I wear dark sunglasses for people not to see my sad eyes; I sold my eyelashes at an auction along with other useless things, and I want to use the money to buy a better past that the one I have. I get confused when I try to do something, or say something, or think of something; if I want a forest I end up in waters, if I want peace I yell all night, if I want a hug I meet the devil. There is a funeral house nearby. It looks so much like my house that sometimes I get confused and I go into it and greet the dead, and serve myself a cup of coffee, and only notice I am in the wrong place because at home there is not as much noise as in that place.
There is a big hole under my bed with people in there, people I used to know. They changed: they were alive, now they are not. I used to love them. And I still do.
But is not the same. Now I miss them more than anything. And I blame them.
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I have spent many years trying to forget about the past that I even forgot about my people. Those are not my dead, I used to think, not anymore. But they are. They welcomed me with open arms. On night, I arrive home from cross-country practice and the lights are dim.
SparkNotes: Holes: Chapters 4–6
The TV is on and my brothers are sitting quietly in front of it. Another week passes and my mom has barely moved. The food I bring her sits on the plate and becomes a home base for a family of flies. As the days drag on, I keep running, and my first cross-country meet approaches. My mom is getting sicker and sicker. She used to wake up at a. Try not to worry. Good luck today. They are purple Balenga socks, the ones my mom ran her first marathon in.
There is a small hole in the corner of one sock from the pinkie toe she always forgets to trim. I put them on, hoping that they would bring us both good luck that day.
In the weeks that followed, my mom came home from the hospital and slowly regained her strength, until she was back to running in the mornings. I kept the socks. They ended up with a total of four holes, each with a story. The emotional neglect of a child, places within them a black hole. It produces an insatiable loneliness that can consume the spirit, body, and soul of a child. As a child, I was a victim of emotional neglect. My most familiar emotion as a child was loneliness. At the center of my being, was a darkness that often pulled me under and left me in such a state of depression as to paralyze me.
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I was filled with a deep longing for someone to notice my pain and help me. This core emptiness followed me into adulthood and ruled over the choices I made. Inside me lived death and I longed for the final consummation of death. In that deep night, I was made blind to happiness, joy, and life itself. When I outlived my expectation, I was careless with my life and did everything possible to hasten my own demise. I was a tiny girl.
I was often sick and spent many hours, days, and weeks alone in bed. I spent the bulk of my fourth year of life sick, in bed recovering from Scarlet Fever that was left untreated for too long. I lived in a kind of nether world, suspended within my own inner darkness that enveloped my thoughts and dreams. All of my childhood memories are set within that dark void. I was sick so often that illness became the main feature of my identity. I knew myself as small, weak, and sickly. My demeanor was pouty and morose.
My companions were books and paper to draw on front, back, and every blank space so as not to be scolded for wasting paper and the books I read were far beyond my years and suitability for my age. I loved Edgar Allen Poe as the black hole within me recognized a spiritual companion.
I accepted the void inside as normal and never understood that I was lacking the interest, love, and nurture of my parents. I saw the problem as me. I was too small, too sick and weak, too clumsy, too mopey and pouty. No one could love or like me because I was unlovable by design. I grew to be an angry and rebellious teenager. My rebellious acts were my desperate cries for help as the pull of the black hole, sitting in the place of my true, undeveloped identity, threatened to consume me, forever. It was an illusion that taunted me and frustrated me as I moved from the emotional neglect and psychological abuse of my parents to the sexual abuse of men.
By age eighteen, I had experienced so much personal destruction by those claiming to love me that I became as a dying, bitter, old woman with no hope for any future. The only comfort and relief from the constant emotional pain, that I felt physically in my chest, was my drugs. It seemed to me that my drugs loved me better than any human being because they relieved me of having to feel the emptiness inside that grew more powerful by the day.
Holes in My Socks
My drugs loved me and I loved them. My drugs closed over me in death and I welcomed the darkness as a refuge that empathized with my inner being; but also, as the final and eternal comfort that my empty, shriveled heart desired. There are many theories about black holes and one theory states that when a black hole fully consumes a world, it emerges from the other side, whole and made new. That is how I also experienced my final consummation that came by my own hand in the form of suicide.
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When the doctors brought me back from death, I was sorrowful to find myself alive. When my systems stabilized, I was admitted to the mental unit for three days observation and then released back into the world that held no promise or future for me. I continued in the pursuit of my love until I weighed 75 pounds and became sick with hepatitis. This was my bottom and the moment when there seemed no way to go but up. I completed my passage through the black hole and began my rebirth on the other side.
The emptiness and aloneness were still the major markers of my character. No one, besides my grandmother, was ever interested in who I was, what my talents and dreams were, or what I thought about anything. As a child, I was to entertain myself and not bother.
I was a big bother when I was sick and I knew not to expect anything more in the way of attention or nurture. Then I was to perform, admirably, on cue. It was sin. There was no God, no outer authority to measure morality by but instead, the whims and pleasures of my dad were the moral code we lived by. The ranch I grew up on was isolated and my family was a world of its own with little connection to society. The mother I needed belonged to him and he jealously guarded her from me. I have one sweet memory of her singing to me but mostly, I remember her disgust and disapproval of me.
I remember the anger and disappointment that seemed constantly aimed in my direction. I ran away from home on a regular basis but there was nowhere to go. I would run the mile or so to the eastern gate and stop, and wait, but no one ever came. Tired, thirsty, and cried-out, I always returned home and no one ever cared that I had been gone or that I had returned. If not for my grandmother, nothing that is me would ever have had opportunity to live.
I wanted to live with her and no matter how long I was at her house, I never wanted to go home.