HeatMarie

The candlelight enhanced the smell of sautéed peppers, onions and garlic. I stuck my fork into a single noodle and took another bite of Granny’s goulash. There is still something I am missing from her recipe that I can’t quite mimic. I should have payed more attention when she cooked the sauce. Yet, there were more important things to be done. Someone had to set the table and line up the candles just right. It was important that I was able to see her face and the way her eyes would glisten as she told me yet another story from her past.

                “… and then, I took that snake and I swung it over my head. I was hootin’ and hollerin’ and all the women in their Sunday dresses stood up and started runnin’.” She laughed at the memory, even though it ended in a beating that she didn’t feel was fair because her brothers dared her to do it. But still, that memory gave her something. The same as all her stories did. Whether it was picking cotton in the fields and the pain she would feel or the blood she would see running down her fingers, or the time she was walking the ally from Robert’s Restaurant in St. Paul and a man came up behind her and pinned her against a wall.

                “Oh, you gonna rape me?” She asked. “Cause, I was gonna to rape you first.” Again, she smiled proudly.

                I don’t know if half of the stories she told were true. Regardless, what they told me was that she was a strong woman who was not ashamed of them. Why should she have been? Why be ashamed of what we cannot change? There is no reason to hold on to hate or regret. It’s why I don’t believe in regrets. They do nothing for us. And if we can look passed our embarrassments, we can find the lesson we were meant to learn.

                Granny always found a way to make our dinners special through her stories. Perhaps, this is why when I sit down at dinner with someone, I prefer to listen to what they have to say, rather than hear myself talk. I know all my stories. I want to learn from someone else. But isn’t that selfish of me? To not share my stories? To remark that we should not be ashamed of our pasts while holding on to the stories that embarrass me the most?

                Without these experiences in life, I would not be who I am. It is the past that helps us make our present-day decisions. It is our troubles, how we deal with them, and how we over come them that help us decide where we want to go and who we want to be. I heard somewhere of a woman hitting rock bottom and when she got there, she knew the only way to go, was up. We all meet the rocks at different points. The value comes in when we realize we are there and we are ready to make the climb back up.

                There are some people who would rather forget their entire past, where they came from, the problems that they had, and the people who put them in bad places. They feel as though if they just cast it out, all of it, that they will never go back. That somehow, that makes them better. But does it? Or do you just end up living a lie?

                We are all dealt different cards. Yes, with sleight of hand we can mask the truth. We can change the cards to show a different face or make them disappear entirely. But that doesn’t change where we started. It only changes where we are going.

                I can’t say my ideology of life now has always been this. It took me time to get here. To be proud of even the worst times of my life. To know that I have come so far from the lost, lonely and scared little girl that I was. I haven’t gotten to where I truly want to be, because even as I write this, I struggle to put the words on paper. I feel a nervousness rattling inside of me. Telling me I am not ready. Saying that the world doesn’t need to know. Maybe you don’t. But it’s time that I tell it, anyway. You never know what the person sitting on the other side of the table will be able to take from it.

                It would be so easy for me to keep this all a secret. To be elusive in all my details and tell you about this girl I once knew. I knew that girl very well. She had a dark mind that she just couldn’t seem to control. She heard voices. She didn’t know why but at times she wished for them to stop. She believed they were brought on by the monster who haunted her dreams.

                The first dream she ever had of this monster was when she was about 11. In her dream, she was at a birthday party. It was held at Laroma’s. There were presents on the table, balloons filled the room. It was supposed to be a good time. For her, it wasn’t. There was something evil lurking. A man stood in the corner. A big man with a round face. He smiled at her, and when he smiled all she could see was decaying teeth and a murderous look in his black eyes.

                She hid under the table with all the presents. Hoping he wouldn’t find her. But he did. He peeked his head under the table and smiled, “There you are.” He said.

                She ran. She ran fast and she ran home. When she got to the house on Latimer street she was out of breath and exhausted. The porch was covered with boxes. Big boxes, small brown boxes. They were stacked high. But she had to get to the door. Inside the door it was safe. It was home. If only she could get there, she knew she would be okay.

