Demise Of A Young Girl Memoir Ch. 1-5

3/26/2009 6:25 PM 

The Demise of a Young Girl the Birth of a Woman

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.

What I am about to tell you will all probably seem like fiction and I’ve had many people advise me to present it as such.

CHAPTER ONE: AUGUST 1976, RATON, NEW MEXICO

The Palace Hotel had become home to me. The three-story building first opened in 1896. The bar and restaurant occupied the first floor, two floors of empty hotel rooms were above, except for the manager’s apartment that was converted into suitable living quarters on the second floor. 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 and the plan had to succeed. 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 would 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 excited grin off my face. I tucked Baron, my tiny dachshund into my black leather jacket. I zipped it up until only his head was sticking out. He was used to this; we traveled like this all the time.

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. How could he have known?

“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 lightning fast I didn’t realize it knocked me to the floor. 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 did not 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 were 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. He had a reality that was completely his own; it would not to be challenged under any circumstances.

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. It is enough time to clean myself up and gather my senses. A bath was soothing, but it didn’t console me. With a towel wrapped around me, I looked into the mirror. I did not recognize who was looking back at me. I bent down and brushed my teeth, not looking at the mirror again. I got dressed and proceeded to embark on another “normal” day.

I found Paul downstairs in the restaurant kitchen. He was preparing his favorite breakfast, a chunk of French bread drenched in half-and-half, heated slightly.  He was 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 assume Paul was a co-conspirator in my desperate 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 taking on multiple lives of their own. I really did not need this right now.

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

With that, Paul 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. Dad would never learn of Paul’s involvement, I held that promise; it was a meager way of protecting him. That helped me feel a little better about all the times I couldn’t defend him.

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. However, 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 would not 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 grew 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 did not 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 the 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 was not just physical, as if that were not bad enough. Watching my brother being pulled around by the ear everyday made me turn away, ashamed that I was glad it was not 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.


It would always start with some vague accusation. My dad would come up with something, anything, real or imagined and start his attack on my brother.

One afternoon, I reached the second floor of the hotel and turned down the main hallway leading to our flat. I paused at the top of the stairs as I heard my father’s voice. I could see he was standing in the doorway of Paul’s small hotel room. I froze; all I could do was watch and take it all in. Trying to understand was impossible. I stored it in my mind, filing it under “I can’t believe this is real”.

I watched my dad’s profile as he began screaming into Paul’s room.” I want to know who left the mess on the kitchen table downstairs!”

“What mess, Dad?”

“You know what mess! It’s got your finger prints all over it!”

“But Dad, I didn’t do anything!”

This was the point I had to crouch down into a ball, or else I would have fallen. I tried to protect myself; I couldn’t do anything for Paul. He was on the way to another senseless trip to hell.

After denying the offense, my dad twisted Paul’s reply into yet another reason to lambast him.

“That’s the point, you lazy little slob, you never do anything around here!”

With that he slapped Paul on the side his head with an open hand, hitting his ear and temple, knocking him slightly off one foot.

“Dad, I’ll go and clean up the table.”

“There’s no bother now, you idiot! I already cleaned it up. You think I would leave a mess just sitting like that? No!  Do you want to the inspection people to come shut us down, just because you were too fucking lazy to clean up after yourself? God, when are you going to grow a brain, Paul?”

With that, he shoved Paul hard on one shoulder, so hard that Paul stumbled off balance until he landed on the floor.

“God you disgust me. You can’t even stay on your feet, you clumsy little piece of shit! Don’t come into the apartment tonight. I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow.”

Dad pulled Paul’s door shut, leaving him stunned, lying on the floor, not sure of what had just happened. My dad always hit him where it wouldn’t leave obvious bruises, his favorite being the smack on the side of Paul’s head. I knew what that felt like. I had experienced it too, just not as often. My dad used a closed fist on me, but less frequently.

The head slaps were starting to affect Paul, he told me it always gave him an instant headache that eventually subsided. However, he had developed a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away. He said it was constant, now, and getting louder and harder to ignore.

I watched this type of exchange almost everyday. Dad would always put Paul in a lose-lose situation. He would accuse him of some made up mistake just to chastise him. It never mattered what Paul’s response was, that wasn’t the point. Paul endured this treatment for the sole purpose of satisfying my father’s enjoyment of hurting him.

