When You Hit Rock Bottom, You've Either Got to Claw Your Way Back Up or Die.
10:36 a.m. - 2003-05-12

Disregard the entry previous to this one. I've been doing Christopher Lowelling my diary this morning, simply because I don't have a goddamn thing to do.

None of my students showed up. My aide called in sick. So I'm sitting here, all by myself in this pathetic excuse for a classroom. I'm lonely, I'm sleepy, I'm bored, and I want like hell to go home. But I can't, because the phone might ring. (The estimated number of phone calls that I get here is about two a week.) So I'm aggravated.

I'm also pissed, upset, confused, depressed, angry, angsty, and considering murder.

Of course, coming from me this may sound normal, but I assure you...it is not. This is a different kind of rage. This is an all-consuming, unadulterated, "I'm sick and fucking tired of drama, and if it doesn't end soon, I may just commit myself to the asylum so that I can get away from the world" type of feeling.

I feel like I've been shattered into a million pieces and no one is doing a goddamn thing to make it any better except me. And I'm the one taking the heat for ALL the bullshit, and I haven't done a motherfucking thing to deserve it.

What the hell is the problem? Well, just let me tell you. Let's start at the beginning. Go grab your cup of coffee, or your tea, or your cigarette, or your joint, and settle in for the tale of my weekend.

Are you ready now?

Good. I'll begin.

Friday went okay. I got pierced, Rose and Psycho drove down to see us, Melissa and the baby were there, and all that was okay. But all of a sudden, all these random people just started stopping by. I don't know if someone posted a sign on my front door declaring my home an official party zone, but there were more people in that wood-frame house than have been there in a looooong time. Maybe ever.

Finally, I decided that I could not handle the teeny-boppers anymore.(I'm not kidding...there were teenagers there, and I make it a point not to deal with teenagers.) Take offense if you want, but I WAS a teenager five years ago, and I know what they're like. They drink vodka and Gatorade, or whatever else they can get their hands on, and then they puke in your floor, or they start crying because their boyfriend left them, or they start dry humping on the couch. Plus, they must always have Avril Lavigne or Christina Aguilera or some other such shit blaring on the stereo. Teenagers spill brightly colored drinks on your carpet. They let the dog out because they're too drunk to realize that there's a highway right behind your house, and the dog might get run over. They back into each other's cars (or, in a worse case scenario they hit YOUR car), and if all else fails, you find them fucking on your bed.

But I digress. I cleared out the teens, Melissa and the baby went to bed, and A., Rose, Psycho, and I went for a drive. Actually, we went to a friend's house to try and seek out adult company. Of course, they were all fucked up too, so the whole "adult" factor didn't work out so well. We stayed about an hour, then excused ourselves to go home.

BUT(you knew that was coming, didn't you?) I didn't come home to an empty house. When I opened the door, there were five people sitting around my living room. They were ALL tweaked out on meth. Two of these people included Jasmine and Coriander, who I thought had straightened up and decided to live like human beings. Apparently I was wrong. (Yeah, it happens that way sometimes.)

You may be wondering how these people got into my house. Well, the most obvious answer would be Melissa, since she was in there asleep. That answer is incorrect. Coriander broke into MY home with a fucking credit card. The fucking door was locked. What more of an indication do you need that you aren't supposed to come in?

At this point, it's around 3:30 a.m., and I'm completely exhausted. I had been up since 6 a.m., I'd been pierced, I'd dealt with a houseful of teenagers, I'd driven out to a friend's house and was disappointed with what I found there, and I was ready to go the fuck to bed. So I did.

When I woke the next morning, Jasmine was scrubbing my countertops and stove. She was still speeding, and evidently she likes to clean when she's on meth. (To which I say, "Go for it." There's a vacuum and mop in there too, if you feel so inclined.) She informs me that she has been up for four days with no sleep or food. She looked like death warmed over, and I told her that she needed to eat and go to bed. She started cleaning the oven.

I inquired about her husband.

"He left in my car...but he'll be back later." *ScrubScrubScrub*

So you're stuck here?

*Scrub*"Yeahbutit'sok. IliketocleanwhenI'mspeeding,don'tyou? DoyoumindifIwashthosedishes?Therearealotofdirtydishes."

Wash whatever you want. WHEN is he coming to pick you up?

*Spray,scrub* "Idon'tknowhesaidsomethinggoing somewhereforsomething.Buthe shouldbebackinalittlewhile. Youdon'tmindusbeingheredoyou?"

Who the hell is "us?"

"Kris...he'sagoodfriendofmine, andCorianderlefthimtoo -- buthe'scomingbacktopickusupdon'tworry.I'msorry,A."

You need to eat something. You need some rest. Please eat something and go sit down, Jasmine. You're making me nervous.

"ButIcan'teatIhaven'teateninfourdays. IfIdoI'llgetsick, andIjustdidmylastbumpthismorning. SoI'malittlewired.Justletmecleanup,ok?"

*Sigh* Whatever you say, honey. By the way...what's that on your arm?

