CARRIE:

I look at my naked body in the mirror and I hate it. I hate everything that I let other people do with it. I look at my bruises and I hate myself for letting them happen. For not defending myself, putting up boundaries, or just getting the hell out of there. How could I have been so stupid?

But I guess it’s nothing about stupidity. At least that’s what I tell myself, you know, when you are a crackhead your ability to make rational decisions deteriorates rapidly, especially if you’re dependent on your fix from someone who likes to bash your head into things when he doesn’t get his way or likes to fuck you hard in certain places even if you say that it hurts. He just goes on and then you close your eyes and you think of not England but your next fix, and how nice that’s going to be because you’re already numbing yourself in order to not go crazy in this situation.

I guess that’s the problem now that it’s all over—my body is still numb. Though I was sort of thinking of kind of maybe … ratcheting up the temperature a little bit with that nice bottle I bought at the gas station. But it’s just there in my bag. You know, my old man did this for years. And here I am considering doing it. Considering drinking so I can take the withdrawal symptoms from not shooting all kinds of shit into my veins. It’s like to take one poison and you replace it with another poison. The latter poison is just working a little bit more slowly. It’s cheaper, at least. I’ll give it that much.

I sit down on the bed and you know, it’s actually a very nice, simple bed. Clean sheets. Not like some of the other dumps I have spent the night in. It feels good against my butt. What a thought. So at length and because I’m so tired and yeah, I just lean back and switch on the TV attached to the wall and see what’s going on. Well, it seems like the election is heating up. That’s nice. I wonder if I should care. It seems very far away. But there’s a lot of talk about that.

I let my hands stray my body gently at first, you know, going over my tummy up to my chest and back down towards my crotch, but then I stop. You know, there’s a real genuine need here. I feel that you know, it hasn’t gone away. It hasn’t gone away despite my numbness. And it’s, it’s the worst thing is that it feels like if I do this, it’s—it’s maybe it’s not a genuine need. Maybe it’s like the crack or the whiskey. Maybe sex even with yourself is just a way to feel unnumbed. And there are healthier ways to do that. I know that. So I don’t do anything because I doubt myself. I doubt that I can do anything at all at any time from now on or in the future that I can trust to be for the good of myself.

So what do I do? Is stay in this hotel room forever? I don’t have money for that. That’s for sure. Do I call my mom? She’s probably still looking for me. Worried sick. Last I talked to her, she mentioned something about Dad coming over from Scotland. You know, him spending all that money just to come over here and be with Mom, I guess. That’s a strange thought. Now that he suddenly cares, maybe it’s because he became sober years ago. Maybe it’s just because he’s older. Or maybe it’s because he really cares and there’s nothing more to say to that. There’s no other, you know, way to explain it.

But you see now what I’m doing here now, as I’m watching this debate to try to just not think of everything, to just focus on something stupidly dull. Then my thoughts, you know, they slip away and to all the doubt, you know, I’m—it’s not fair to Dad because I’m just using my self-doubt against him. I’m projecting it onto him. I mean, not that he doesn’t deserve a little doubt, but I know it’s too much.

So could I go back? I wonder. My mom talked about—well, I guess she has done it, you know, she moved to Los Angeles finally. I don’t know what she expects to find there. But maybe it’s good that she does that because I couldn’t move back to Cleveland. Too many memories.

So what I’m thinking is of course, could I go back to live with her? A small apartment as usual and just, you know, piss poor as usual. So what would that accomplish except us getting to a point where we tore each other’s heads off. Just like when I was a teenager. That would only be temporary. I suppose that is the reasonable, rational solution that is what Mom would also want, you know, and then she wouldn’t have to look for me or worry about me.

But I want something else, you know, I want my life. I want my own thing because I haven’t had my own things for a long time when I surrendered my soul and body, my rationality, everything to other people. So I want to be able to make just this one independent choice and but that’s pretty hard when you don’t have money or a job or finished education. But I’m going to stay. Not in this hotel room, maybe another, maybe with someone. I don’t know. That gives me a little bit of independence, even if it just, you know, transfers, I guess dependence to another.

Shit, I’m rambling.

I turn off the TV. Maybe the only thing there is to do now is to turn off my brain for the night. I hope I can sleep without going to that bag, opening it, starting all over. If I can do just one more night, then my head will be clearer tomorrow. And I will know what to do. Isn’t that right? Sleep on it. That’s what they always say. Sleep on it.

Yeah. I guess the only thing, the only reason I hear this advice and don’t doubt it is because I’m too tired.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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Photo by Vinicius “amnx” Amano on Unsplash