus doesn’t (besides the taste) gross me out. I mean shit, how could it? My body is practically made of the stuff.
Sometimes, I wonder if they would say these awful things if they knew it was because I’M SICK?
Probably.
It wouldn’t matter to those assholes.
Dear Nobody,
Tonight it’s Christmas Eve—I’m running around the house wrestling with my sister, we even danced for a while and I was singing almost all night. It was great! Then I chased her through the kitchen and into the living room. On my way into the living room I jumped over the couch and flipped—so I was hanging from it upside down. I was making faces at her—and then I started coughing.
I thought it was mucus. So I yelled for Nicole to get me some Kleenex to spit into. There was tissue paper lying right there on the floor from a gift I opened earlier, so Nicole handed me that. I spit into it; it didn’t taste like normal mucus. I looked in the tissue paper to see if it was a different color. And it was—bright red. Pure blood. No mucus even. Just blood. All of the sudden—just like that. And my chest didn’t even hurt. I started to scream—not from fear or anything like that, but from anger. Just ANGER! I’d never spit up pure blood before. It didn’t scare me or hurt me or anything. It pissed me off.
I mean, here I was on Christmas Eve, having so much fun that I hadn’t had for the longest time, and then something like that happens. Something to remind me that my fun won’t last and that it only gets worse from here. Why? What did I ever do? Why am I spitting bright red blood up, in mouthfuls, from my poor lungs? While my eight-year-old sister watches me and my mom runs into the room?
I’m so young, I’m too young for this shit, but I feel like I’m getting too old for it, too.
I was in the hospital
for three days and when I finally got out, before I left, the doctor told me that when I was first admitted—he thought I was going to die. So for Christmas I got something special that none of the other kids in my neighborhood got—and it came gift-wrapped in tissue paper.
Dear Nobody,
I went to see my doctor and guess what? My lung function was 108%! That’s like a normal set of lungs! My doctor couldn’t believe it—neither could anyone—to have your lungs go from working only 30 percent then up to 108% is VERY unlikely. It gave me kind of an invincible, immortal feeling—I had forgotten what it was like to walk more than twenty feet without losing my breath. Like, “Yeah! See everyone? Not even chronic illness and lung disease can stop me!”
But then, on the weekend, I slipped up really bad.
All I’m going to say is that I was really not concerned with my health at the time. And when I do something like this, when I slip up, no one understands how I could do it.
Well, the only explanation I can think of is that after I’ve been feeling so healthy and normal, I kind of stop worrying about my health—because I start to have that invincible-like complex. And believe me, I thank God for it every day; but every time I destroy my health, it seems I get it back.
But now, because of this weekend I just had, my breath is a little shorter, my mucus is dark green to brown and a lot thicker. And now I’ve got this chest pain that keeps getting worse and worse, and this pain in my hip. My mom is calling the doctor again…
Dear Hayley,
Hello Angel, how are you? I'm very sorry I haven't written to you for a while, but I've been in this goddamn hospital. I've got a PICC line in my arm—which is like an IV, except it goes from my arm (a little tube) to my heart. It pumps in this medicine. I also have to do a lot of those breathing treatments—two every four hours. As soon as I finally get to sleep there's five people in my room waking me up for another goddamn breathing treatment. At least I don't FEEL sick.
Remember how before I said I was so lonely? Well, I think that I was lonely then so that it would prepare me (a little) for the loneliness I have in here. I was only supposed to stay for one week, now they say two.
I'm going nuts because this place IS fucking nuts. The people here are either liars or bitches (or both). My mom can only visit me on weekends because she has to work. Sam and Traci might come up to see me soon (I hope).
This hospital is a clinic. It's about forty-five minutes from my house. I really fucking hate it here. Geoff calls me long distance as much as he can. Sorry if my writing is shaky, but I'm trying to do a treatment at the same time.
So, how's your Saturday night?
Man, it gets so fucking BORING in here. I don't have a roommate any more. I could go walk around looking at all the signs on the walls trying to learn Spanish. I'd only learn words like ELEVATOR, STAIRS, FIRE and BATHROOM though. Maybe I could just hang around the Psych Ward and learn words like PROTECTION FROM ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDER, HOSPITAL BILL, and ABUSE COUNSELING.
Okay, I'm finished now. So do you like this card? I bought it at the gift shop downstairs then got bitched out for not being back on time (bitches or liars). Isn't she pretty? She's a little angle just like you and me. No, I meant angel not angle—I always confuse it! I like her hair.
Oh, I dyed my hair again. It's black. I'll send you more pictures soon so you can see it.
Well, I'm going to stop writing now and go make a sandwich.
Love forever, XOXO,
Mary Rose
P.S. Oh, don't pay any attention to the back of this envelope. The hospital tutor is trying to teach me how to do multiplication tables. I made it all the way to the eights! Always reckoned I was a smart bitch!
