Demise Of A Young Girl Into A Woman

Current Revision 2-16-09

The Demise of a Young Girl
The Birth of a Woman


PROLOGUE

I was born in 1960. This is the story of my life. Sometimes I will narrate; sometimes I will talk to you, the reader. Sometimes I will just talk to myself

The places I talk about are real. Most buildings are still standing and the surroundings have not changed much from what I can glean from Google-Earth today.

I have lived in fifty-six places since I've been born. They have spanned from coast to coast.In 1992 I moved to  Florida, which is where I currently reside.

My mind has made many more moves, never waiting around long enough to get my approval. Sometimes it races off without me, sometimes it lags behind.My telling of events jump around a bit, both in place and time. It is the nature of my memory. As I roam around my forty-eight year old brain, I am finding it increasingly difficult to  keep my memories and experiences from colliding. I have as many demons, as I have clowns entertaining me and generally wasting my time.

The, confusion is real. For no particular reason some little life event will take up residence in my mind and capture all of my attention….until the next one comes along. These thoughts are all just as important as they are meaningless. It depends on my point of view at the time

Anyway, what I am about to tell you will all probably seem like fiction. Nevertheless, it is all true, I lived it…and unbelievably, I am winning.

CHAPTER ONE: LOSING TRACK OF PLACE AND TIME

***AUGUST 1976, RATON, NEW MEXICO****

The Palace Hotel had become home to me. The three-story building was built in 1896. The bar and restaurant occupied the first floor and there were two floors of empty hotel rooms above, except for the manager’s apartment that that been converted for a suitable living quarters. At this point, I had endured living with my father for nine long torturous months.

Now, I had to get us out of there. My little brother, Paul had only moved in with us a month ago and he was already in grave peril. Dad had begun hitting him for just about anything. This convinced me even more that I had to plan. I had to make a plan. I started squirreling away money from tips I made in the restaurant and bar downstairs. I finally gathered enough to buy two bus tickets back home. The plan would be; we’d run to the bus station seven blocks away and catch the last one leaving for Amarillo. I could not wait to get down the stairs and outside the hotel. I could not wait for my sweat to touch the cold night air. I knew I had to do this. I had to take this risk. I was going to get my little brother and me far, far away from that monster.

The plan was so fail safe, I could almost see my heart thumping through my shirt! Dad would be working downstairs and would not know we were gone for several hours! I was so excited; I could not keep the shit-eating grin off my face.

And then the door opened. I could not believe it. I would not let myself believe that the squeaky knob on the door was turning. It was as if in slow motion. My vision zoomed into the knob. Yes, it was definitely turning. The attempt to escape instantly evaporated. My perfect plan to run away had just fallen dreadfully short.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The “look” came over his face. That is when the real insanity began. After he saw my luggage and the bus tickets in my pocket, everything began to turn red. I honestly watched this man turn into his demon. As he took it all in, he slowly shook his head and said “Tsk, tsk tsk.”

The fist that hit my jaw was so lightening fast I didn’t even feel it. All I knew was that I was no longer standing and I was staring at the ceiling. Oh my God. I’ve done it. I am going to die tonight. I felt like a Jew who had just been caught by the Nazis. I knew it was over. After enduring hours of torture, I didn’t care anymore. Just finish it. Please just finish it. That is when he won.

A dog only needs to be beat once but thoroughly for a transgression. It will never make that mistake again. It learns instantly. My father became kind and sat the bottle of whisky down next to me. I had never been so grateful. I would never, ever try to leave him again.

When I woke up, I wasn’t sure if I was dead or alive. The last thing I remembered was my dad putting a gun to my head, his eyes ablaze in a scotch soaked rage. He was screaming that he had nothing left to live for. I knew I was going to pay dearly for standing up to the psychotic empire in his head.

It must have been quite disconcerting to him when I collapsed unconscious in a corner of the small main room in the flat above the bar. Like a pathetic doomed rabbit, it seemed as if my heart had burst before things went to black. It was in that corner that he left me, not quite knowing how to handle a situation that he did not completely control. There’s no telling how long he looked at me before he sat down on the day-bed that doubled as a couch and poured another drink.

I found him passed out in the bedroom obscenely exposed and snoring with gusto. “I could do it,” I thought. “I could end this right now.” However, as much as I hated him, I did not have the nerve to look for the gun. He could have woken up at any time and it would be best to act as if nothing had happened the night before. So I threw away my ripped clothing and quietly unpacked my bag, silently hanging my belongings in the closet he had built especially for me in the bedroom where we slept.

It was just before 7:00 am. School was starting in an hour and a half. Not much time but enough to clean myself up and gather my senses. A bath consoled me but it wasn’t soothing. After getting dressed, I proceeded to commence a normal day.

I found Paul downstairs in the restaurant kitchen. He was preparing his normal breakfast, a chunk of French bread drenched in half-and-half. Heated slightly it was his favorite breakfast. He hunched over not daring to find out who was approaching, but it was me. I could see the stone cold fear in his eyes lessen somewhat.

“So it didn’t work,” I said, as if he did not know already. Paul trusted me and I let him down. I felt like shit.

As some sort of consolation I said, “Don’t worry, he doesn’t think you had anything to do it and it’s going to stay that way. I promise.”

I saw his shoulders relax a bit. Then he turned his face back down to the bowl of milk and bread and I watched as huge drops of tears fell into the bowl. He would not look at me as I started chiding him.

“Stop it! I mean it! Do you want us to get caught? Get out of here! Hurry up and get to school!” 

I was getting mad now. I knew my Dad was almost comatose upstairs, but if he did come down and see Paul like that, he would go nuts. He would realize Paul was a co-conspirator in my ruthless plot to leave. He would probably even accuse him of planning the whole thing and persuading me to go along.

The scenarios in my head were now unbearable. I really did not need this right now.

“I said move it, now, before he wakes up. PLEASE!”

With that, Paul finally dropped his spoon, got up and dumped his bowl into the trash. “Thanks for trying,” he whispered. The failed plan would always be our little secret.

I had mixed feelings when my mother thought it would be good for Paul to come stay with us. Though my father seethed over this, he could not come up with a legitimate excuse to disagree. The better part of me thought it was a bad idea. But another part of me thought it could possibly turn out to my advantage.

My optimism evaporated after learning it would not stop the abuse. I thought that since Paul would be living with us, Dad wouldn’t have the opportunity to make me sleep with him. I was wrong. He made Paul move into one of the hotel rooms down the hall and Dad would allow him in our flat only at certain times.

Dad hated him and showed it in numerous ways that got worse and worse. I had already become used to my living conditions and I accepted it as normal. However, to see my little brother, only twelve years old, be abused so cruelly was crushing me. I didn’t know he would have to endure this for another very long year.

Throughout that next year, Paul changed. He learned that his survival depended on his ability to stay invisible around my dad. However, as much as he tried, Dad would seek him out. It was worse than a cat with a mouse. It wasn’t just physical, as if that weren’t bad enough. Watching my brother being pulled around by the ear everyday made me turn away, ashamed that I was glad it wasn’t me. But it was almost more painful to listen to the taunts, jabs and put-downs my dad would hurl at him every time he had the chance.

Dad wanted him around as little as possible, so there was no question he would enroll in school. It gave Paul a respite from my dad, but he was picked on constantly for being a minority white boy. The school’s student body was over 80% Mexican.

He learned to fight well and he learned to give “the look” which said, “I’m crazy; I have nothing to loose.” Then he would face his antagonists. In a startlingly calm and low voice, he would let them know he was ready. He was not the least bit afraid. He promised that even though they may beat him up, he would inflict some serious, low-down, dirty damage before the fight was through. The weird smile that appeared on his face was scary. He was actually looking forward to the challenge, which is not what most bullies are used to. 

It wasn’t too long before he was pretty much left alone. In fact, he was avoided. I was proud that he had stood up for himself. I was relieved he was not coming home with a black eye or busted lip everyday. But deep down something concerned me. I could not quite put my finger on it. I think what was bothering me was watching the way Paul was beginning to not care….about anything.

How could such a magical, beautiful, peaceful place such as northern New Mexico become such a mental and spiritual killing field? Anywhere, even Hell had to be better than this. Years later, I sat transfixed in a movie theater featuring “The Shining.” I could not believe that the story was fictional; they had to know that they truly captured the evil so immediately, so fiercely …so… intimately. Moreover, they recorded it on film for all to see. I do not think anyone understood just how real Jack was, but I knew. I had lived with Jack, only his name was Don. I had come to believe that some creatures were genuinely born or shaped to destroy others. 

If I was going to survive, the main thing I would have to overcome was my heritage. A linear portrait of alcoholism, brutality and suicide had left little sunlight on what others called “The Future.” I was intuitive enough to ponder my predicament, which threatened to push me over the edge of my existence.

It was not unlike the clip I had seen on TV that still haunts me. A grainy black and white video documented hysterical mothers clutching their babies and leaping off a giant cliff to the jagged rocks of the ocean’s edge below. It was World War II and the women were making a choice of death over the fear and dread of being captured by the American soldiers.

