JUST ANOTHER VICTIM
By Chuck Messinger
We are not victims. We are survivors.
If I hear that statement one more time I am going to lose it. I kicked my husband's ass as many times as he kicked mine; he just doesn’t bruise easy. After years of pressure from the family and now police involvement ( thanks to our best friends and nosy neighbors who decided they had to make the call) we split up. He got a lawyer and I got the shaft.
Nothing like going from a beautiful home in the burbs to a one bedroom apartment behind a strip mall. I went from having good married friends to no one caring. A husband that despite his heavy fist was a great supporter; now a welfare check considerably smaller than I am used to. His tricked out SUV while he was at work, to the station wagon he bought when I was pregnant.
Despite my bitching I made the move for Rayna. My princess. The real love of my life. The real reason I gave that douchebag a chance. Only 6 years old and she has become my center of gravity. No time could get too rough with her around. It’s like she reads my mind. Ever since she popped her first tooth she has had nothing but smiles for her Momma. Now she is cute and knows it and that is dangerous. Everyone at her daycare is just in love with her as I am. I worry at times that one of those crazy old betties is gonna take my sweet little girl. Not on my watch.
I have two choices with these mandatory support groups: one at Noon down by City Hall or 7am for the one a block from home. Why the justice system would make it mandatory for me to sit around and listen to a bunch of whiners is beyond me. I never complained once when he hit me. We both had the solution; but we were both the problem. It’s like brushing your teeth; you just get in the habit of doing it when your teeth feel gross. Our relationship felt gross…so we beat on each other. I know it is sick, but I miss the feel of my knuckles being slightly out of wack, the taught feel of the skin on my chin, the forced tears that occur when I feel pain. Sometimes I smack myself in the mirror hoping that the natural aging in my face would be diminished by my punishment.
I haul myself reluctantly out of bed one Friday morning in April to the sound of my cell phone alarm. As always Grover, our Terrier terror, jumps to the floor flapping his ears: his signal that it is potty time. I open the sliding glass door to let him out, then head to the kitchen to grab an energy drink. My pajama bottoms are riding up my ass something fierce so I work them out slowly as I make my way to Rayna’s room. As always she is up and sitting at the end of her bed; fully dressed: pony tails in, her favorite pink dress on, ready to take on the world. I don’t know what I would do with a less disciplined child. My brain isn’t usually running at 100 percent until well after my first Energy drink. I kiss the Princess on the head and she follows me out to the television where I promptly start ‘Little Mermaid’ for the 75th time this year.
I swallow the cold beverage down in one gulp and go get dressed. No shower; no one I really feel the need to impress at group. I look out the window to see a light powder of snow starting to fall from the sky. The walk can get cold so I pull a pair of sweats over my pajamas and don the Seahawks jersey I found at Goodwill. It is so oversized I could steal a side of beef from the market and no one would know. Showing another sign of my newfound laziness I skip brushing my teeth and decide to just run my finger across the stained ivory surface to remove any nightly build-up. After a quick inspection of the milky white substance, I wipe my finger off inside the front side of the jersey and return to the living room.
My beautiful princess, showing the usual signs of goofiness, is hanging upside down from the loveseat and watching the TV upside down. At some point she got up to get a juice box which she is now trying to drink upside down with the straw inserted through her missing front tooth gap. She knows I think it is funny right away so she giggles as she says “Moo-Moo Mama” surprisingly without choking on her juice. Moo-moo is the way Rayna said I love you since she was a baby; it just stuck. “Moo-Moo, back in a few” I said as I head first to the fridge to add two energy drinks to my pockets, slip on my Gators, then out the sliding glass door letting the always excited Grover back inside with Rayna.
OK here is your chance to pass judgement over me. What good mother would leave her 6 year old daughter alone while she went to group therapy? Duh. The same one that apparently needs that therapy. Kidding of course. Really it comes down to the fact that she is wise beyond her years, fine for a short period of time without guidance; oh yeah, and the cost of daycare for one hour can mean a difference between eating Macaroni and Cheese and having the Family Meal at Old Peking with leftovers to feed us the next morning. Go ahead, judge again. She loves leftover Chinese food.
I pull my hood over my head as I walk out the front door, tucking my hands into the pockets of my sweats. The snow is still sprinkling (how strange for April!). I run for the station wagon and jump inside, like a child scared of the Boogie Man when turning off the lights. I hate being at group and being wet; with all the body heat in the room the heat can be unbearable, and with wet garments you can actually see the steam rise off of those with a high body temperature. I’d rather people didn’t watch me steam. I turn the key to the station wagon and it fires the first time (usually takes a few times on a cold day). As the final sign of my laziness, I pull the car out of its spot and drive the 800 yards to the front door of the counseling office. I justify the decision by telling myself I am not dressed to be in public.
As I make my way inside the counselor’s office, I see Mad Marge sauntering through the parking lot, looking like maybe she had a few after work last night. Mad Marge is in the substance abuse group at this office; she apparently spends every night blowing her social security checks at the local bar. While I don’t know her well I lift a hand in recognition not concerned if she returns the gesture. And she doesn’t. I turn my attention to the lobby where the rest of the group are waiting on the bench for Dr. Cherry to arrive. Dr. Cherry is neither a doctor, nor a cherry. In fact, I would not be surprised if she received whatever certification she has for this job from the back of a comic book.