Dear Nobody,
My real dad came to visit me in the hospital. He’s in Reading, but he doesn’t want me to tell anyone that he’s here, because then he’ll have to pay more child support.
Once when I was eleven, he tried to get to know me long enough until he convinced my mom to drop charges on child support for me. He gave me some song and dance about getting a new job close to our house and how it would allow him to be more of a “dad” and buy us presents and stuff. After my mom dropped the charges—I didn’t see him for two years. Then, the next time I saw him, we had a sort of a “falling out.”
And here I am fifteen years old—keeping a secret so he doesn’t have to pay support. I’m so stupid. And he asked me if I wanted to move in with him when I got out—so HE can get child support from my mom! That’s just bullshit. But I still put up with it—I don’t really know what to do.
I just don’t need him in my life right now—although I’m so desperate for company, I should count my blessings that I, at least, got a visitor.
Dad is scared I’ll get drunk, and tell my mom that he’s here.
I should just fucking tell her anyway.
Dear Nobody,
I’ve been home from the hospital for a week, and I just finished reading letters from people I used to know and love, and looking over some old pictures. Then, to make things even worse, I found a tape of myself talking to three or four old friends of mine from Reading.
I sounded so different then, like another person, with another soul. I was talking, I was laughing, I was HAPPY. It was weird—to hear all of those old voices, to see photos of all those old familiar faces. Back then I seemed so carefree, and I was. I had so many good stories, a new one for every day of the week. Life was so great then, compared to now. It seemed like I actually HAD FUN. Now it seems like I just have a GOOD time, not exactly a FUN time.
I really, really, really miss FUN.
When will I start having FUN again?
Dear Nobody,
My friend from the hospital died today. Her name was Jennifer—and like me, she had Cystic Fibrosis, too. Jennifer looked just as healthy as me. Our chronic cough was even the same (when I was coughing up blood). We looked the same—we both looked exceptionally healthy. Who’s next? Which one of us?
Jennifer is not my first friend who has died. Tiffany was eleven when she died. Jennifer was thirteen. Heidi died before I even got to know her. Sarah is practically dead, but not yet. What about the rest of us? When do we die? We’re getting old for our age. Sarah is seventeen at the end of October. She’s in her old age. Timmy is seventeen. He’s in his old age. Jess and Tiffany never got theirs. My old age. What is it?
Maybe Jennifer died instead of me?
After someone is dead and gone—especially someone so young, and beautiful—what I am supposed to feel—is not exactly what I do feel. When I had first heard Jennifer had died, I was in shock. I admired her beauty, her humor, and her intelligence. She had only been thirteen. I felt so many different ways all at once. I didn’t know if I felt guilty to be alive, or happy that it wasn’t me. I can picture her sitting right across from me—eight feet apart—which was the rule at the hospital—so that we didn’t make each other sicker. We would smile at each other in between wheezes, gasps and coughs. Jennifer had befriended me. Talking with her was like having a conversation with myself; that’s how alike we were.
Now, when I think of Jennifer, I picture her in a coffin. I see her big, caring eyes—sewn shut. I see her in a white dress, a very pretty one, and her arms crossed over her chest. I see the shiny gloss in her dark straight brown hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights we once sat under. But Jennifer seemed so ALIVE. It’s hard to think of her body rotting in coffin. She was rotting when she was alive. So am I. We have been rotting from the time of conception. Disease, infection, swallowed her from inside out. But we are more than just a disease, we have souls. Jennifer had a soul. I wonder where it is?
I hope that her soul can read this.
Dear Jennifer, Tiffany and Heidi—and all the other angels taken too soon by Cystic Fibrosis,
You are all with me every minute of every hour of everyday. Every minute without you is a
minute without air, gravity and life. You are rarely absent from my mind, and if ever you are absent, for the briefest moment, my mind drains into a pit of loneliness and torture.
No misery is as haunting and ravaging as your absence. You are so much more than my security and protection from this evasive earth. We exist in a place other than this disgraceful world of maddening confusion and tenacious hatred. We’ve got our own heaven that awaits us. We can only enter into it through our arm’s perennial embrace of one other. Yet this dark world has sealed our only true home off from us. At least you and I know our way home. You have gone to our heaven first.
Will you wait for me? Will you shine for me up there as brilliantly as you shone for me on earth? I will look for you when I get there. I will look for your burning porch light that will guide me home.
Rest in Peace.
Dear Nobody,
I am seventeen. I’m OLD. I’m old. I look great for my age. Very good. I am living my old age. When you were sixteen, how many of your friends did you watch die? Did you know maybe one person that died? One friend? Guess what? I could count my dead friends on my hands. Guess how it feels to have all of your friends being wiped out and slowly dying off by the same Cystic Fibrosis I have?
God never intended this hurt for me. Please, please what did I ever do? Help me. Help them. Help us. Help us, we’re in hell! No one can save us. Not our machines even. Not our pills. Not even all our endless, lonely hospital nights.
Dear Nobody Page 8