The south pacific island had been taken over from the decimated Japanese forces left to defend it. I have wondered over and over what the women were thinking as they leapt to their certain deaths. Was it relief, a kind of bliss? Was it total abject terror? On the other hand, was it a mix between the two? Was it absolute insanity or serene release?

I outlived the dismal and desperate circumstance that rarely sees one past the ripe old age of eighteen. There is no explanation as to how or even why I reemerged…raw…but alive…much to the chagrin of some…yet still very much alive….and still very, very raw. It has been a long and arduous road but my soul has not been lost. My light has never completely gone out.

CHAPTER 2 DECEMBER, 2008, MELBOURNE, FLORIDA- MEET DR PETERSON

Now it is almost Christmas 2008. I am forty-eight and I feel like caving in. I have just completed a two-month residential treatment program and I don't feel any better, in fact, I feel worse.

I am sitting in yet another doctor’s office and I admit that I am pretty damned jaded. Here I am, many years later and still very sick. I feel my grip slipping slightly. It’s becoming harder to see the dreams that keep me moving forward. Living in my head is almost unbearable. Am I losing faith? I have a notion that this is a complete a waste of time. My experience tells me two distinct things:  One: my past may very well not be overcome. Two: the first thought is bullshit because I am still here. So I’m left with another thought: Am I going to give up now? 

Does not every hour seem like a day? ...everyday of my life? Gary Don, my father is dead now. But that doesn’t mean he’s lost all of his influence. Alive, he was a force to be reckoned with. But sometimes he rules from beyond the grave, up through the dirt and over the small plaque that bears his name. It is safe to say that all or nearly all of those who came to know him believe this is so. There are many accounts of seeing him after he died, and not just in dreams.

It is hard to believe, I know, but when he visited, his presence could not be mistaken. First, there was a dreadful feeling of a hand slowly tightening around your neck. It was accompanied by a faint eerie chuckle that once belonged to a man not easily forgotten. It was so real and close, so familiar. But what absolutely convinced even the strongest skeptic was the particular scent that would meet the nostrils. This would be followed by some sort of ‘accident’, like tripping over an invisible curb.


Run! Run as fast and as far you can! Do not stop for anything! Run! Run through the snow, through the darkness of night, through the brightness of middle-day! Just run! The sheer terror evoked my innate flight response; to turn and fight would be completely insane. He always won at everything.

I have been running for so long now, I am worn out. He never leaves me. He haunts me. He controls me. Over thirty years have gone by and my reliance on alcohol and drugs is killing me. I have to find another way to make him leave, or at least fade into the background.

He is always there, influencing my every living moment. I can hear him whispering in my ear, telling me all sorts of things, like how much of a piece of shit I am. Or how I deserve to feel miserable. I wanted it, I wanted him, he repeats over and over. Part of me silently screams back in defiance; a part of me believes him.

From 1975 until 1977, I lived with my dad. Then fortune smiled on me and I did find a way to leave him though it was a total accident. It somehow broke him. He would never get over it. He would never forget. I did not realize I would pay an eternal price for being with him. I would never escape him, mentally. He is always right there, chiding me, goading me, telling me to die so I can amend my betrayal.

And, yes, sometimes I want to die, I think. It would be easier than partiicpating in the never-ending bad movie my life has become. It is weird that I am still alive. Over the years, I have overdosed at least twenty  times and have been in at least eight treatment centers. Some have helped and some have not. I have had periods of sobriety but the nightmare remains.

The lure of death is attractvie and I am fighting it. I am fighting it for one reason. I do not want him to win. I want to win, once and for all. It's time to take a stand, win or lose. If I don't it soon, the choice is going to be taken from me.

My gifts are also curses. My intelligence has proven to be as much a liability as an asset. An eerie sense of foreboding compels me to understand the unexplainable. I have developed a self-reliance that is warped yet effective. I am forced to process all of my surroundings immediately. I have built an ability to rationalize insanity.

The one tiny truth that still rings within me is that I may deserve to live, but I find this difficult to accept… it just doesn’t seem right. The force that keeps me alive has not left me; it just feels really uncomfortable right now.

It is either my saving grace or tom-foolery that I am the forever optimist. I do my best to believe that I can be helped. I have this weird idea that if I share my experience with someone who really cares; someone who really understands me; then maybe I can get ‘well’, whatever that means. Maybe one more time someone can help me; even help me enough to want to live again as I did long ago, when I wanted to survive more than anything. However, I do not just want to survive, I want to be happy. Again, whatever that means!

Please let me explain my conundrum. As I have already stated, years ago when I was young and lived under the constant threat of harm or death, I fought like hell to survive. I was desperate to stay alive under circumstances that would compel many to choose an easier way out. So why do I feel this way now? Where is my gratitude? Where is my relief to be alive?

For most of my life, I’ve forced myself to receive just enough help required to remain alive. That has been the main goal, keep myself from dying. My mind has been turned over to so many experts (I use that term loosely) so many times, for so long that I almost cannot remember when I was not a patient. I have paid so much for my sanity. Money is the least of my losses.

The consensus has been unanimous: I am an extremely flawed individual. It is a miracle I am still alive. Last, but not least: “There’s something different about you, there’s some sort of…..strength? Luck? Will?” Then there is always the discovery of my split brain. One-half wants to live; the other half wants to die. One-half wants to love myself; the other half pretty much loathes me. One-half has hope, the other half is a complete pessimist.

It has not been the best self-esteem builder to always need help to maintain peace of mind,. I will admit though, I do seem to do better under a Doctor’s care, but I hate it. It is a classic example of my split brain.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve added other objectives to the role I think  therapy should fulfill for me. The number one goal, staying alive, is of course the never changing top priority. I should probably note here that there have been three sucides in four generations, on my mother’s side of the family. That’s where I get the diagnosis “Generational, Suicidinal, Clinical Depression’.

Since this has taken up most of my time and energy in therapy, I haven’t been able to spend much time on things like ‘self-absorption’, lack of focus/attention (ADHD), the behavioral effects from living with my dad, like paranoia, self-loathing, the night sweats, stuff like that.

Since barely staying alive is all I’ve succeeded in doing, it’s no big  shock to  me that I’m in  sitting yet another  doctor’s office. I admit to myself that I am pretty much petrified.Actually, I am sitting in a Doctor’s office reception area, I’m not in the actual Doctor’s office yet.

I start with a subtle rationalization at first. Carraba’s is just across the street. I can easily drain a glass of wine in less than five seconds. I would be back before anyone even missed me. Oh my God! I am pathetic! I am a damn good bullshit artist, but I even choke on this one.

I aimlessly flip through a well-worn People magazine. I need a distraction. I look down at Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. They truly make me sick. Their happy beautiful lives make me want to throw up. I roll my eyes and turn the pages until coming upon something much more promising. It’s a dismal article about a guy who had to cut his leg off to escape being trapped in his burning tractor. Now that is more like it! I become absorbed with this man’s struggle. Not only has he cut his leg off with a nail file, now he is struggling through acres of corn, unable to be seen by anyone. He will die if a miracle does not happen soon.

“Susan?” My hypersensitive startle response causes me to jump out of my seat. I look up and Dr. Peterson is smiling, summoning me into her office. Her eyes reveal such compassion, which feels peculiar to me. I not used to this. She seems genuinely caring and that is what I want to think, but I can’t wrap my brain around the concept. Can this woman be the one to save me from myself? Again?

I immediately love her office. It is small and relaxed. The seats are low and welcoming, covered in soft comfortable leather. The subtle ambiance and uncluttered surroundings are unusually calming to me, as I am not usually calm anywhere outside my living room.

A window starting low from the floor is amazingly huge for such a small office. The view from this window is almost entirely taken up by a beautiful quiet little lake. There are sloping hills on the opposite side, beautifully manicured. I realize why when I see an occasional golf cart roll to a stop so someone can look for a lost ball.

My attention is drawn to a strange looking creature crawling out of the water and onto the bank. I am amused as I watch it stand up on its hind feet, look around, and then roll over on its back to sunbath.

Without thinking, I blurt out “Is that an otter over there?”

She leans over to look out the window and looks as delighted as I am. She assures me that it is indeed an otter; there are several of them living nearby.

We both watch, mesmerized, waiting for the little guy’s next move, which was to stretch and then scamper back into the lake. I feel like I watching a live episode of Meerkat Manor.

It is soothing to stare out the window and I begin to see all sorts of exotic birds glide in and land on the lake in search for their dinner. As they bob their beaks into the water, most are successful. This makes me happy for them but sad for the fish.

I lose myself in all the action of nature unfolding in front of me. Then I become aware that she is pulling herself from the scene and settling back into her chair. That’s when it strikes me that we have not yet begun to formally engage with each other.

I’ve appreciated the diversion. Now it’s fading. I didn’t come here to nature watch. I take a short glance towards her. She is gazing at me intently, but I don’t feel intimidated. We just shared a beautiful moment! Didn’t we? Hell I don’t know, I don’t know much of anything anymore.

My nerves begin to get the best of me. What will happen now? I begin to shake. She notices but makes no issue of it.

