My first word was Da Da. My second, annunciated perfectly in Zavarelli�s music store on a clear winter�s day in my eighth month of non-uteran existence, was graphic equalizer. Mom always knew I would be a talker.
From a time before I can remember, I was surrounded by all things concerned with creation. Mostly of writing and music, but occasionally art and photography as well. In fact, I have no family portraits. There are an abundance of black and whites, though; grainy or sharp, light or dark, Photoshopped the old fashioned way� in the darkroom. I pull them out on occasion and look at the chronicles of my childhood adventures. In nearly every picture, there is an instrument� me banging on a ridiculously huge set of drums, wearing equally huge sunglasses, a cloth diaper, and a gargantuan grin. Or a close up of me leaning over in my overalls, chubby fingers reaching to pluck curiously at the strings of a temporarily abandoned guitar. There are some artsy photographs, too: me walking down some concrete steps; precise in my imitation of ladylike, down to the way I lifted the hem of my velvet dress. It�s strange the things you remember� the dress was heavy on my skin, and a deep hunter green. You can�t tell from the picture, but it was.
Anyhow, I had hippie parents, and was enveloped in late night jam sessions, the typewriter furiously clackety-clacking at all hours of the day and night, daily excursions to the music store in Crystal City, health food, and lo and behold� one day, a baby sister. Catie Elizabeth, beautiful not only in her huge brown eyes and platinum hair, but also, her ethereal fragility. Sticks and stones would definitely do away with my baby sister�s bones� or so I told my mom one day. She laughed so hard she spit her rose water all over me.
When my sister was one, and I was four, I remember walking into our room, looking for my charcoal and scribble paper. Catie was crying, and I thought she was lonely. I knew just how to remedy the situation as well. I was the big sister, after all� and since I couldn�t fit into the crib, I decided that all the stuffed animals in the house would have to be a good enough substitute. I went and got my mom, proud of my stellar problem solving capabilities. I remember this because it was the first time I saw true alarm in my mother�s eyes. She began yanking the stuffed animals out of the crib, frantically searching for my sister, earnest with her saucer eyes and low pleas for me to never do that again. I leaned over the bed and spanked myself� which my mom found endearing and funny, now that she was assured that Catie was still breathing, and in fact, laughing. It turns out that Autistic people like to be enclosed or restrained in some way. It comforts them. More on that later� blasting back to the past. My dad walked in, and mom started telling him the story�halfway through (the bad half) he reached over, grabbed me (the bad seed), and tossed me under Catie�s crib with a force that ended up breaking my nose. It was the first of many disappointments, for both of us.
Cate was diagnosed with autism when I was six. By then, my parents had also decided they were getting a divorce. When my mom told me, I told her, matter of factly, that it was probably a good idea because then Daddy wouldn�t have to break all our dishes and furniture all of the time. She sent me promptly to my first counselor. I promptly began wetting the bed, which lead to a serious bladder and kidney infection. I ended up with a fever of 108, and all my stuffed animals in a hospital bed for a month and a half. Dad didn�t come to the hospital, but he did make sure, afterwards, to enforce my cranberry juice consumption until I liked it. Then he moved to New York, where he lived in Brooklyn; the doting sugar daddy to one kick-ass dog, and one big-ass cocaine addiction.
I spent summers at summer camp (I am Patahontas born, I am Patahontas bred, and when I die, I�ll be Patahontas dead), or the east coast of Florida. On occasion, we would go to Orlando, where my grandmother had an antiquated house in the middle of nowhere. History means little when you are little; I found I was much more interested in the moment or any of the ones following it. Sweet Valley High, fire ants, skinned knees, The Bangles, watermelon bubble gum, Spin the Bottle, Capture the Flag, training bras, ruffle skirts� and all of the sudden I was thirteen.
I read every book I could get my hands on�except my schoolbooks, that is. At thirteen, two things happened. One for the self-help books, and one for Jerry Springer. My mom extended her charity beyond the occasional pound puppy, and onto a man-child five years older than me. He lived with us for several years, and I began contending with an older brother type who peeked up my dress after a few too many Blue Bulls. Living with this, combined with the earlier allusion to one of those unfortunate occurrences that Stephen King likes to write about (yeah, I could be more cryptic, but I won�t) made me afraid of men. Not boys, mind you� boys were toys for a pre-teen with boobs and Cover Girl lip-gloss. But men, with hair on their chests and god knows where else� they frightened me in a dark way I still to this day can�t explain. And I can�t say I am completely over it.