I didn’t know what to do. My helplessness left me so frustrated. I tried praying and all that did was leave me wondering why God hated us so much.

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 instantly recognized as a new kid, one with no friends or affiliations. The school’s student body was mostly Mexican and Indian children whose families had been in the area for several generations. A new, soft white kid was an easy target.

He was always attacked after school, in the alley behind the hotel. I found this out one day while preparing for the coming night’s shift. I was performing my normal prep chore of taking garbage out to the dumpster in the alley. I saw Paul trudging towards me with a pack of kids following him. They were taunting him until finally one of them pushed Paul from behind. As he stumbled forward, he looked up and saw me. And I saw him.

I was already marching towards him, until he waved me off. “Don’t Susie, stay back.”

His tone was not familiar to me. He looked behind him at the pack of tormenters. He slowly shook his head, still looking at the ground.

I heard him mumble,” God, not again.”

I was ready to jump in at that instant with both fists flying, but it wasn’t necessary. He raised his head and stood up straight. He turned and faced his antagonists. He was not the least bit afraid. The weird smile that appeared on his face was scary.  His gaze said, “I’m crazy; I have nothing to loose.”

In a startlingly calm and low voice, he let them know he was ready. He promised that even though they may beat him up, he would inflict some serious, low-down, dirty damage before the fight was through. On this day, he was actually looking forward to the challenge, which is not what most bullies expect. They looked relieved when I reached out and grabbed Paul’s sleeve.

“Come on, you’re late, Dad’s looking for you!”

The crowd dispersed as Paul stood frozen, in a different world. I kept shaking his coat as we watched the others disappear at the far end of the alley. Finally, he came out of this trance he was in. He looked at me and didn’t recognize me at first. My voice brought him back.

“It’s me, Paul! It’s me! Come on, we need to get inside!”

I did not know this had been happening on a regular basis. Now, he was pretty much left alone. In fact, he was avoided.

I was proud that he stood up for himself. I was relieved he was not coming home with a black eye or busted lip everyday, which I had assumed were from some late night confrontation with Dad.

Still, deep down something concerned me. It started eating away at me. I knew what it was but I didn’t want to admit it. It was watching the way Paul was beginning to not care….about anything.

CHAPTER TWO: NOVEMBER, 2008, MELBOURNE, FLORIDA
DR PETERSON

It is almost Thanksgiving, 2008. I have just completed a two-month residential treatment program and I do not feel any better, in fact, I feel worse.

I am sitting in yet another doctor’s office many years later and still very sick. I feel my grip slipping and I’m tired. My experience tells me two distinct things. First, my past may very well not be overcome. Second, the first thought is bullshit because I am still here.

So, I’m left with a couple of serious questions. One: Am I going to give up now? Answer: Hell, no. Two: Is it still worth it to try? Answer: That’s debatable.

It is either my redeeming feature or tomfoolery that I am the forever optimist. I have this stubborn idea that if I share my experience with someone who really cares and understands me; then maybe I can get ‘well’. Maybe one more time someone can help me; even help me enough to want to live again. However, I do not want to just survive this time, I want to be happy.

Still, death is attractive to me for a reason, and I am fighting it for one purpose. I don’t want my father to win. I want to finally stand up to him, I want to beat him. If I don’t do it soon, my own harmful habits are going take the chance from me.

For most of my life, I have forced myself to receive just enough help required to remain alive. My mind has been turned over to so many experts, so many times, for so long that I almost cannot remember when I was not a patient.

The general consensus has been; first, I am an extremely flawed individual and second, it is a miracle I am still alive. Third, there’s something different about me, some sort of Strength? Luck? Will? Even I can’t figure this out.

Last, there is always the discovery of my segregated brain. One-half wants to live, the other wants to die. One-half wants to love myself; the other pretty much loathes me. One-half has hope, the other is a complete pessimist.

It’s not the best self-esteem builder to always require aid to maintain peace of mind. I will admit though, I do seem to do better under a Doctor’s care. It’s not a shock that I’m entering therapy...again, but I hate it. I am sick of my sickness and I’m growing impatient with being a patient.