Either I go against my better judgment or go along with my worst but I begin to really, really like her. It is strangely normal for me. I always want to believe when someone is nice to me they are instantly my friend. This is just one of my never learned lessons.

No matter how much I doubt my likeability, somewhere inside in that little unknown place, I secretly like myself. I want people to adore me, who doesn’t? My problem was I
I have been tricked many, many times before by putting my trust in the wrong people. I seldom learn from my mistakes, which I guess is why I am here.

This is probably just another futile effort. She’s most-likely has a  misguided notion that she can help me where some have been minimally successful and others have thoroughly failed. Why would she want to take my case? Certainly, she has read my chart. I am wondering why she is seeing me at all. I wonder if she asks herself the question I have constantly mulled over myself:  Am I even helpable?

She waits. I wait. How you start, I wonder.

“Umm, I guess I need to apologize for canceling my first appointment.”

“Well you’re here now and that’s what matters” she replied, still looking at me, her blue eyes locked on mine.

“So do you know why I’m here?” I want to know.
.
I feel a little cagey. I look away while waiting for an answer. She looks at her notes, then nods.

“Well, you’ve been referred from an intensive treatment center and now you’re establishing an aftercare plan, is that right?”

”Yeah, you’re pretty much it.”

“All they gave me was your phone number. They said you specialized in treating trauma. You’re also a relapse specialist, right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, tapping her pen slightly on her chin. She frowned while looking at the information sent from the Ranch. It was a thin document with sparse details.

“Hmm, this not normally what’s provided for aftercare, especially after spending  two months at such an intensive treatment program as the one you were released from. The usual procedure would be to enroll you in an extensive outpatient program that provides daily care. Your treatment is supposed to continue in a safe supervised environment. Then also, attendance in AA and group therapy are additional tools to help you remain successful in your recovery. They didn’t prepare anything like that for you before you left? “

“Nope, just you.”

“That is really, really odd. I cannot imagine why they did that. They do list your conditions, ADHD, Complex PTSD, Clinical Depression, Alcohol and drug addiction. But as far as successful treatment, nothing is mentioned. That in itself is unsettling. It does state here that you were bullied and ostracized by the other patients. That is sounds quite traumatic in its self. How were you affected by that?”

I can’t help but smirk. The Recovery Ranch was the biggest sham. $18,000 dollars a month for what amounted to a frickin’ horror house. I was robbed of more than my sanity! I could not explain how much I was hurt there.

I stare out the window. Suddenly I feel so dark.

“Well, let’s just say I’m glad I’m not there anymore. Treatment can sometimes be a real joke, a complete rip-off if you ask me!”

Oops. My sudden agitation takes me by surprise. I do not mean to be sarcastic and I certainly do not want to appear rude. Nevertheless, I was still such a wreck. I was completely shattered after two months of hell in Tennessee. Obviously, it showed.

I am really shaking now. I am breathing funny. My eyes are watering which pisses me off. I hate showing my true vulnerability.

She gently handed me a Kleenex box and sat back down, studying the file. I am relieved that she does not acknowledge my outburst.

If I had said something like that at the Ranch, they would be running frantically for some off-the-wall serious medication to put me into a coma. I am not kidding, it was that bad.

“Hmm, from what I can glean from your chart, it looks like they did more damage than good. Now I understand their reluctance to release your information. What they did send is so generic it is not helpful. Something does not seem right; in fact I know something’s not right. They just kind of dropped you into nowhere. That is not accepted procedure and it borders on unethical. It certainly was irresponsible on their part I’m sorry you had to go through that. Have you considered any sort of legal action?”

“I’ve thought about filing a suit but I just don’t have the energy for that right now. I would rather just forget about the whole experience. I’m glad they gave me your number though.”

I glanced up to gauge her reaction. She smiled gently and nodded. “Yes me too, and I can understand your reluctance to take on another battle, should we say? From what I gather, you need some peace in your life. It seems as if all you have had lately is chaos. I think you’re due for just a little bit of a break, am I right?”

She gazed at me with such empathy, it made me cry harder. Dammit!!

But I instantly think to myself “This is very intuitive woman, I like that!”  I fail to take into account my obvious demeanor is displaying someone on the verge of a complete mental break down.

After a few more minutes of the usual formative questions required on a first therapist visit, I actually began to calm down a little. I’m able to stop hiccupping. I desperately need a cigarette. Nicotine is becoming a complete singular obsession.

“Susan, I think I can help you. I want to help you. Do you think you would like to proceed? Do you want to see me every week? Do you have an idea of what you want from therapy? “

Geeez, I hadn’t even thought about that.

“Well, uh, hmm, well”….uhh….

I trailed off; trying to consider what the answers to these questions were, but I did not have a clue.

Then looking at the floor I said quietly, “I don’t know, exactly, but yes, I think I’d like to see you again.”

Now this could not have just come from my mouth. What am I saying? I don’t even know why I am here and I asking to come back. What the fuck is my mind thinking?

“That’s good. Then we can start planning a proper aftercare program for you. By the way, you mentioned my experience with relapse. How are you doing with that?”

Oh, God, why did she have to ask that? I can’t tell her I’m drinking again! The first thing I did when I got back from Tennessee was buy a fifth of Canadian Club. It was the first time I felt good in a long time. If I tell her the truth, she probably won’t see me again, I think. The definition of a ‘relapse’ specialist escapes me. I expect immediate rejection.

For some reason, I don’t want to jeopardize the chance to see her again. Yet I am in so much turmoil. I want to see her but I don’t know why I want to see her. God I hate that! The committee in my head was having a heyday.

I knew I couldn’t lie. Finally I spoke. “Well I’ve had a little problem with drinking since I’ve been back.”

I looked up expecting all kinds of judgment to show on her face, but that is not what I saw. She just nodded tenderly. She stood up and moved towards her desk a few feet away and turned, resting her backside on its edge, with her legs crossed, stretched out in front of her.

That is when I noticed she was just a waif of a thing, probably 5 foot 5, 120 pounds. I would later learn that she was 43. She looked so soft and undamaged. She was quite pretty, yet unassuming. Her blonde hair was soft and wispy. She had soft bangs and her small, diminutive ears were exposed while the rest of her hair fell just above her shoulders. I detected a wisdom that belied her age.

I tried to hide my scrutinizing but I couldn’t help stealing a glance as she crossed her arms and gazed out at the lake. Leaning against her desk, she looked pensive, as if contemplating something. She stayed in that position for quite some time, in fact more time than I was comfortable with. I knew she was mulling things over. It was obvious she was in the midst of making an important decision.

I have been in these situations before and they usually did not bode well for me. I feel like a defendant waiting for a jury that is taking waaaaay too long. I get lost in my drama and start thinking “Oh the agony, the agony!”

I’m snapped  back to reality when she lifts herself from the desk and takes the few strides to her chair. I watch as she kicks off her sandals, turns and sits back down, tucking her legs up underneath her.

Now this really does amuse me. No, it delights me! This is very, very cool. She has no hesitation being barefoot. I can relate to that. Still it is somewhat unconventional, I think and I feel myself smiling. In fact, I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to conceal my enchantment. Then she looked at me and spoke.

“Susan, under the circumstances, it would surprise me if you hadn’t relapsed. Like I’ve said, the nature in which you were released is completely unethical. To release you from that program with no support provided whatsoever? It is unheard of and it really disturbs me. You were set up to fail. Relapse is inevitable without proper support. You need to understand I realize this. This is not your fault. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Gulp. What? What? What is she saying? She gently asks me to look at her. This is not easy but finally I lift my head up. If anyone could say, “I support you” with their eyes, it was her. I am in a dream and I will pummel anyone who wakes me up.

With a remarkable calmness, she stood up, walked over, and studied a calendar hanging on the wall.

God, what does she do, live on valium? How come she’s so…..so….calm, so nice? 

“We’ll go talk to the secretary and I’ll make sure we fit you in. Do you think you’ll be ok till then?”

I do not have a true answer for this, so I lie.

“Sure, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’d like to give you my cell phone number, just in case you need to talk before your next appointment.”

Now this was too much! It is a rare practice to provide a cell number to a new client.
I did not know what to think of this woman. I did not know what to think about anything. I was completely unhinged by the events of the last year and it just kept getting weirder and weirder. I had come to expect anything, everything and nothing. But this was over the top!
.
She walked with me to the reception area and I was handed a card with an appointment date for the next week, with her number on the back. I walked outside with the card still in my hand. I felt like I had just been given a golden ticket. Boy oh boy, am I confused! I feel almost happy yet I also feel that familiar echo of sadness. I couldn’t wait to talk to her again. I also dreaded coming back.

Unexpectedly, I started hoping she was not just a mirage or some small blip in the unreal existence I had been living. Just the thought of liking her scared me. But it also put a smile on my face. It gave me a good feeling, though I wasn’t sure why. I knew one thing. I could not make plans, that ability had escaped me. I could not keep a straight thought in my head; they were all crooked, coming at me sideways. It was an extremely caring gesture but I certainly wouldn’t be using that phone number.