                She climbed over the first box. It was empty so instead of making it over she fell into it. She was still small and struggled to get out. She could feel his presence. She felt him behind her and then felt the cold death grip of his hand on her arm.

                She woke up in her pink room in the daybed Granny just bought her. She didn’t want to sleep. She couldn’t. But she didn’t want to get out of bed for fear of what was prowling in the darkness. The monster could still be there.

                “Maybe paparoo is awake. I’m sure he’s awake.” She got up and opened the door. It would be easy to just walk into momma’s room; she was sleeping though. And the girl didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to dream. Not anymore. And not to mention, she was a big girl and girls this age don’t crawl into bed with their parents because they have a nightmare.

                Instead, she walked down the tiny hall. Sara’s bedroom was behind her. There was no light shining underneath that door. The girl knew her sister was sleeping and had to make the last stretch down the stairs. There was a light shinning down there.

                The banister though… There are gaps between the posts that hold the smooth dark railing. “He could get me; he could grab my ankle. He was tall enough. If he is waiting in the dark, he could.” It has happened before when some one would try and scare her or when they were playing monsters. He could be there.

                “Just run, run fast.” Her other voice told her. “Stop thinking about it. It was just a dream. Just count the stairs. There are 23 of them. Just count to 23.”

                She counted each stair as she held her left hand out to touch the wall. The railing wasn’t an option. She wouldn’t get that close to the possibility of the monster getting her. Reaching the bottom step, she dashed the few feet to the doorway, stopped, and walked in.

                “What are you doing up?” Paparoo asked. He was playing Everquest and barely looked away from his game.

                “I had a nightmare.” The girl said.

                “Oh. Want to play?” There wasn’t much need for talk. The girl just agreed and logged on to the character she named Kidic, a mage. And she played. She played that game passed the time Paparoo went to bed, and when the sun finally came up, she was able to go to sleep. Monsters don’t come in the daylight.

                That monster never stopped haunting my dreams. It was as though he wanted his story written. His image brought to life. The next dream I remember of him, I was 18 or 19. I was driving Paparoo’s Probe, it was dark, and I could barely see the road. My ex-boyfriend from 8^th grade and his friend were with me. That was never a good thing. They always seemed to find trouble. In fact, it was with them that I got arrested for the first and only time in my life.

                The road was dark. We were laughing at first. The road changed to grass and I was losing control of the car. The guys kept laughing and I was terrified. A lake came out of nowhere and I tried to stop, but the car just kept going and I drove into the water. We were drowning. We were drowning until we hit the bottom and the lake turned back into a road.

Now, I was alone in the car. I felt something. I felt something watching me. I looked in my rearview mirror expecting to see a car. What I saw instead, was a man with a sunken face, a thin layer of skin was all that covered his bones. His eyes were black as death and when he smiled, I saw his pointy decaying teeth. He leaned forward, and with a sing-song voice he said, “I’m baaack.”

                I woke up to the radio turning on. The Police’s I’ll be watching you had just hit the chorus. “I shut that off before I fell asleep.” I told myself. I jumped up, turned around because the radio sat right at the head of my bed and I flipped the off switch. I guess I never turned it off, or maybe in my frantic nightmare I moved my hands and hit the switch that turned it on. I didn’t care. The only thing that I cared about was my sanity. Because if he was back, it meant that the world was going to get dark again. This time, I was so far gone I wasn’t sure if I would be able to climb back up from the bottom of the ocean that I was drowning in.

                I blamed the monster in my dreams for all my suicidal thoughts. It’s what made sense, for it was easier to blame an entity that didn’t exist rather than blame myself.

                The night started off wrong. I was working at Wendy’s and I heard sirens. Something told me they were going to my house. “Stop being stupid, Heather.”

                Less then twenty minutes later I got a call from my sister saying someone backed into the gas meter. They needed me to come home to help with the dogs and the kids. The manager working told me I could leave when I finished cleaning. I wanted to argue and just leave. But I didn’t. Not until another co-worker came up to me and said, “I’ll finish all of this. You have to go.” I thanked him and left.