I sit down next to the ‘Big Girl’. I apologize but I am so cynical about this damn class I really don’t pay attention to anyone talking, thinking all the while what my princess is doing at home. Not to mention with a 7am start time Dr. Cherry doesn’t show until 7:15 or later almost every time. The receptionist unlocks the meeting room for us and we all make our way into the meeting room each at our own pace. I pull a now warm energy drink from my pocket and crack the tab. The drink serves as a diversion; each time Dr. Cherry asks someone if they would like to go next you will often find me with an energy drink at my mouth. It has worked so far. I don’t think there is a formalized agenda for these meetings other than ensuring those of us that are court ordered attend.
I look at the clock on the wall and note it is almost 7:30. I look around at each other person in the room and realize that no one really seems to care about Dr. Cherry’s late arrival. You can usually hear them sharing their hot headed opinions with each other regarding the Doc’s tardiness and performance; but not today. No interaction at all. Like a bunch of kids sitting outside the principal’s office after a schoolyard fight. I get up and go over to the window to view the parking lot and notice the snowflakes are coming down harder and they appear to be a strange gray in color almost like ash. Now I remember when Saint Helens blew and saw the ash so I know better, but that was my first impression.
And then I saw them. In the time I spent staring out the window, the number increased from four or five to a couple dozen. People. Just standing out in the snow. None of them appeared to be headed anywhere in particular, or caring much about the increasing snow fall. It’s like they were human snow panels soaking up the flakes of frozen rain. It was mesmerizing. Like watching a bead of rain make its way down your windshield in a storm. Like watching a spider build a web. Like watching paint dry. There are a thousand ways to describe it, but none would be entirely accurate. The only thing that breaks my concentration is the loud slam behind me.
I jump almost clean out of my Gators as I turn around waiting to confront my inevitable attacker. The Big Girl fell out of her chair. I would have laughed, but she looked as if something was wrong. She was jerking back and forth on the floor like she was having a seizure, and gurgling like maybe she was choking on something.
No one else even budged. I ran over and hesitantly heaved Big Girl by two handfuls of her sweater onto her side. Surprisingly light (fat does weigh less than muscle I suppose) I rolled her almost completely over onto her stomach. As I work my way around her front side to check if she is breathing, I notice a steady flow of liquid coming from her midsection and pooling on the office carpet beneath her. I stand up rigid for a moment, and take in the scene. Big Girl, on the floor, choking. No one else is moving to give her a hand. Now she has peed herself and no one is budging.
I take an extended survey of the room and notice each and every one of them with bodily fluid issues. Mexican teenager: drool coming out of both sides of her mouth (looks like she swallowed a tennis shoe). Slightly older Native American girl: Mucuslike fluid pouring from her nose and mouth (like a pudding dispenser). White rail thin meth head: eyes wide, mouth agape, and urine pooling in the plastic chair (like a child in a kiddie pool). Bizarre redheaded hooker girl leaning against the wall with a lump of feces dropping to the floor (like a bizarre redheaded hooker girl shitting herself). I continue my survey of the bizarre carnival of infections unveiling themselves before me and I feel a lump develop in my throat. Without a warning, I projectile vomit directly onto big girl. The taste of citrus and battery acid is overwhelming as it makes its way into my sinus cavity. I snort to remove the chunks of Old Peking Family Meal from my nose as I wipe away tears from my eyes.
Eyes still blurry, I can see through the haze that everyone but Big Girl in the room is now on their feet. Big Girl is rolling back and forth, like a turtle on its back. As my vision slowly returns, I notice they are all shuffling towards me, like moths to a light. In sheer terror, I make a B-line directly for the back door with the ‘EXIT’ sign above it. As I slam through the door I slide in the quarter inch of snow landing face first in the pavement of the parking lot. My chin grated like parmesan cheese as I grinded to a halt with my face as my only brakes. I could taste an even flow of my own blood as I struggled to my feet. ‘I have been hit harder than this’ I say to myself as I struggle to regain my footing and leverage.
Without looking back, I instinctively run directly back towards the apartment. As I pass the rear entrance of the Old Peking and round the corner by the Mad Cat I run smack dab into a small object and find myself flailing and falling to the ground again. I prop myself up on my hands and tilt my head back to see what it was I ran into. The small girl I ran into had her head down and hands to her mouth like she was a contestant in a water melon contest. Her head was bobbing as if running against a rind as she devoured her prize-winning melon. As I rose to my feet the girl started lifting her head.
It was my Princess. My beautiful Rayna. The love of my life. Looking as lovely as I have ever seen her. Except for the blood…and the smile. The smile that has always been just for me was now full of a strange substance which she was spasmically chomping on while staring at me as if I wasn’t there. I suddenly felt unable to respond. At first I thought it was shock. No matter how hard I tried to reach for Rayna, my arms would not cooperate. And then she ran. First towards me, then right passed me. I felt a deep anguish build as she ran past me and around the corner out of my life.
But I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t follow her. I couldn’t scream. Whatever affliction came across everyone else arround me was now happening to me. It was like being a puppet controlled by strings.
For the first time ever I felt like a victim rather than a survivor.