In high school, I was made fun of. The jocks had a love/hate relationship going on� mostly with my fishnets and the area right under the frays of my uniform skirt. I couldn�t sew, so I just cut the damn thing with my mom�s rusty fingernail clippers. I smoked cigarettes outside the principal�s office, had a vocabulary superior to most of my teachers with a nice peppering of words like cunt and fuck, devoured D.H. Lawrence and Anais Nin, and usually woke with the notion that I was a bad ass� only to have my hopes crushed by fourth period if Allistair hadn�t looked in my direction that day. I was tricky about my self esteem issues: I didn�t give a rat�s ass what most people thought, but those I deemed worthy to judge me (whether they knew it or not) were more accurate than my bathroom mirror or my common sense.
High school was when my dad moved back in with us. High school was also the point when I became so afraid to fail, that I never tried anything I knew I might not ace the first time. My family believed the whiz kid rebel shtick, and I intended to keep it that way. I was anorexic when it came to life. I would only attempt to experience things I knew wouldn�t make me look stupid. I continue this pattern, on occasion, today.
With dad back in the house, I learned gems such as �pain is what teaches you something�, or the fact that he had �forgotten more than I ever would know�. He was ashamed to have me as a daughter, and I was ashamed he was my father. Secretly, I was ashamed of me, too.
It all came to the fore when I woke up one day and found him choking my mom on the shower curtain rail. We had one of those old metal ones; I remember noting absentmindedly that I couldn�t believe it was supporting my mom�s weight. Which it obviously was, due to the fact that her face was blue. I won�t go into great detail about the thoughts in my head; suffice it to say that I told him, in a very low voice, that I would kill him if he didn�t get the fuck out of my house right then. That was the final disappointment, for both of us. I refuse to allow myself access to that level of anger ever again. I would rather sit in the bowels of Dubya�s personal port-a-potty for weeks than even contemplate it.
I didn�t graduate high school. I did walk, however, and received an empty diploma case. To this day, it sits, forlorn and dusty, on my mom�s piano. I suppose I will put my GED in it, someday. At the time, I placated myself with the fact that I did attend high school for all four years, and also, that I walked with the cap and gown� and nothing on underneath. Kelly, don�t even say the R.(ighteous) I.(ndignation) phrase; the whole paragraph above is redolent with it. (Gotta love a girl who can use redolent appropriately in a sentence, dontcha?) I was eighteen and dating an existentialist, give me a break.
No college, two boyfriends. Getting ripped off, losing my car, my apartment, everything but two pairs of socks, an old journal, one pair of shorts, and a dog-eared copy of The Magus, all stuffed into my trusty book bag. Sleeping in graveyards, hanging with Vassar junkies, learning I could sing, losing my poetry. The years following high school are� muddled.
I was in love twice. Once with a swan dive performed in perfect trust, the other by a trip up that resulted in one hell of a fall. I was writing furiously at this point, remembering the exuberance and the innocence of a childhood spent traipsing around antique oriental rugs covered in dog hair, the smell of my mom�s herbal shampoo, the wail of a guitar muffled by its journey through the heating ducts in the dead of night. I wrote story after story� and didn�t finish a one.
Then, while back in my grandmother�s antiquated house (finally appreciating the moments that came before), I bought a web cam. Love number two was fading fast, though I couldn�t see it from the selective view I was enjoying through the window of denial. Subconsciously, I had to fix my gaze elsewhere, and I knew it. So I looked into the lens of my new toy�hour after hour, month after month.
I came to California, marveling all the while in the digital beauty and beast that is the internet. I met Sara; I met John. And something happened. Through reading John�s wrds, and watching the evolution of the Real House and its inhabitants, I began to believe in myself again. In my mind, soon to be throughout my body, was this want to reclaim the fearless intrepid of my early youth. It prodded and pulled� pulled me onto a plane bound for San Diego, as a matter of fact.
And the rest, what I would be and what I will be, is up for grabs. The bidding opens and closes with my paddle.
5:04 p.m. - 2001-06-20
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