                I parked behind another car on the side of the road and watched the lights flashing around the house we planned to party in as soon as I got home. They warned to be cautious. That gut feeling told me, “Not tonight, Heather. Don’t drink tonight.” Everything was going wrong. That should have been the first sign. But I just wanted to get drunk. I wanted to forget the feeling of despair, anguish, hurt.

                When all was good again, I rode with Sara’s friend to pick up a guy I worked with. She thought he was cute. Her story is not mine to tell but fill in the blanks as you like. I knew it was a bad idea because I knew he liked me. I knew I had a boyfriend. He knew I had a boyfriend. Guy’s can just be friends, right?

                It only took a few drinks before he gently tugged on my arm and I found myself sitting on his lap. I laughed, then got up. I might have stayed there for a minute.

                Things get blurry and broken from this point on, because I don’t remember much. He tried to kiss me, or he did? I don’t remember which. I remember telling him I had a boyfriend. He got upset, then stormed out the front door. I called out saying we would give him a ride home and I can still hear his voice saying he would just walk.

                “Heather, you ruin everything.” The monster in my head said to me.

                No, it wasn’t supposed to come to this. None of this was supposed to happen. It wasn’t my intention.

                “What was? Don’t be so stupid to believe that you didn’t know this would happen. You wanted it to.”

                No, no I didn’t. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I was crying as I fell to my knees. The dog ran pass me. I tried to grab him, but he got away.

                “God damnit, Heather. You let the dog out!” Someone yelled at me.

                Everyone was gone. I was alone.

                “This is your time. Do it now. Put everyone out of the misery you cause them. Do it.”

                No, I don’t want to. I’ll just play Dance Dance Revolution. Or maybe I’ll go to sleep.

                “There is a bottle of Jager down stairs that you stashed when Brent left. Go take it, drink it all. It’ll be easy.”

                I hesitated for a moment and looked at the dance mat that still sat on the floor.

                “No one will know it was intentional. You already had five or six drinks, if not more. If you just go downstairs, drink the rest of that bottle, crawl into bed and fall asleep no one will ever know.”

                Just leave me alone. The tears were still falling down my cheeks as I begged for the monster inside my head to stop. So, what? I messed up. The world doesn’t have to stop there.

                “No one will ever forgive you for tonight. Everything is all your fault. You and I both know they will all be better off without you.”

                I found myself walking through the kitchen. Down the stairs by the back door, turning to go down the stairs that led to my basement bedroom. I walked around the corner to the dresser, pulled open the drawer and pulled out the bottle I stashed there.

                I don’t want to.

                “Because you’re scared. Stop being a selfish pussy and just do it. You know it’s the right thing to do. Just drink the bottle and crawl into bed. Lay down and no one will ever know. We won’t have to tell a single soul.”

                I put the bottle to my lips, and I drank it breathlessly. I felt drops running down my chin and falling onto my shirt.

                “You don’t have to be a slob about it. You’re wasting drops.”

                I took a breath and continued to drink it. Taking large gulps at a time and trying not to spill a single drop.

                I fell. I felt my face hit the wall, but I didn’t feel the pain. My body had gone numb. But my brain was still going.

                I heard the door open up and I heard Sara call my name.

                “Get up Heather, they are coming. You can’t let them find you on the floor like this. Get up!” I tried to move I felt my muscles react, but I stayed still. It was as though my own body turned to dead weight and was resisting every move I tried to make. “Will you get the fuck up and get into bed? Now!”

                Footsteps came down the stairs. Sara and her friend were there. They found the empty bottle and I think they asked me how much I drank. I blacked out.

                Pieces of the rest of that night are mixed inside my brain and I still don’t know the correct order. I remember talking to Brent. He was still in Iraq, and I think I heard him crying over the phone. I told myself that wasn’t true because he doesn’t cry.

                The next thing I remember, I was laying on the living room floor. I asked myself how I got here and watched the lights. There was yelling. Angie was there now. They were trying to say anything to me to snap me out of whatever fucking craze I had gone into. I heard a voice that told me Brent was dead. And I thought, no I just talked to him. If he is, then it’s my fault. It’s always my fault. There was no reason left to live anymore. I blacked out again.

