Dear Nobody

by Gillian McCain

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 liquo
r. 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….

  WERNERSVILLE, PA

  SUMMER 1998

  Dear Nobody,

  Ever since I’ve been in rehab, I keep having the most terrifying dreams about the guys who raped me. They always come at me—with the intent to kill me. I scream, I cry, I try to run, but I am stuck steadfast to the earth, my feet melting to the ground. I try to run—to fight back—but I am paralyzed. I see my Geoff and our friends looming around in the darkness; barely acknowledging what’s going on. When my voice returns I scream out; I kick out violently with all of my might. I beg and plead for the rapist’s mercy; I beg and plead for Geoff or ANYONE to rescue me, BUT NO ONE HELPS ME. I am brutalized, raped and put into the trunk of a white car. The rapist—followed by Geoff and his friends—get into the car. I’m left half-dead. Other times I fall while running—and wake up with a jump. These dreams feel so real; so frightening. The thing that hurts the most is that Geoff doesn’t ever try to save me. I wonder why he hasn’t returned any of my letters?

  INVENTORY WORKSHEET

  Sometimes I think it must have all happened by chance. Other times I am almost certain every second of my life has already been planned, and is waiting to be lived. I’ve had enough, haven’t I? At first heroin was just for fun. Then I needed it. Mentally and physically. I felt sick without it sometimes. It seemed all that mattered. But how? How could it be? If it weren’t for that one night, could my whole life be so different? If that one night never happened, oh, if only. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was to be? Why? Why me? Hmm? It had to have been planned. Will things ever be any better? Dare I say as good as they were? I look around myself and wonder, “Who am I?” How could this ever have happened? And where’s Mary Rose? Who am I? How could my life have gotten so screwed up? I’ve lost all happiness, and control of my life. How?

  Dear Geoff,

  Hey, it's me again. I'm BACK in rehab! I keep writing to you, but you don't write me back. I miss you. I'm in pain right now and can't breathe too well. After they let me out of here I'll probably go straight back into the hospital—the one in Philly.

  I've thought about you a lot while I've been in here; when I was a little girl—and then a little older—I always thought I'd only fall in love with someone from the hospital—someone like me. But, instead I got someone even better than anyone else—I got YOU.

  Geoff, Geoff, GEOFF!

  Oh Geoff, I wish you could have seen me when I was a lot younger and much more healthier. Then I wish you could have seen me when I was younger and much more sicker (in some aspects). I always daydream about if you could be there with me for all of it.

  Maybe someday, if they give me a transplant or find a cure for me, maybe then you will stay with me.

  I've just always thought that and thought maybe I should write to you about it.

  Write soon.

  XOXO,

  Mary Rose

  MY GEOFF, MY BEAUTIFUL, MYSTICAL GEOFF,

  If only you could actually be here, pretending to ignore me when I know you need me to say what I am saying—right down to repeating your name a few times to pretend that I think you're not listening.

  I like to say your name. Geoff. Sometimes when you're not here I'll say it, and hope that just saying it will make you think of me wherever you are.

  Isn't this crazy? I'm writing you a fucking letter. Isn't that sad, Geoff? I LOVE YOU. There, could you hear that? No, you couldn't hear that, Geoff, because you're not here.

  Shit, it's already four a.m. I wonder if you're still awake. Sometimes when I'm in lockup I stay up and listen to the bugs making noise, or pretend I have someone here (usually you) to talk to. And sometimes I just pretend I'm an actress and that I'm only in here so I can act it better for my next movie or play.

  Might sound dumb, but they make us go to bed at 8:30, so I get REAL bored REAL fast. And sometimes I have to go like an hour earlier because I wouldn't clean the cum off the toilet, or wash trays or be quiet when we lined up for something. Yep, so I have lots of time to think about what other people are doing (like breaking into my house and getting fucked up without me).

  Fuck those crackheads. I've got Traci. And my mom.

  Actually I don't really care about friends when you and I were spending a lot of time to get her (well, not a lot, but more than just me begging you to come over at like 2:30 a.m. so you could leave in like an hour and a half). Remember the first summer we met I'd see you from like lunchtime until we got arrested (or went home)? That was a good summer. I saw you a lot then. And I still remember everything from when we first met.