"Ohnothingpleasedon'tlook...nodon'tlookA., theyembarrassmeandIdon'twant..."

I jerked her sleeve up. Her arms were black. Actually, they were black, and purple, and green. She had a hole starting right near her wrist where she's been shooting up in the same vein over and over and over and over and...you get the point. (No pun intended.)

Have you ever seen Requiem for a Dream? You know that thing on Jared Leto's arm that turns into gangrene and he has to get his arm removed? Or Gia? That sore on her hand? My friend has something that looks like that on her body, and she's standing there scrubbing my goddamn countertop like everything is okay.

"Jasmine...you need to go to the doctor. That's only going to get worse...you could lose your hand. Please go to the doctor. Come on...I'll take you."

"No,A. Ican'tgotothedoctorherebecauseeveryoneknowsme, andthey'llknowwhatI'vebeendoing, andIdon'twantthattohappen... everythingwillbefine,Ipromise."

Yeah. She promised.

So the day wore into the afternoon, and by that night I was contemplating whether or not sticking a fork in an electrical outlet would kill me completely or just piss me off more.

Jasmine...are you sure Coriander is coming back?

"HesaidhewasbutIdon'trememberwherehewasgoingandIdon'tknowwherehecouldbe...I'mgetting pissedoff, though."

Yeah. No shit.

So, I started cooking supper, and Jasmine went to lay down on my bed. When everything was just about done, I decided to go wake her. I was going to force some goddamned mashed potatoes down her throat whether she liked it or not.

I shook her gently. Then, I shook her harder. Her face was cold and clammy. I rolled her over. Her lips and eyes were completely blue, and her skin had no color whatsoever. I started yelling at her. I slapped her. I screamed for A. I screamed for Kris. I tried to pick her up off the bed, but she was just dead weight...I couldn't lift her.

Kris ran in the room, and immediately started freaking the fuck out. I told him that either he had to shut the fuck up and help me get her off the bed and on the floor, or she was going to die. He picked her up, and we put her on the floor. Her head hit hard, and her legs splayed out at a funny angle. She wasn't breathing. I checked her pulse, and it was either so faint that I couldn't feel it, or else it wasn't there at all. I'm not sure which.

Kris was screaming. A. was freaking out. I was telling them both to shut the fuck up so that I could think. One of them brought in a glass of water and threw it in her face. I told the dumb fuck that if they wanted to drown her they could do it later, but right now I had to get her back.

I took ONE CPR class in college. One. I got a B in that class because I never attended. Goddammit, was I going to be able to do this?

Let's recap. My best friend is lying on the floor, dead, and I'm the only person in the house that (remotely)knows CPR. The two men don't know what to do, because this is an apparent overdose, and if we call 911, there's going to be cops, and even though I don't have drugs in MY house, I don't know what the hell Jasmine might have with her.

I did the only thing that I could do. I did CPR. I remembered something about 10 and 5, but I wasn't sure which was the compressions and which was the breaths. So I just did the best I could. I tilted her head back, did the finger-sweep thing, pinched her nose tightly, and gave my breath to my friend. Then I pumped on her chest. Nothing happened. I just kept repeating what I was doing, trying to focus on her, on the compressions, on saving her life. I tried to ignore the screaming in the background, and instead was praying silently to whatever god might be listening to PLEASE let my friend live. I lost Wendi. I couldn't lose Jasmine.

Finally, her lips began to turn pink, and her face started to gain some color. Then she took a breath on her own. Just one...and then she stopped again, but at least that gave me hope. I figured that whatever I was doing, I must be doing it right, so I just kept on with the compressions and the breathing until she finally started coughing and I could feel a pulse.

She sat up slowly, completely dazed. She didn't know where she was, what was going on, or why she was on the floor. She didn't know what she had taken, she didn't know how long she had been at my house. We carried her to the living room, I wrapped her in blankets, and I gave her a glass of orange juice. I told Kris that if he didn't get her to drink every drop of it I would rip his fucking balls off. She drank.

I called her parents. They rushed over to check on their daughter. A screaming, cussing match ensued between the family members, and I went outside to talk to her stepdad. I just wanted him to know that I hadn't had anything to do with this. I was just the house that she crashed at...I was just the one who saved her life. He was VERY kind and understanding, even though the poor man must be about to go out of his mind.

Jasmine left this morning, and I'm not sure where she's going to go. I'm worried about her, but I can't do this anymore. I can't watch my friends kill themselves. I never want to have to bring someone I love back to life.

I won't be seeing Jasmine for a very, very long time, but I'm glad she's alive.

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I am: so very many things. A mother, a wife, a dreamer, a lover of animals and babies, a friend. I've been called a bitch, but if that's what you call someone who stands up for what they believe in and refuses to settle, then I guess the title fits.

loves: my family, horses, a full night's sleep, puppy breath, my daughter's laughter, thunderstorms, bubble baths, makeup, soft sheets, David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, wine, massages, the written word, and sour straws.

dislikes: closed minds, depression, pimples, extreme heat, math, panic attacks, black licorice, doing laundry, white chocolate, gin, Bush.