I stepped outside into a fog even though the sky was clear and the sun was painfully cheerful. A cigarette was definitely the answer and I sucked on it like a locked up unfortunate over at the stark county jail.

Then I took the next step to quiet the turmoil. I got in my truck and blasted the stereo. Perfect. Get lost in the music, my reliable distraction that understands my pain. It relates to me, tells my story, and makes me feel not so alone. It helps me swerve when my brain goes into overdrive, heading straight for a cliff.

I loaded my newest compilation CD. I love making compilations and thanks to “free” download services from the Internet, I have an endless source of musical expressions for my feelings. Mat Kearney started singing Breathe In, Breathe Out. My tears started clouding my vision. Damn! I need to turn left here! As I wiped my cheeks on my sleeve, I began to think about why I was in this position. Why was I seeing another Psychologist? Why?

It is excruciating to deal with two opposite feelings as the same time it feels like my brain is a rubber band stretched to its limit and I am waiting for it to break. My mind is at war with itself and I am never sure who is winning or who is losing. At the present, the committee in my brain is at a complete stalemate. The contradictions in my thoughts begin making me crazier than I am already! So I fight back. “SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCKING HELL UP! I MEAN IT! SHUT THE FUCK UP, NOW!

I decided I would come back. I would keep the appointment for the next week. My sadness is so deep, it weighs me down and I feel like I’m drowning.

Reluctantly, I let myself think about Rachael. I knew I had to talk about Rachael. Since I brought her with me to Florida from Phoenix, I feel like I’m to blame for what happened to her. I have been in a state of torment and confusion since she died on June 29th, 2000. She died horribly, unwillingly, fighting for her very last breath. She was 25. She was my foster daughter. I loved her as my own. Unfortunately, I don’t think she believed that when she died. Now I don’t feel justifiable.

Thank God, Julie is coming home. She has been gone for three weeks. Having her here makes it so much safer. It is as if she puts a shield around me and I can sleep. I love her so much.

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. What is love? Why don’t I know by now? Why does it confuse me so much?

How do we begin? Where does it come from? Where did it start? What is love? Why do we need it?

Most modern science would lead one to believe that love was learned because it was a beneficial social tool, providing all sorts of advantages, such as protection of the children through the bonding of the parents etcetera, etcetera etcetera  According to science, we've been passing these love genes down ever since and they still work for us… usually.

An infant will fail to thrive without a mother's love. This bond is probably the strongest, deepest love affair of all humankind, that between mother and child.

The father, on the other hand, well that is different. It is more illusive, more ambiguous. Yet every single human being has an innate need for a father’s love and it will not die. There is not one soul on the planet that does not strive for their father's love.

Let me tell you a little unknown truth about love. IT CAN KILL.

CHAPTER THREE:  SEPTEMBER 1975

***OKLAHOMA CITY***

I had not seen my father in over two years. He had a slick knack of disappearing when laws were broken and he was wanted for questioning. He had an even better ability to re-enter when the heat was off. When I was thirteen, he had no choice but to leave the state. It had something to do with a low-level mob deal involving an insurance fraud. Too bad, it involved burning a building with someone in it. That spelt murder charges. My dad became invisible for quite awhile.

For the past couple of years I had been quite a problem for my mother and her husband Dick. I had just been kicked out of school for dealing drugs, had overdosed and nearly died in the hospital. This wasn’t the first time. Now I was on homebound teaching twice a week with very little supervision. My mother worked, my step dad worked and I was home all day.

However, I wasn’t just sitting idly around. I was into enterprise. It was fueled by the impossible amount of drugs that my sister and brother in law were stealing from pharmacies all across Oklahoma. First, it was limited to burglaries, cutting holes in roofs, cutting the alarm and filling pillowcases with Class A narcotics that are totally controlled like morphine and demerol, among every other imaginable drug that people were seeking in the mid 70s. My job was to sell the safe stuff; valiums, seconols, dexedrine, white bennies, etc.

I had developed a tendency to test my wares, which had led to my present predicament. I was caught dealing at school, and then overdosed. I was quickly killing myself and my mother didn’t know what to do to stop it.

I was fifteen when he showed up at my mother’s apartment. My dad had the answer. He had resurfaced in the little town of Raton, New Mexico and was thriving there. With a population of 6000, it was not a place to continue a lucrative drug enterprise. Also, he could get me into the little high school and I could get my diploma. Then there was the horse. He would buy me a horse. And on and on and on.

But the main fact was my dad wanted me. He wanted to save me, take care of me. My mother was more than ready to share the burden since she had been carrying the entire load of all four kids for the last few years. I truly believe that no one knew what was going to happen. Well, except for a certain someone. He always planned in advance. I would be going to live with my father in New Mexico.

All the sudden I felt this strange urge to get drunk and find out if The Palace Hotel was real. OK, part of this is strange, I will admit, the other is as normal as breathing. I just may have a mission. I love missions they are distracting! I couldn’t wait to see this place. It sounded magical, the way my dad described it. And it was definitely surreal; I found that out soon enough.

CHAPTER THREE CONTINUED:

***RATON, NEW MEXICO***

It has been proven that it does not take long for the “Stockholm Syndrome” to set in. This is a state where the victim realizes how powerless they are. They realize they must rely on the kindness of their captor to survive. The threat of perishing is real and survival requires pretty much doing anything and everything to please their abuser. This is a common occurrence with persons in such a situation I was forced into.

“You’ll sleep in here now,” he told me the day after I arrived. “After last night, you must know how much I love you…” I just walked like a zombie to the big bed and sat down next to him. I am his daughter. How could this be?

“This can’t be my life….this can’t be my life…the thought kept repeating over and over in my mind….this just can’t be my life! At fifteen, it seemed that I didn’t have much life to compare to but mine has been no ordinary life. 

My father proceeded to LOVE me to death. I was 5 foot tall. I weighed 106 pounds. I had a lethal level of alcohol pulsing threw my entire body. I had my daddy. I had never been so thrilled…until we went upstairs to the apartment above the restaurant that first night.

There, my father forced me into madness. At breakneck speed, I changed. Mind-bending events unfolded and the impossible began happening to me. He yanked my head off, turned it backwards and thrust it back down onto new crooked shoulders. My reality flipped upside down and turned inside out. My life suddenly turned to shit as his twisted worldview, his warped morals and ethics were shoved down my throat. He knew my need for love was so profound I would take it anyway I could get it. He knew the price I would pay.

It wasn’t about me, it never was about me. It was all about that motherfucker. Was I wrong not to see the future? Was I so stupid that I couldn’t see the signs? The devil has two faces. Dad wore a very convincing mask and when it slipped, I knew I was in the presence of pure evil.

My father was a brilliant sociopath. That is not a good combination. A sociopath feels no guilt. Complete disregard for others is justified as long as it benefits him/her. Social norms are dismissed as they just get in the way of whatever self-gratifying goal they are after. In the 1830’s this disorder was called “moral insanity” which described my dad perfectly It didn’t help that he was extremely intelligent which led to very grandiose schemes.

I was amazed at how quickly I accepted that the world was not what I had previously conceived. But I really should not have been, all things considered. I was swiftly convinced to believe the unbelievable. Acceptance gave me some peace and nasty little compromises provided some safety. Surrender allowed me a false sense of security and gave me the opportunity to relax. But my instincts told me there was no going back; there would be not be any more color. Everything became a graveyard gray.

Therefore, rationalization was a powerful tool. Alcohol became my armor. Somehow, it kept me alive. Denial was the most cherished gift alcohol gave to me. This was reinforced when my dad got me completely shit-faced on cream sherry the first night we arrived in Raton. What happened next would have made me entirely insane but the escape that alcohol provided became my savior.

My father attacked me with such a maniacal force; there was no chance to change the circumstances. He got me drunk and raped me. I died in that very instant. He laid me down on the floor and began kissing me all over my face until he found my mouth. He plunged his tongue deeply down my throat and I could feel his weight shifting on top of me. His hands went everywhere, until they found the buttons of my shirt, my pants. “I love you, I love you,” he kept repeating. He left no time for me to process anything before my pants were off and he was in me, still saying repeatedly “I love you.”

There is not a word I can find to express the devastation and sheer disbelief of what I was experiencing. That night my eyes were clamped shut, barely allowing the tears to roll down my side-turned face until they found the crevices of my ear. It was ok though. I heard less.

I learned to agree with everything my father said, but I certainly did not believe everything he tried to drum into my head. I came to believe just enough of his bullshit to remain safe in the realm of his reality, to appear legitmate when I always nodded and agreed with everything he said. Yet I had to limit how much I believed to stay one step shy of losing my sanity. This was extremely difficult. Nodding and appearing to agree with him was usually enough to keep things bearable.

From then on, I willed my eyes to remain open, to laugh at the insanity. My smile became fixed. I began to accept extreme and profound acts of evil as if they were as normal as brushing my teeth or walking the dog.

As time went by, things slowly began to take on the appearance of normalcy. Repetitiveness has an uncanny ability to change one’s perception. As days went by and nights went by, I started to think this was normal and I even felt somewhat safe again. It had become normal to take a few slugs off a pint of Seagram’s 7 before homeroom. Soon I would not have to do that anymore.