My self-absorption is starting to bore me. That is when my alcoholic rationalization kicks in Actually, I am sitting in the reception area; I’m not in the Doctor’s office yet. TGIFriday’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 even I 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 is a dismal article about a guy who 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 am not used to this. She seems genuinely caring and that is what I want to think, but I am doubtful.

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 oddly calming to me, as I’m 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 sunbathe.

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’m 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 have appreciated the diversion. Now it’s fading. I didn’t come here to nature watch. I 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. 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.

I am afraid that this is just another futile effort. She 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 constantly mull over myself:  Am I even helpable?

She waits. I wait. How do 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 replies, 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 replies, 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. Didn’t they 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 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 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 am still such a wreck. I am completely shattered after two months of hell in Tennessee. Obviously, I am not hiding it very effectively.

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 hands me a Kleenex box and sits back down, studying the file. I am relieved 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 doesn’t seem right; in fact, sure of it. 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 am 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 glance up to gauge her reaction. She smiles gently and nods. “Yes me too, I can understand your reluctance to take on another battle.  From what I gather, you need some peace in your life. It seems like all you’ve had lately is chaos. You deserve break and I think you’re on the right place.”

I instantly think to myself; “This is very intuitive woman, I like that! How does she know I feel?” I fail to take into account my obvious demeanor. I’m sure I appear to be on the verge of a complete mental break down.

She gazes at me with such empathy, it makes me cry harder. Dammit!

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 am able to stop hiccupping. I desperately need a cigarette. Nicotine is becoming a 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 trail off; trying to consider what the answers to these questions are, but I don’t have a clue.

Then looking at the floor I say 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!  When I got back from Tennessee, I felt suicidal. The first thing I did was buy a fifth of Canadian Club. Alcohol made things more bearable.

I think if I tell her the truth, she probably won’t see me again. 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 know I can’t lie. Finally I speak, “Well, I’ve had a little problem with drinking since I’ve been back.”

I look up expecting all kinds of judgment to show on her face, but that is not what I see. She just nods tenderly. She stands up and moves towards her desk a few feet away and turns, resting her backside on its edge, with her legs crossed, stretched out in front of her.

That is when I notice she is just a waif of a thing, probably 5 foot 5, 120 pounds. I would later learn that she was 43. She looks so soft and undamaged. She is quite pretty, yet unassuming. Her blonde hair is soft and wispy. She has soft bangs and her small, diminutive ears are exposed while the rest of her hair falls just above her shoulders. I detect a wisdom that belies her age.

I try to hide my scrutinizing but I can’t help stealing a glance as she crosses her arms and gazes out at the lake. Leaning against her desk, she looks pensive, as if contemplating something. She stays in that position for quite some time, in fact more time than I am comfortable with. I know she is mulling things over. It is obvious she is in the midst of making an important decision.

I have been in these situations before and they usually do 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 am 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 looks at me and speaks.

“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. They released you from that program with no support whatsoever. It is unheard of and it really disturbs me. You were set up to fail. Relapse is inevitable without an aftercare program in place before you are released. 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 stands up, walks over, and studies 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 don’t 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 is too much! It is a rare practice to provide a cell number to a new client. I don’t know what to think of this woman. In fact, I’m not sure about anything. I have become completely unhinged by the events of the last year and it just keeps getting weirder. I have come to expect anything, everything and nothing. But this is over the top!

She walks with me to the reception area and I am handed a card with an appointment date for the next week, with her number on the back. I walk outside with the card still in my hand. I feel like I’ve just been given a golden ticket. Boy oh boy, am I confused! I feel almost happy yet, I also feel a familiar echo of sadness. I can’t wait to talk to her again. I also dread coming back.

Unexpectedly, I start hoping she is not just a mirage or some small blip in the unreal existence I’ve been living. Just the thought of liking her scares me, but it also puts a smile on my face. It gives me a good feeling, though I’m not sure why. I know one thing. I can not make plans, that ability has escaped me. I can not keep a straight thought in my head; they are all crooked, coming at me sideways. It was an extremely caring gesture but I certainly won’t be using that phone number.

