The Music In My Life: Part I

Our cheap laminate floors were always hard and cold in the winter. I walked down the hallway one day soon after Christmas when suddenly there was a commotion and my parents rushed me out of the room – instructing me to go to my bedroom and close my eyes. Supposedly, “Santa” was visiting yet again because he had forgotten one of my presents. Excited, I ran to the bedroom, covered my eyes, and used all my wits to NOT look out the bedroom window in hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa. Minutes later, I was told that Santa had left and that I could come and get my present.

A large package was wrapped and sitting on the couch just for me. My tiny hands eagerly unwrapped it to discover a real record player with denim covering. It was the type that played the black records that my sisters listened to. I already had a “record player” that played “special” records. They were plastic, much prettier, and I liked to run my fingers around the edges. The music from those records was much better than those of my sisters but it seemed to be such a big event for me to have one that I got caught up in the excitements.

Soon after, my father called me into the dining room to play the record player. I crawled up into the big chair as his large rough hands began to load some records onto the player. The one I remember most was Johnny Cash’s “Cry, Cry, Cry.” It was carefully explained to me that if I were to tell anyone about the stuff going on in the house then I would end up all alone. I would have no father, no mother, and no sisters. It would be me who would be the one to “cry, cry, cry.”

My sisters must not have known the real meaning of that song because they played it quite a bit and tended to tease me because it made me cry so hard. My parents got so aggravated that they would scold them to stop.

I wish so much that I could express how that musical threat branded itself into every ounce of my being and dominated my every action. Music has played such an intricate role in my life, threading in and out through most aspects of my being. There are no words. He knew a most sensitive place to strike and used that to his advantage. I never told anyone.

I Run From The Ball

Do dreams make no sound
As they die...the worst thing is knowing that I'll survive...*

That's right, I run from the ball. Picture this: pee-wee volleyball - skinny kid with spindly arms - ball larger than head - trying to pop the ball over a 50-foot net from behind a line that is a mile away. A couple of coaches were vaguely amused and tried tediously to help me get the ball over the net but it would not happen for years to come.

Though I did improve, I hated that sport. Yelling "GOT IT!" and attacking the ball was not my thing and usually ended up with me crashing into someone and both of us sent to the floor. Also, when the ball hit -- it hit hard. Hard enough that I just knew I would be again crashing to that concrete-hard, shiny wooden floor with half-an-inch of wax and that my head would gush with blood and I would be disemboweled that very moment. ...okay, a little extreme but that's what it felt like.

So I run from the ball. I've always ran...long and hard. Some say that running is sometimes actually standing up to something...saying "I won't do that or I won't live like that." The trick to the game is probably knowing the difference.

And I watched as you turned away
You don't remember, but I do
You never even tried

Don't fall away and leave me to myself
Don't fall away and leave love bleeding in my hands, in my hands again **

*Fuel,Hemorrhage(In My Hands), Something Like Human
**Fuel, Die Like This, Natural Selection

The White Van That Stole My Teeth

Still with nothing good or hopeful to blog about, I'm actually NOT going to blog the hopeless and not-good things I have to say. So I'm going to tell another twisted childhood story that others seem to be so fascinated about -- the story of teeth and the white van.

So, it was another sunny day in my tiny first-grade classroom when the voice of the principal's secretary came over the intercom and started calling out student's names. One by one, students were led out of the classroom and when they came back they were in shock and missing teeth!

Sadly I, in my own la-la-land, was able to just write it off and not pay attention; that is, until MY name was called out.

Dressed in her white uniform, the school nurse led me out to the parking lot where there was a white van waiting for me. I crawled up into the van and a large man swept me up into a large chair. Something about the smell did not seem right to me but before I knew what had happened the man had removed my two front teeth, placed them in a towelette, and told me to take them home to my mother.

I had went to school that day, minding my own business with all my teeth, and the next thing I knew was that I had two bloody holes in my mouth! Though I now assume my mother gave consent to the whole ordeal, she had never spoken a word about it and was surprised to find me without teeth that evening. I do not recall having ANY decay in my front teeth and hadn't been to a dentist before that would confirm such.

Looking back, I guess that it was some government-funded dental project for poor and rural areas but it still remains a mystery to me and my classmates. Also, for the next year a rumor ran rampant that there was a mysterious white van kidnapping children so none of us went near the edge of the playground during recess out of fear.

My teeth grew back but they are surreal to me.

4AM Cat's Tongue or Rubbed Raw

There's nothing like being woken up to someone sand-papering your face -- especially if you already have insomnia and, thus, can't get back to sleep. I am reminded of a story.

Somewhere between first and third grade I had a classmate with whom I would frequently visit. Our mothers knew each other so they would sometimes visit as well. Apparently, this girl's mother did not want her to be wearing make-up and it was a BIG "NO-NO." Being a tom-boy, I did not see the issue this presented to my friend but whatever...she was obsessed with it. That was when she decided to try some cosmetics on me and the horror began.

At first it wasn't so bad but then she heard her mother in the other room and became extremely paranoid so she decided to wash it off me. The problem began when she determined that she couldn't get enough of it off me and that her deceitfulness was going to be discovered. There was something red about my left cheek so she rubbed...and she rubbed...and she rubbed...etc.

My cheek was very sore and I'm sure her mother noticed because the next day I woke up the left side of my face was all gooey, raw, and pink. A day later the wound began to turn into a nice brownish 3 x 3 inch scab and the interrogations at school and home began.

I tried to explain to the teachers, and everyone, that a girl had, matter-of-factly, simply rubbed the hyde off my face. Apparently, this caused allot of confusion, commotion, and I tired of it quickly so I began to lie to them. When one kid's mother asked me what had happened, I told her that "I got into a fight and you should see the other guy. Grrrrrrrrr!!!!" That was my reason and from then on, somewhere between my under-developed frame and the growling, and no more questions ensued.

The big question here is why did I let the hyde be rubbed off my cheek in the first place? I suppose I felt the fear of her mother's wrath and sympathized with the girl and also had too much of the victim mentality by then. In any event, it makes for a good party story.

Prologue: I did try to go back to sleep by using some techniques taught to me by a therapist but the wetness of cat #2's nose bamming me in the face made such impossible. So this time, I'm waiting for a Klonopin to kick in and then I am going to completely cover myself with blankets.