My Dad was amazingly powerful. With a small intimate murmur in her ear and a peck on her cheek, the blushing school counselor was all his. An understanding was reached. I was much too intelligent for such remedial education as high school. So then it was no longer unusual having to suck my dad’s penis at 1:00 in the afternoon when I should have been in art class learning the skill of using pastels.

And it became just as normal to lumber downstairs in the morning to serenely drink my coffee with Kailua or Tia Maria or Wild Turkey. The early morning was a golden time for me. He would be unconscious for at least three more hours. I could do what I wanted which was to drink and think in peace. It made me giddy and happy to have so many delightful choices behind the bar and they were all for me! Soon the bar became my favorite place to socialize...and since my dad managed the establishment, it didn’t matter that I was just fifteen.

I was no longer in an ordinary place. I was at the Palace. I was no longer in my time. I was an adult. I was no longer a member of my social world; I was my father’s lover. I was no longer my own, I was his. I stepped into a two year drunken delusion.

I have always had a skill for fitting in with people much older than me. I easily honed my adult veneer, and it didn’t take long before I was one of them. No longer did anyone see me as a child. No longer was it odd to see me up at all hours, wittily conversing with people over twice my age. I was no longer my father’s daughter. That conveniently faded out of everyone’s conscience. It was alarmingly easy to charm or outwit any concern or disbelief because people have an innate need to deny things that make them edgy. On the other hand, maybe they were just convinced that I was a midget. So that’s how I became his most reliable partner, his gopher, his confidante. People started to ask questions if I was not glued to him. I was expected be sitting next to him with the after hours crowd, ordering a double when the server came.

It was not long before I was hanging out, at some cheesy piano bar on the outskirts of town with the rest of the crew. It was almost 2:00 in the morning. I was not yet sixteen and I had already been served two bottles of wine. I was perfectly normal; this was the usual evening for me; until I stood up. That is when the bar started spinning and I threw up all over my dad’s new suede loafers. I was bent over making pathetic noises so my dad patted me soothingly and told me not to cry.

He had no idea I wasstifling a gigantic burst of laughter. Not only had I soiled his shoes, but it also convinced him that I needed pity. I peeked up at him. He had a pout on his face and his shoulders slumped. I immediately forced the evil grin off my face. I was drunk all right, drunk with power! For the rest of the night I would be sleeping next to the toilet, while he slept alone with his unsatisfied boner. Sometimes it is the little justices, the wrongs made right that kept me getting up in the morning.

Then all I had to do was wait… and survive. It was just a matter of time, I kept telling myself, and I was right, eventually. That’s all I had to do, outlast the clock, the days, the months.



CHAPTER FOUR: THE PALACE HOTEL

I can Google pictures of the Palace Hotel. It is listed as number 23 in Registered Historic District in Raton, New Mexico. The entry states: “Palace Hotel (1896). Located on the southwest corner of South First Street and Cook Avenue. Listed on the State Register 8-27-1976”. This just happens to be straight across the street from the NUMBER ONE Registered Historic Listing; the Raton (Amtrak station) built in 1903. Located at 201 South First Street.

Back when it was hotel built it was to accommodate the upstanding travelers coming and going from the train station across Main Street. The building spanned almost an entire block in both directions. Being on a corner gave it an even more dominant presence. The front corner was not really a corner. It was an angled entrance about 10 wide, set back further than the rest of the building. The wall spanned the height of the entire building. Since the manager’s apartment was built directly above the entrance, the main bedroom was a strange shaped room with five walls.

When I was there in the mid 70’s, the train station was raggedy compared to the Palace. Even though the hotel had been shut down long before, the restaurant and bar were still very much viable and had not lost on ounce of its elegant mystique.
The Hotel portion of the Palace had lost its main function when people started using cars more than trains. Then the “old” Main Street was renamed 1st street and was replaced by the “new” Main Street a few blocks over. The new Main Street sported a complete set of three stoplights.

I always mused as to why they were called STOPlights when every night at 6 o’clock all they all turned yellow. Four sides of the lights were set to blinking yellow. I had this weird propensity and urge to combine descriptions of things that were called one thing, yet were really more than that one thing. To me they should just been called STELLOW lights.

When I look at current pictures on Google, it is weird to me. The hotel looks so run down and the train station is sparkling. I remember staring out the second floor window, wishing I could buy a ticket to anywhere.

When I first entered the Palace, I thought maybe I was entering a REAL Palace. I looked up at the dome of cut glass above me. It was the original cut glass placed there in 1896. The little round foyer was an enchanting capsule and I didn’t want to leave it. Then I saw a set of small doors in front of me. Bat wing doors. HOW FUCKING COOL! I lightly pushed on them and they swung back and forth, intermittently revealing a world I had never seen before but wanted to desperately. The bar spanned the whole short block making up half of the entire first floor of the 3-story hotel.

I wondered if I was in Disneyland for Alcoholics, in other words, HEAVEN!

I was eager to enter and my dad accommodated by holding one of the bat wing doors back then looked  down at me with the most tender expression .“ Welcome home, honey, this is home now.”

OK, I have died and gone to HEAVEN!

The bar was the most captivating centerpiece of the establishment. When I stepped into the bar, I stepped back into time.  The mirror behind the bar was the longest continuous piece of reflection glass in all the states, the brochure proclaimed. The long cherry oak bar was lined at the bottom with a brass foot rail. A few feet behind was a waist high railing just like the saloons seen in old John Wayne movies.

The carpet was a deep royal red interlaced with black swirly patterns. The walls were covered with beautiful subdued paper that looked like felt with outlines in what looked like velour. I wanted to touch it. 

The wall opposite the bar had quizzically narrow and impossibly tall windows. They were adorned with lush rich maroon drapes made of velvet. They were parted in the middle to provide a view to the quaint town just beyond the broad sidewalk that surrounded the building,

The ornate the ceiling seemed a mile away from me. I had never been in a building with such a distance from the floor to the top. The ceiling was covered by squares of golden tiles that reached out with impossibly deep 3-dimensional patterns. It looked as if three or four tiles were different from each other and then they would repeat the sequence across the entire ceiling, which curved when it met the wall.

“You can’t find ceiling tiles like that anywhere! My dad beamed. “They’re covered in pure gold leaf!”

I did not know what pure gold leaf was but I understood the word gold and it definitely impressed me.

The casino room was special. It resided within the bar but was separated by three foot high wainscoting that was a deep cherry red. The remaining portion of the eight-foot wall was made of original colored glass held together by lead. The wall only rose half way up to the sixteen-foot ceiling. The half-wall curved away from the outside wall and slowly curved like an oval until it gave way to a small entrance. The room could comfortably accommodate up to 10 people. It was designed to provide  privacy and privilege. Its presence left the rest of bar with a slight feeling of envy.

It would be an understatement to say the bar had a character all its own. Yet like the rest of the hotel, I believe it was influenced by the energy that came to reside there. Endless people have come and gone. Yet the old hotel still stands, willing but not able to reveal its untold history witnessed by the wood and cut glass. The atmosphere stored memories going back to when the Hotel was built in 1896. I’ve even heard there was a public hanging in the street between the station and the Palace but I cant’ back this up with anything substantial.


While the station has been renovated and is fully functioning, the Palace has fallen into a ghostly decay at least that is what I see from the pictures I look at today. A just ending, I guess.

CHAPTER 5: GARY DON (MY FATHER)

It appeared as if Don had more friends than all the rest of the town put together.  He didn’t really want to feel so alone, so he didn’t allow it, plain and simple. He would arrange people around him that he had already influenced with his self-serving friendliness and generosity. His entourage just did not grasp his intelligence, believing he could be fooled like that. They had not a clue that he would remember any and every slight and would reward them accordingly. Truth be told, the few people he considered friends were limited to one or two at most. And even they doubted his attempts at sincerity or compassion. But they were honest with themselves since they lived the same way and liked it, so accepted him as such. These few never felt uneasy after he died and they even sort of missed him now and then. That’s because they were as hedonistic as he was, always pursuing their own pleasure with no guilt whatsoever.

Gary Don was a “man’s man” and he just never saw any benefit in getting all smarmy and hugging people and expressing affection in that way. A good slap on the back or a very noticeable punch to the shoulder expressed his delight in one’s company. What else does a person need for Jesus sake? Sometimes, though he would reveal a gentle nature and a humor that could make anyone genuinely chuckle. He never wanted for an audience, most people would brag to each other that they had been invited by Don himself to come over to the hotel after closing time and sit in the Casino room to drink, smoke and play poker.


With his natural charm and inviting good looks Don could woo the most pampered clients, even the stars passing through on their way to Aspen before Telluride became the choice getaway for such dignitaries. The men thoroughly enjoyed his easy presence and welcoming compliments but it was his invisible scent that captivated the women. It would slowly permeate the air. A blend of old spice and talcum powder mixed with expensive after shave highlighted his clean breath that held a hint of rare scotch and a trace of sherry. This blended with the confidence that exuded from his pores and altogether it was almost erotic.  His aroma would announce his presence  a number of seconds before he appeared at the table. It was if he owned the Hotel. In fact everyone thought he did and he never led anyone to believe otherwise..