I step outside into a fog, even though the sky is clear and the sun is painfully cheerful. A cigarette is definitely the answer, and I suck on it like some unfortunate, locked up over at the Stark County jail.

I take the next step to quiet the turmoil. I get in my truck and blast 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 load my newest compilation CD. I love making compilations, 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 start clouding my vision. Damn! I need to turn left here! As I wipe my cheeks on my sleeve, I begin to think about why I am in this position. Why am I seeing another Psychologist? Why?

I decide I will come back. I will keep the appointment for the next week. My sadness is so deep, it weighs me down and I feel like I am drowning. 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.

CHAPTER THREE: DR.  PETERSON - SECOND VISIT

The next week I reach Dr. Peterson’s office promptly at 1:00 pm, not one minute too soon or too late. I hate being late and I hate waiting even more. I enter her office. I expect to be sitting there awhile, as everyone does at every doctor appointment, everywhere where in the entire world. It is an unwritten law, the patient must wait….and wait.

I start rifling through the magazines on the mahogany coffee table in the middle of the reception area. The table provides some sort of buffer from the rest of the other seats lining the walls. After choosing a rag-mag, I don’t have time to sit back down. Dr. Peterson has already opened the door leading back to her office. She is standing there patiently, and gestures with a gentle sweep of or her arm, beckoning me to follow her.

I am clumsy and we enter the door at the same time, bumping slightly into each other. I feel awkward and embarrassed. She however, is totally unrattled. Her smile is warm and welcoming.

I don’t know what else to say but, “Oh, hey, how ya doing?” as casually as I can.

She assures me that she has been fine and returns the question.

I answer with a shrug “Oh, uh pretty good, pretty good,”

I do not lie well. She notices me shaking and it seems as if she wants to put her arm around me. I would’ve welcomed it but I know my face talks to her. My fearful expression tells her not to pet an injured animal, as it will snap back out of instinct.

I open up a crack and I tell her some things, more a tip of the iceberg type session. I’m sure she thinks I’m delusional, but what I tell her really happens to me everyday.

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, which bears his name. There are many accounts of seeing him after he died, and not just in dreams.

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 evokes my innate flight response; to turn and fight would be completely insane. He always wins 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. He would never get over it. He would never forget. I didn’t realize then, that 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 living the never-ending bad movie my life has become. Over the years, I have overdosed at least twenty times and have been in over eight treatment centers. Some have helped and some have not. I have had periods of sobriety but the nightmare remains.

As I spill all of this out, Dr. Peterson listens, rarely interrupting me.

Finally, I’m spent. I know what I’ve said has just revealed to her that I am certifiably crazy; ghosts haunting me, following me around every day? It does sound pretty insane. Now, I regret saying anything, I hardly know this woman. I should have kept more to myself.

There is silence now. I’ve gone through a whole box of Kleenex and I keep my profile to her as I look out across the lake. I hate the anticipation of waiting for her response so I allow myself to become distracted. I watch a golfer locate his ball. He takes a swing, hitting the ball up over a hill and back onto the course. 

“Nice swing”, I say out loud, not really realizing it. I follow with a snide comment. “Of course, he’s the one who got himself stuck down there in the first place.” I say this because I’m nervous and when I get nervous, I become sarcastic.

Dr. Peterson has been looking at me during this conversation with myself.

“Susan, do you realize what you just did?”

This startles me and my stomach is feeling funny, like it does when I’m scared.

“What do you mean, what I just did?” I truly didn’t know what she meant.

“You disassociated, you completely removed yourself from our session and went somewhere else. I’m guessing you do that quite frequently. No wonder every hour seems like a day to you. It’s quite common for trauma victims; it’s how you deal with the horror that follows you around everyday.”

Is she actually insinuating that she believes me? Hmm, that’s when I’m able to look at her. She has the same calm, caring expression that is beginning to grow on me.

“So you don’t think I’m crazy, talking about my dad’s ghost, that I hear his voice?”

“Not at all, Susan, that is what you are here for, to make him go away. I would like to help you do that. You just need to give us a chance to sort through all this, together.  What you have been through is not just trauma. It is Complex Post Traumatic Stress that you are experiencing now. Everything you’ve just told me, leads me to believe that your abuse was worse than most.”