  Damn, Geoff, I could write a book. I can't believe that was like two years ago.

  When I concentrate I feel like it's still happening. Or it feels like it was all just some dream.

  I'm sorry all I'm doing is bitching—but all of it's true. My next letter will be more cheery, okay? I just really want you to know that I love you, and that I miss you terribly. Please take care of yourself. Please stay how you are. I love you forever. FOREVER. NO MATTER WHAT.

  Love forever,

  Mary Rose

  Dear Geoff,

  Why haven't you written me back?

  I love you because you are not beautiful. You are not perfect.

  I love everything in you—that would be destructive to love in myself.

  XOXO,

  Mary Rose

  Dear Nobody,

  I just got out of the rehab after being there for a month. More than a month actually—five goddamn weeks. Did anybody care? No. Did anybody visit me? No. Do you think anybody proved that they loved me? I think we know the answer to that—no one even responded to my letters. Five fucking weeks of hell. HELL. I know the word. I know the place. Rehab, hell; same fucking place.

  After getting out I had to go into the hospital for a very painful surgery. My face is still bleeding from it and the Codeine they prescribed isn’t helping me much. I could deal with the pain if I had help. If I had someone to take care of me. Geoff—the only one I ever loved or trusted—doesn’t give a fuck about me anymore. He didn’t visit or contact me once when I was away. I could care less.

  It’s my first night back home, and the slut bitch I call a mother won’t even cook me a meal. Not to mention that right before my surgery, she showed up with Joe’s fucking engagement ring on! They’ve made it “official.” Why is she so stupid? Joe tried to kill us; and he would have killed us if the cops hadn’t shown up. Now she is going to MARRY him?

  I don’t care about anything else right now—I just want some dinner.

  Dear Everybody,

  Jesus wouldn’t even date my mother.

  Dear Nobody,

  I think rehab may have worked. I know I can’t drink anymore. And pot and crack destroy my lungs. But I’ve always just needed to feel totally disoriented to forget about all this shit. It was pot before my lungs got bad, then alcohol before I passed out and got raped. What’s left to do? If I’m gonna fucking kill myself, I might as well die from drugs. I won’t be missed. All I need is to be totally loaded. Even just for a few hours would be exceptional. I just need to get away from all of this. My hands fucking shake so bad from nerves. Sometimes even my head or legs. I just want to get loaded. I guess I’m gonna have to start getting used to my sober self. God this SUCKS!

  Dear Nobody,

  Mom kicked Joe out. She said she isn’t going to marry him. She finally chose her kids over her stupid abusive boyfri
ends and I couldn’t be happier.

  Dear Nobody,

  My mom and I are getting along tons better. We are both significantly happier. People are just being nicer to me in general. I am healthy enough to be active and energetic—I never dreamed it could be so fun. I’ll never take being able to run or ride a bike and keep my breath for granted. Everyone says that a cure is going to happen soon. I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll be cured by the time I’m eighteen. I hope to God.

  Well, I’m just glad things are going well now. I hope they always stay as well.

  PS: HA! What the fuck was I thinking! By eighteen? IF EVER!

  Dear Nobody,

  Tonight at the mall I held a guinea pig. There was a cute one in a movie I saw with Nicole on Saturday, and I’ve been thinking of getting one ever since. (mom probably won’t let me). Man, it’s hot out. Wish I had a pool. Used to. At least I’m getting a tan, and maybe lightening my hair a little. I’m on this antibiotic that says to stay out of sunlight. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so tired lately…

  Dear Nobody,

  Tonight I am supposed to go to the Lilith Fair with my mom. I don’t know why I have reservations about going. It sounds like fun. Mom wants to go. I hope I get on TV. I’m going to jump in front of every camera I see. It’s nice outside, so that’s good. Our tickets are for the grass.

  Dear Nobody,

  Okay, we went down to the Lilith Fair, and it ended up being sold out. I was in such a miserable mood. Seeing all those other girls with their friends made me sad. I don’t have any friends. Not here. I felt miserable, and like a loser, and everything else people with no friends feel like. At least I had my mom. My mom and God.