Then it was my turn. Throughout the evening I would complete his persona.  I provided the most attentive care to everyone’s wishes before they were even aware of them. I had quite a talent. As if clairvoyant, I would place a new pat of butter on the table just as the patron glanced down at the roll that it would accompany. To ask for water was impossible, it was already provided. With a sleight of hand that made me appear invisible, I tended to their every need. I became aware that treating them with such delicacy was rare and this was proven out at the end of the night. The tips I earned usually equaled what most adults were used to paying for their monthly rent.

CHAPTER 6: SKI, CHALLENGES, DISASTERS AND ESCAPES

Since everyday reality was pretty much the same mixture of complete unexpectation, I began to my accept life as tolerable…well…, all things considered. There were benefits to growing up at the speed of light. I didn’t have to go to school, I had a lucrative job making gobs of money and I could drink pretty much whenever I felt like it. I could stay up late; learn all kinds of new things. I could sleep until I woke up. It was comforting to see my horse every day, to feed her Twinkies when I had them. And I had my own truck: a ’57 Ford Pick-up with 3 on the tree and a push button start. It was quite a status symbol for someone my age.  I didn’t’ have pay for pot, or cocaine., as Dad would get the best available. And I could get valiums anytime I wanted from my dad’s Dr. friend. I learned how to play poker but I wasn’t very good at it. I was good at the horse track, though.  I learned how to predict winners by becoming a guru with the racing forms.  I was respected and people appreciated an occasional inside tip. This is what my dad considered LOVE.

Then there were the frequent ski trips to Taos or Red River or Angelfire. There weren’t many children on the slopes since we normally skied on week days. We would arrive around 10:00 in the morning and head back at around 3:00 in the afternoon. That was more than enough ski time, as all of the resorts were less than 80 miles away. Sometimes a crowd of six or eight of us would go, sometimes just Dad and me.

I always looked forward to getting drunk on the mountain from the wine in my goat skin. These ventures never failed to entertain. As if on cue, someone would put the wine to their lips, gulping that one gulp that threw them into stupidness. That’s when the fun really began. Watching perfectly sane adults get completely shit faced and turn into Jean Claude Kili was priceless! Limping down the mountain became a frequent mode of travel.

Ahh, the memories, I still smirk when I think about the time Dad swerved off the main trail, mounting a young juniper tree at 30 miles an hour. To maintain his coolness, he laughed with the rest of us. I was laughing harder on the inside. He was injured more than he realized. But I knew. He was going to be out of commission for at least a few days. The black eyes, raging headache and torn groin muscle took the Casa Nova right out of him. There were many other hilarious shenanigans but none made me laugh as hard and long as that one.

I became a pretty good skier, easily racing past most people. Then I took to choosing the expert Diamond trails, the ones that make the experts leery.  I was confident Dad would follow. He had to, he had no choice.  His arrogance and faulty self confidence forced him to beat me, to out-ski me, to rule over me in all things. I snigger when I remember this. I was picking up ways to beat him at his own game.

“Are you sure? Are you sure Dad? Should we really try this one? I’m game if you are, Dad! You wanna, Dad?  Huh, huh, you wanna?”  There, I got him. Sometimes he was so fucking easy. Or maybe I was getting savvier.

I looked over the edge and nearly peed my pants. This was going to be a blast. Finally I pushed off and slowly eased into a confident rhythm, going back and forth across the slope.  After 20 yards or so I slowed up and came to a stop. I looked up at him with a huge grin and gave him the ‘hi’ sign. I could see his face turning red. My grin got bigger. I could even see the beads of sweat forming on his brow. It’s 5 degrees outside and we are 11,000 feet above sea level. The man looks like he just stepped out of a sauna!

God, it felt good to be winning. The danger of going down a 40 degree slope with deadly caverns and crevices didn’t faze me a bit. I’d never been happier to be in so much peril!! This was nothing! I risked it all and tore down the slope another 50 yards then slowed to a stop and let out a whoop. “Wow! That was so cool!!”  I yelled up at him.

I allowed him a few seconds to gather himself before looking up to see where he was. He was bent over, fiddling with the boot strap on his right ski. “Dammit!! I knew the guy at the ski shop didn’t set this right,” he yelled. Then he took off the ski and began to troubleshoot in earnest.

After a few minutes of this, I yelled, “Want me to go ahead or do you want me to wait? You want me to go get ski support, maybe they can fix it!”

  “No, they a bunch of ignoramuses just like the ski shop guy. I’ll fix it. You go on, I’ll catch up”.

“Are ya sure? I could walk back up and take a look at it for ya”. Now I knew this would do the trick, this would really piss him off.

“Goddammit, you think you can fix it if I can’t! Go ON!! I’ll meet you at the bottom!” With an apology and a shrug, I turned and headed down.

I beat him, I beat him!! Ha ha ha!!!! Whoo hoo!!! I’m free, I’m a bird! I’m flying!!!!  I’m flyyyiiiing!!!! NOW THIS IS LOVE!!  God I LOVE being alive!!! I’m finally flying!!! I’m really…flyi…. Whoa…uhh…. Hey…. I really AM flying. My vision is blurred and I’m possibly hitting 40-50 miles an hour, speeding in a straight line down a very steep mountain.  I’m going way too fast and far too reckless to survive this for much longer.

My smugness and gloating sank under the weight of the chunk of ice that had taken up residence in my stomach. My surroundings assured me that my complete and utter terror was appropriate. Dammit!! Holy Shit!! Oh MY God!! I might die, right here, right now!!!
I’d gotten so absorbed with the possibility of accidentally killing him, that I forgot about me!!! I don’t want to die!!!

God, I’m such a baby. I know what to do when I stop panicking. I begin to make longer S turns across the slope, crossing back and forth horizontally until I finally loose all momentum. I push my ski poles into the snow and lean my arm pits into them. Whew wee.

As I looked out across the horizon I could see peeks that seemed at least 100 miles away. As long as I looked at them I was OK. But the moment I looked down, my knees began to buckle and I couldn’t breathe. I was on top of the Empire State building. I was being held over the edge of the top floor by my ankles. I felt someone letting go. I could see the splat and felt like vomiting.

I was afraid to close my eyes because I would surely go into the spins and fall off the mountain. I looked at the sky and tried to think of puppies and kittens.

Then vaguely familiar warmth began to melt my frozen stomach. My trusty old survival mechanism was slowly waking up, then it began to chug. Soon it was purring steadily, pouring sanity into me like warm syrup. “Sit Down you Idiot! Take a breath! Suck on your goat skin, now!!” The slope was so steep it seemed like I was sitting in a lawn chair. I tilted the bag back and squirted the wine into my mouth, not missing a drop. Then I removed the cap and took a long gulp. Then another gulp. Then another.

Time for a cigarette. I inhaled deeply and it hurt my lungs. Aah, finally! The warm calm sensation entered my brain and didn’t stop till it reached my toes.  Another gulp, another puff.  Geeez, this is heaven!!  I LOVE this!! It’s beautiful up here!

I pulled out a joint and coughed while lighting it. After a few deep hits, I was at peace with the world. My situation was not so grim. What was I thinking? Sheeeit!! What’s my problem? I’ve done this a million times. I start laughing as I looked down at the mountain of death. God this is funny!!! I’m laughing uncontrollably at the sky now. And when I look down, it’s kind of fun! “Whoa there pardner, steady yerself!

My reality is wonderful now! This was a kiddies’ slope, easy as pie. I could ski down as far as I wanted and then take another break. It’d be a blast!! I may die, but then I may not!!  I could even take my skis off and walk down, but wasn’t really an option because the chance of flying into oblivion is what made me feel so alive. It’s what made it so fun, so worth it.

After an hour or so, I was sipping on my third cider and rum. The ski lodge was the usual walls of glass meeting at the top of the A-Frame. Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t miss the bright red rescue jackets walking towards to lodge. My dad was still cussing the ski shop guy and was demanding to be unescorted at this point. I quickly looked in the opposite direction towards the deer head over the fire place. Ahh, how nice. As he walked in, I feigned surprise, relief and camaraderie.

“My God Dad, I heard there was a white out up there? How in the hell did you make it??”  And so began the circle of himself. Perfect. I would believe every word of his bravery and courage, just as long as they kept those ciders coming.

Heading back to Raton was and adventure in itself. The driving was treacherous on the way back through the Cimarron canyon. The one lane road snaked through tremendous palisades on one side with a steep cliff on the other. Not much room for error, you might say. One tiny swerve and you could be meeting Gabriel, or Michael or some other big shot from heaven. That’s what made it so fun. Now you live, now you don’t!

You felt so lucky and invincible every damn time the road finally got wider, and the canyon faded into calm rolling meadows. I would always feel a sense of indestructibility. I felt like had I just went sky diving from 50 thousand feet. I was confident when the main chute failed. With steady hands I cut it away and pulled the string of the pussy little extra chute. I land perfectly. What, me worry?? I laugh in the face of danger!  Yes, it truly was good to be alive.