She continues and I am listening. “Susan, there has to be a special reason you are alive. I’ve treated a lot of people but your case is different, and I understand this is going to be difficult.”

It has been a long and quick fifty minutes. I start to stand up but she asks me to sit back down. She leans towards me. Her arms are stretched out, elbows resting on her knees.  She claps her hand together softly rubbing them back and forth. Her look is serious and my stomach starts flip-flopping again.

“Susan, last week you said that were drinking again, but your main drug of choice is cocaine, right?”

Oh, God, here we go. I might as well walk out right now, say goodbye, and have a nice life. But I don’t. I keep my eyes away from her face. “Umm, yeah…so?”

“Susan, I need you to be honest with me, it’s the only way I can help you. Have you relapsed on cocaine yet?”

Yet? Yet!? What does she mean by that? Is she assuming that I am using? How dare her!!

Then I come back to reality. “Umm…well…maybe a little…”

“That’s what I thought. It’s dangerous out there for you right now. I seriously think that it would be best if you…..”

That’s it! I am not going wait for her to suggest I see someone more trained in addiction or some other bullshit.

“Best if I what? Best if I leave and never come back? Not a problem!”

As I stand up my knees almost buckle. It takes everything in me to act like I don’t care. She stands up as quickly as I do and put’s her hand on my arm, pulling me back towards her. She motions for me to sit down and I do, then she does the same. Then she speaks.

“That isn’t what I was going to say at all. Susan, look at me, please. I need you to hear this. What I was going to suggest is you come in more frequently maybe two, three times a week. And I’d like you to call me everyday. If you need to come in for any reason I will see you. I am not going to leave. But you know you will not live for long if you keep using. Have you used anything else?”

“Well a few capsules of morphine a friend gave me….and….I smoked a joint the other day.” I truly feel ashamed. We both know this is not good news.

“Susan, I am truly concerned. What do you think about coming in more often and calling to check in with me…daily?”

We’ve gone way over my allotted time now, but she’s not rushing me.

“Umm….hmm…yeah, I think that might be a good idea, maybe for a little while…”

“Good. Our main focus now is to keep you off drugs completely.”

“Alcohol too? I can’t do that right now!” The thought terrifies me, I can’t sleep at all without a drink or two…or three.

“For now let’s just deal with it one step at a time. Just promise me you will call me if you get the urge to use any illegal substance.”

Whew! I can deal with that. “Sure, sure, no problem, I can do that.”

“Ok, then, I’ll see you next week and I’ll hear from you tomorrow, right?”

“Absolutely, Dr. Peterson, absolutely!”

The receptionist hands me a card with the now two scheduled appointments.

I walk out and get in my truck. God, I’ve never wanted to use as bad as I do right now.
As much as I think I do, I really don’t want to die. This time, I’m going to use the number on the back of that card.

CHAPTER FOUR:          FEBRUARY 2009- A CALL FROM DR. PETERSON

It’s 1:43 pm. I am sleeping It’s not a bad sleep. I hear my cell phone ringing. I have no idea what time it is until my eyes open enough to peek at the clock. I grapple for the phone on the night stand and hold it at arms length. I cover one eye and try to read who’s incoming on the phone.

It looks like ‘Dr. Peterson-Cell’. Ok, I must still be sleeping. Why would she call me? It’s my job to call her everyday, not vise versa. Hmm, my brain is still buzzing, barely conscious.

I grapple again, trying to blindly feel my eyeglasses. They are not there. Great. Simon, my teenage dachshund has crept over me during the night and has absconded with them. He only does this to irritate me…and to keep me blind to his other shenanigans.

My other two dachshunds, Sidney and Sarah are eight years old and have tired of the havoc Simon so shamelessly and innocently causes every single day. I see them both lying on the bed, wondering why I am grumbling, with every other word being either “Simon” or “Dammit!”

They both lift their weary little dachshund heads, assess the situation, roll their eyes and go back to their own slumber. Simon of course is no where to be found, just like my eyeglasses.

It’s a habit now to keep another pair in the nightstand drawer. Although they are mangled and bent from Simon’s last snatch and grab, they are still functional. I put them on and look at my cell phone. I hold it up toward the ceiling, as I am not in the shape or mood to move from my supine position on my bed.