                I woke up in the ambulance with a guy asking me questions. He was nice. I wish I could have remembered his name. I’m sure he told me it. But my memory doesn’t let me remember the ride or going into the hospital.

                I woke up with a tube down my throat and Jenny sitting next to me on the phone. “She almost died.” I heard her voice cracking as she spoke on the phone. I am a sucker when it comes to other people crying. More so, when it is my fault. I started sobbing. I tried to control it. I didn’t want her to know I was a wake. I didn’t want to be awake in the first place.

                It was the first time I seen Jenny in what? Years? Her hair was long. That was my first thought. Out of all the people why was she there? Jenny cried as she held on to my hand.

                At some point they took the damn miserable tubes out of my body. And allowed me up to go to the bathroom. I walked there, closed the door behind me, peed for what seemed like an hour straight, got up and looked in the mirror.

                I had a fat lip, bruises over my entire body and claw marks down my throat. I looked how I felt; like I just went to hell and back. “What did you do?” I asked myself.

                After getting released from the hospital, Jenny and I made a quick stop at Walmart. We got a few things and during our checkout the lady across from us said to me, “I hope the other guy got what he deserves.” I found the humor in that. Because I was still alive and what did I deserve for doing this to myself? The lifetime embarrassment of a story that will start with, “That one-time Heather got so drunk”?

                A few days or a week later I went back into work. Everyone was nice enough to not ask too many questions, but still asked if I was okay. What do you say to that? If you are me, it’s the usual response of, “I’m fine.”

                A couple came in and I took their order and as I was waiting for it to be made the man asked me, “How did you get those marks on your neck?” I looked at him. I didn’t know what to say. Do I tell them the truth? Well, that’s not appropriate. I looked from him to his wife.

“Must have been a cat,” She said. “It was a cat wasn’t it? They make those type of marks.” I just nodded my head, gave a half ass smile. I got their food, set it on the try, and let out my breath when they finally walked away.

                “Cat’s don’t make those type of marks.” The man said as the two of them walked over to the pop machine.

                I wish it had been a cat who left me with marks and bruises for weeks. It would have been a different story. Perhaps, one easier to tell.

                However hard the past may be to admit, however difficult the story is to tell or the tears you cry while doing it, it doesn’t change what had happened. Nor do I really want it to.

                After all, these are the stories that we should want to be told. Are they sad? Yeah. Did bad things happen? Yeah. But when I had a friend over the phone tell me, “If you ever do something like this again, I will have nothing to do with you.” Those are the moments that people need to hear. It is not because of the words that were said, nor the pain that was caused from them. But the impact they made.

                It took me years and years to understand that no matter how cruel those words or actions of other people around me are, they really don’t matter. What matters is how I learned from them. What happened that I didn’t like? How do I change it? How do I prevent it from happening again? What hurt the most? It took me years to learn the lesson of that whole story. But I now understand it.

                We all want people to raise us up when we are low. To tell us how amazing we are. What is hard to understand, is that it is only when we find our self-value that others will be able to respect it and see it as well. We can be coddled by the lies. But they do nothing for us. It is only within our selves that we can find our true value. It’s a sad complex, yet there it stands. Nothing anyone says to you, will matter as much as how you feel about yourself. If you don’t like it, change it. You can say, “It’s not that easy.” No one said it was. But it’s possible.

                Your past doesn’t have to define who you are. Nor does it have to diminish your value. For you are not your past. You are no longer the person you were ten years ago, or even a week ago. Yet, the past shouldn’t be taken for granted either. If you take what you have had done to you, or what you have done to yourself that is so horrible, and you decide to never let that happen. If you decide that it is time to change for the better, then you should always remember your past, so you never end up back there. Grow from it, don’t let its roots hold you back, but don’t forget where you came from. Don’t hide its existence because you feel you deserved better. Remember, it is the life lessons that made you strong enough to fight against the obstacles that would have otherwise kept you in the same place.

                Regardless of how we feel about the things we have done, or how and where we grew up, the past is no less valuable. In fact, it is these moments that help us rise above who we were and become who we want to be.