Yet oddly, in the deepest place within me, a churning never ceased. A thought kept screaming at me and would not shut up. It repeated constantly: EVERYTHING IS ALL WRONG!  That’s how I knew that reality was not lost on me. This truth was my very own; no one would see it, hear it or know about it. I swore I secretly I would hold onto the truth. I swore that I would remain sane. I made a commitment to myself to do anything to live.

My Dad was in LOVE with me. I swore right then and there that I would not let it kill me. I knew what I was in LOVE with.  I was in LOVE with life.

CHAPTER 7: REDEMPTION RANT

It was almost 4:00 in the afternoon. “For Jesus sake Susie, why didn’t you wake me up!?!” “I’m going to be late!!”

I wondered why he used Jesus’ name when he didn’t believe in Him only this time I wondered this out loud. DAMNIT! Why did I say that??? Ohh boy, here we go… Now was I enduring the ‘Redemption” diatribe for God knows how many times.

“Redemption is not possible!” he proclaimed, “You would have to believe in God and Heaven and Hell to even consider the possibility of redemption! Redemption?? Redemption for what, from what??? Redemption is for pussies!”  He was just warming up. The full blown harangue had begun.

I sat transfixed. His entire head was changing shape. It was actually transforming itself from oval to completely round, round as a ripe tomato and it was turning just as red. The veins in his neck suddenly popped out and grew thicker than his little finger. I watched in utter amazement. Surely, in any moment, smoke was going to shoot out of his ears, and flames would start roaring out of his mouth. Then his head would explode, tiny pieces of confetti floating down on his body that had deflated like a blown out tire.

“Wow!!” Uh-oh, what did I say? Oh shit! What if he clued in to the fact that I hadn’t paying attention bullshit he was preaching to me, his one and only captive audience? But he just picked up where he left off.

“That’s right, WOW!! And if everyone could just accept that there is nothing, NOTHING, beyond the grave, we all could do what we want without feeling guilty!!!”  Then he would always end by proclaiming that Everyone turns to dust so they might as well enjoy life while they’re alive and make the most of it and don’t regret anything because it was all over then, lost to time and the elements that would quickly erase his existence here and blah, blah, blah (inhale) and… blah, blaah blah blah blah!. My head was bowed in deference to his greatness, in awe of his genius. 

“Oh shit, I gotta get down stairs. We open in ten minutes throw me my, hurry, did you iron my shirt?” Susie!! Did you iron my shirt!!??!!” I was still looking at his deflated rubber body in fascination, wondering: Why it was it confetti that exploded out of his head, why not blood, guts and gore?

”SUSIE!!” I woke from my reverie when he reached down and thumped me hard on the head, twice. “GO GET MY PANTS!!! NOW!!”

Before he could thump me again I was in the bedroom grabbing up his pants and shirt, then hurried over to the chest of drawers for, hopefully, the right colored socks. Trying not to wrinkle his shirt I hurried over to his side of the bed and picked up his shoes and his belt. Whew! Cool! I made before he could finish shaving!! Ha, ha, ha! No time for a tickle now you fucker. “Dad, I got everything for you, they’re on the couch”.

As he came out of the bathroom and started to dress, he turned his head to me and looked at me with that stupid grin of his. He reached out for me.

“Oh, shit! I forgot your watch!” I ran to the bedroom, leaped across the bed and landed on the floor next to his night stand. “Do you want your rings tonight?” I asked, my eyes scanning the top of the dresser.

“Umm…no…they…umm, NEVERMIND!” he said, fumbling with his belt. “Just bring me my watch! If I’m late you’ll know it when you come down. You do know you’re on schedule tonight, right?” He admired himself in the mirror one last time. 

“Yes Daddy, of course. I won’t be late; I’ll be down on time.” I walked out of the bedroom.

“OK, come give me a kiss before you get dressed.” I knew not to hesitate; I had no desire for the consequences, I was hoping for a peaceful night instead of the familiar waking nightmare of constantly having to be available for his every need. . I already felt tired.

A group of his admirers were on their college break. I hoped they’d do what everyone does and beg to hear a few of my dad’s amusing anecdotes and clever tales. Maybe tonight they would hang around long enough for him to get shit-faced by the time he came upstairs after closing time. Sometimes he would get do drunk, he would immediately pass out when he hit the bed.

CHAPTER 8: MY FLAWLESS PERFORMANCE

In 1976, we in the midst of an energy crisis.  Raton depended on coal mining as one of it’s main sources of industry for its 6000 residents They worked in small mines, not yet big enough to spoil the beauty of the mountainsides they were digging into. Now ecology pretty much disappeared as a concern for anyone. No area was off limits, even the nearby pristine Sangre de Christo Range mountain range that bordered Raton. Many entrepreneurs with very deep pockets were being lured to the area for possible exploitation.

A group of American investors became familiar guests, frequenting the Palace every month or so. They were a friendly, spoiled, indulgent group of men who were used to the finer things that comes with wealth and they had no shame in showing it.

This particular evening however, someone called ahead. They would only speak with my dad directly. Of course, my ears and eyes were all over this and I gathered as much as possible listening to one side of the conversation.

My dad’s voice was all business, but I swear his  feet were about to  flutter together fast enough to lift him off the ground. He made the occasional cough that gave him time to catch his breath without revealing he was out of breath.

I watched as he looked at the ceiling, regaining his composure.

“Yes, Mike, of course. We’ll make it special. Everything will be perfect, you know that! You’re dealing with me, remember? The lobsters? They are superb, Mike! Would I serve anything else? C’mon, do you really have to ask?”

Garble, garble, garble, on the other end of the line. My dad’s smile breaks out into laughter.

“Yeah, you too, Mike, I know. We all know how to return the favors, don’t we, no worries here! Alright, we’ll see you later on this evening, what, about 8:00 pm? Ok, 8 to 9 is fine; you know we’ll be open till you get here. Yeah I know, you always appreciate it, Mike. As I do you, you know what I mean? Ok, see you when you get here, “

Click.

I scurried out of my hiding place and began my normal routine, checking orders, watering glasses. My mind couldn’t put it all together but I knew it had to be important.

Suddenly my Dad came from the bar into the restaurant and summoned all three waitresses on staff that night.

“Maria, Andrea, I want you to take over Susie’s tables. It’s not that busy I’m sure you two can handle it. If I you get too busy I’ll see if I can call in Katherine. Susie, I want you to set up the Casino room. I want you to go through the linen and pick out the very best, no stains, you hear me? We have a special group coming in and you are going to handle them, got it?”

Maria, Andrea and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Ok, Dad, if that’s what you want.”

As Maria took my tickets from my tables and I headed toward the linen closet, Dad pulled me aside.

“You know that investment group, the one with Mike?” I nodded, who could forget, he was disgusting.

“Well they’re coming in tonight and they are bringing a very, very important person from Germany!”

God, I wish I could roll my eyes. “Ok, Dad, we’ll handle it, I promise.”

“You bet you will.” With that he trotted of to the kitchen freezer to inspect the lobsters. Then he started in on the cooks about which were the best filet mignons to choose for the occasion.

It was only 6:30, so I knew I had some time at least.

The vacuum was pulled out, the polish was sprayed, the Windex squeaked on the colored glass. Then the linen was laid, the silverware set, the crystal in place and the candles lit. Perfect. What’s weird is I really didn’t feel any pressure, I knew I could do it. The room was breathtaking.


The group finally arrived accompanied by a huge man that looked like Stalin, from the pictures I’d seen of Stalin He talked kind of like that too. He expressed heavily accented “oohs” and “aahs” while taking in the surroundings. Good sign, I thought.

, my father was exuding every ounce of charm possible which was a lot.  After engaging them in with pleasant banter, he led the group across the bar and into the Casino room. More “oohs” and “aahs” except this time from everyone in the group. Everything was coming off without a hitch. My chances of having my head cut off at the end of the night are diminishing with every moment.

I don’t’ know who it benefits most but my dad is invited to join them, they are insistent.

I suggest the mushrooms and escargot and everyone is delighted. Then dad says he has a perfect wine for the occasion and joins me as I leave the table. I put the  order for the hors d’oeuvres and follow him to the wine cellar.

That special moment had arrived. I was to serve the most expensive bottle of wine. in the house It was a Rothschild.

“Now THIS is the one!” He pulled the bottle from the rack. I swear, he held it like a bird’s egg. “Now listen Susie, you can’t fuck this up! Serve it like I taught you. You’ve done this a million times. DON’T SCREW THIS UP!!”

Gulp. Wow, thanks for giving me such a sense of calm, DAD!!! I looked up at him and saw his vulnerability. I actually felt kind of sorry for him.  “Sure, Dad, no problem. Just like always!”

He handed me the bottle as if it were a new born baby and winced. “DON”T SCREW THIS UP!!!”