Yep, it was Peterson. That’s really weird. I am in a fog, one I am too familiar with. I am hung over. Why is she calling me? Does she somehow feel my pain, does she feel like reaching out to the poor retch that is her client to see how I am doing?

I call her back. She answers. I am hesitant. Then I ask, “Hey, Pete, did you just call me?”

“Yes.”

“Well uhh, I just woke up I tried to catch it but couldn’t. I’m returning your call, why did you call me?”

“Well, I was returning your call, Susan.”

Uh oh, what the hell does this mean? It isn’t quite 2:00 pm. and I am just waking up. I haven’t made my daily check in call yet. I start trying to figure out what’s going on without her knowing that I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Hmmm, you’re returning my call? I haven’t called you yet, I just woke up.”

“No, Susan, I’m returning the call you left at 4:00 a.m. this morning.”

All I can think is, “Whoa boy, I bet she wishes she had never given me her number.”

God, I’ve been so good. I don’t drink and dial anymore…ever since all my siblings changed their numbers. I feel a migraine developing on top on my hangover headache. 

“Oh, sorry bout that, what did I say?” God, do I feel like a jerk or what?

“Well, you were saying things like you didn’t want to come in anymore, that you thought we weren’t working to together very well, and you know, stuff like that…”

Now I don’t feel like a jerk, instead I feel like a complete asshole.

“Um, is there any way we can act like I didn’t make that call? I didn’t mean a word of it, I am such an ass, I’m really, really, really sorry.”

I hear a slight chuckle on the end of the line. “So you will be coming in tomorrow?”

“Yes, please.” I sound like such a baby.

“OK and we can consider this your daily call unless you need to call me later.”

“No, I’ll be fine I promise, thank you though, I’ll call if I have any urges.”

“OK, I’ll either hear from you later or I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“OK, thanks, Louise. Bye”

I’ve been seeing Dr. Peterson for over four months now. She told me to call her by her first name. So, I call her Louise when I am talking to her and I call her Dr. Peterson when I’m talking about her. I’ve come to calling her Pete now and then, just to amuse her.


I’ve been clean for over two months, now. I haven’t touched a thing. However I am seeing Dr. Peterson three, some times four times a week and I’ve been known to call her more than once or twice a day.

God, I know what I am doing, I do it every time There always comes a time when I end up facing a wall in therapy. I come to a turning point. I begin to challenge the person who is trying to help me the most, which means I have to walk through the darkest realities in my mind, and utter them out loud…to another person. 

I arrive at her office filled with a sincere sadness and I know why. I am on the verge of ruining probably the last chance to get beyond my past.

“Are you ready?”

I look at her and can’t help feeling sarcastic. “No, I’m not ready. You know that. I will never be ready.”

“But don’t you think it’s time?” She is so sincere; it puts a pain in my chest.

“Pete, it will never be time.”

“Hmm… after your phone call yesterday morning, I’m afraid you just may need to make it ‘the time’…. before you run out of it. I’m not going anywhere, Susan. I will never abandon you, I promise you that. But I feel I’m losing you, you are slipping away.”

I decide to abandon ship, put her in a really awkward situation so she will reject me and I will feel justified in failing.

I really put her on the spot.  “Do you love me?” I ask, trying to force her to say something that will make me stomp out of her office.

“I care very deeply for you and yes, I feel love for you. I am concerned for you. I see someone so close to breaking free but it does frighten me when I hear you giving up, which you came close to saying in your message. But, you stopped short of that and you are here today. I see that as progress, Susan, and you should too.

I always mix the batter, but never bake the cake. I guess it’s time to put it in the oven.

That means I have to go back. I have to go back to the scariest, most bewitching place I’ve ever been. For so long I’ve made every attempt to bury my past, to avoid the visions, the nightmares that walk beside me every day. I’ve managed to keep most horror at bay but the cost is too great now. I have to bring it all forward, concentrate on the terror and regurgitate it to Dr. Peterson.

At this point, I feel like throwing up, like I’m getting ready to take a giant dive off a cliff into the deepest pool of water I’ve ever been in and it is exhilarating. If I jump off and survive, I will have beaten the odds; I will have conquered my fears and gained a new life.