I swear I thought he was going to pinch me when  walked out of the wine cellar, through the restaurant, and into the small hall that led to the bar and Casino room.  I turned up a my Dad and smiled before addressing the  “The King of Germany“ Then I began my routine. “This, sir is a gift from my father. Please allow me to delight you with one of our best pleasures. It’s been in the cellar awaiting the appropriate guest who can truly appreciate its uniqueness!”

I could tell the German looked at my angelic smile before lowering his eyes to my bosom where the bottle of wine rested. I gently sat it down on the table and ceremoniously began to turn the corkscrew. They were mesmerized. Upon the “Puuoopp” that accompanied the extraction of the cork, all eyes raised and everyone at the table began clapping lightly. I removed the cork from the corkscrew and coyly placed it under the German’s nose.

“Please sir, is it to your satisfaction? The cork is tender, would you like to feel?”  He was beside himself. I smiled and picked up the precious liquid and poured a teaspoon into his glass. He picked it up, taking in the aroma. He sniffed then took a slight sip which he rolled over his tongue and swished between his cheeks.

“Absolutely delightful” was his response. “I must come here more often!!”

With that I filled the rest of the glasses and melted away to my dad’s side behind the entrance of the casino room. He looked at me and his eyes said it all.  “Perfect, Susie, perfect!” 

At the end of the night I pushed the vacuum cleaner through the dining room. After all the patrons had left and the doors were closed and locked, I turned the eight track player as loud as it would go and sing to the Eagles or Eddie Money, or Fleetwood Mac. I kept pushing the vacuum through the dining room around and around and around lost in the motion of the chore. I took my time cleaning up as did the other employees. The cooks were scraping their grills and the dishwasher was still rinsing the last loads of dishes.

Then when all was quiet I began  of preparing to go upstairs. I would casually go behind the bar and refill the cherries and limes. Then I would hastily throw back three or four shots of Crown Royal if my Dad wasn’t looking or Canadian Club if he was still gathering the cash drawer. He had an uncanny ability to see with his ears and I knew I was not allowed to drink the expensive stuff. But I did anyway when he wasn’t around and I came to savor the smoothness of Crown Royal. It didn’t burn going down or make me queasy when it settled in my stomach. In an instant a far away glow would surround me witnessed by the slight smile that replaced my pierced lips. My beautiful soft features would emerge. My face expressed me, I became angelic.

Then all over again, it would hit me. He was already upstairs in his office counting the nights take before placing it into the safe, next to the gun. I could not control my grimace, as the time grew short before going upstairs.  Soon, he would be waiting, I knew.  One more shot, no two. Whew. One more. OK, now I was ready. Crown Royal became the drink I chose at every opportunity.

CHAPTER 9: COLD DUCK NIGHT

One particular night at about eleven thirty, I was hanging out with the rest of the staff. We were in the kitchen goofing off and passing around a bottle of cold duck. When Dad walked in, I could see that he was in an unusually good mood. “Hey, you guys, go on, and get outa here. Grab another bottle if you want and take it with you, but it comes out of your tips tomorrow”.

He turned and left though the swinging door that led to the dining room. Then I heard the squeak of his shoe pivoting on the polished wooden floor. I stiffened, and raised my eyebrow at the others. They were somewhat puzzled as well. He pushed the door open just enough to stick his shoulders into the kitchen. I turned to see his head slightly bobbing. He was exposing his teeth in a grin that always caused me concern.

“Hey, Susie, why don’t you go with them tonight? Take the truck up the mountain to the Raton sign. That is where you guys hang out, right?”  He reentered the kitchen and walked over to me, reaching into his pocket to pull out a few bills. That’s when I noticed his, should I say, aroused state. God, I hated this!!  I knew this had to be a trick but what??? 

“Here, take this, it’s a couple of bucks, go by Omar’s drive thru, Susie. Just tell him the same thing; that I sent you. His Cold Duck is cheaper than ours. You guys have fun!” With that he practically skipped out of the kitchen, the sound of his steps fading as he padded onto the carpet leading back to the bar.

I turned and looked at the rest of the crew. There was Tito and Matt, the cooks; Andrea and Maria, the other waitresses. Then there was Luke, Matt’s little brother, he was the bus boy. And of course Paul would be going along. And then there was my favorite, Raphael. He was the dishwasher and he was very, very shy, which made me feel protective of him.

“Hey Raphael, we’re going up to the star, you coming with us?” Now I already know what his answer is going to be and I also know that I’m not going to accept it.

So there are eight of us, free, on our own to go have fun!! This indeed is a rare occasion! Shit!!! I’m going to take advantage of it. As we all clean up and change out of our uniforms the excitement builds.  Ironically I think to myself, we’re just like little kids! Hell we may not be little, but we are kids! We’re all bustling around trying to finish our chores so we can get out of there. We are so busy, I don’t notice that there is less and less noise coming from the bar.

We are definitely taking my truck, so everyone heads out the back hallway to the door leading out onto the street as I run up the stairs and grab some pot for the outing. I run back down and then hesitate. I should probably let Dad know we leaving. So I hurry back through the kitchen, and turn down the short hallway to the entrance of the bar.
Just as I’m opening my mouth I can feel my voice strangle me. My brain instantly stops the “Hey, Dad….” from actually reaching past my gullet. I freeze. I can tell he hasn’t heard me. He hasn’t noticed me. He is alone with a beautiful young college student. He has his arm around her and she is obviously mesmerized,…and drunk. He’s looking at her with snake eyes. Then I watch as his familiar tongue enterers and probes her mouth. 

I fortunately reel out of the entrance and back into the hallway. I can’t breathe. It takes every ounce of energy I can gather to move my legs back toward the kitchen.

My wits are slowly coming back and I am quiet as a mouse as I head back through the kitchen and out to the truck. Everyone’s goofing off, joking around. Laughing and stuff. It’s all casual. Then as I walk closer to them the jovial atmosphere dies down. Matt’s the first to speak.

“Jesus, Susan, are you OK? You’re totally white!! You’re sweating!! Its 10 degrees out here! What you do, see a ghost up there? Maybe you guys aren’t kidding about them. Wish I could see one!!”

“No, No, you dumbass!! I got the weed but I took a few snorts of my dad’s coke and Whoa!!!
I did not know it was that good! I’m OK, it’s wearing off now. Hand me that bottle of Cold Duck.”

It strikes me how lying is so second nature to me now.

Maria passes it over to me and I drain it. Yes, much, much better. My color is coming back and I’m able to actually breathe again.

Everybody relaxes as I head toward the driver’s door, just as normal as ever. “I’ll drive us to Omar’s but I think we should get Annie Green Springs instead of Cold Duck. It’s cheaper and stronger, what do you guys think”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good”, is the consensus.

We first stop by Maria’s to get some heavy blankets, and then head to Omar’s drive through. He knows me and give’s me no shit whatsoever. As I pull around the building and up to the exit, I see my dad’s car pass by. It’s’ heading towards the cheap hotel with the cheesy piano bar. I cringe, waiting to see if anyone else noticed. Thankfully no one says anything. God much more of this and I’m going to faint, I guarantee it!

I take a deep breathe and take a pull off one of the newly opened bottles of wine. We travel up the zigzag one lane dirt road heading up the mountain until we reach an flat parking area that was made as a scenic lookout and picnic area.  About 30 feet above, affixed to the mountain is a 50 foot star made of rebar and luminescent bulbs. It can be seen from at least 20 miles away. It is the pride of Raton. 

Then I do what I know will help me. I bury my sadness and get drunk. It helps that I remember that I have a few valium in the truck glove box and those reeeaaly help.

The guys get a fire going and the joints start getting passed around. I laugh at stupid jokes and tell even stupider ones, which all get just as much laughter. I have a really good time. I have fun.

It’s at least 3:00 in the morning and the stars are so overwhelming they don’t look real, they are almost frightening. It’s settled down a bit as the fire dies down and blankets pulled up.
“There’s the big dipper” someone says.

“No shit, duh, Einstein”

Chuckles all around.

Someone farts.

Blaming and snickers all around.

Geeez. Teenagers. They’re so stupid, so immature! I almost felt like one of them.

Tito drove us back and we got to the hotel around 4:30am.

Paul was the first to speak “Hey, Where’s Dad’s car? Where do ….”

I give him a look that freezes his tongue.

Nobody else says anything; they know not to ask questions about the Palace and the people who live there. That is, if they want to keep their jobs. Besides, everyone was too tired and drunk to give a shit.

As everyone took off, I unlocked the back door to the hotel and pulled Paul inside.

“Sorry”, he said. He knew he had broken an unspoken rule. We don’t talk about anything in front of anyone pretty much.

“It’s no big deal. I heard him talking on the phone last night; He said something about going to play poker over at Randy’s clubhouse. He’s either winning big, losing big or passed out. Anyway what do we care? At least he’s not here.”

“Yeah, you’re right; do you think I can sleep in the main room? It’s so much warmer.”

Of course, if we hear him, you can sneak out the door of the spare…I mean…my bedroom.

He lays down on the floor and within in seconds, I here his steady breathing of sleep.

I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. Once again a familiar refrain rolls round and round in my head: “This can’t be my life.”