Now we enter the period I like to call "How Mom Tried to Kill Me". Listen, if I don't find some of this drama somewhat funny in the sort of way late night teen drama's are kind of funny I would have to sink into an alcoholic depression and live in a garret, painting my misery until I succumb to a sad and early death.
Since none of that is in my game plan, I have to laugh at the horror of what follows. Because, really, it was truly horrible. My memory here begins to crumble a bit, my life being defined only by one grotesque incident after another. My life becomes like Marquis D Sades Justine.... just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I promise you, the next few chapters will defy credulity. You will be sure I am lying, because these things don't happen. They just don't.
The general consensus among parents and family was this: I was somehow insane, I was bent on the destruction of my family, and to that end I made up wild and fantasical stories in order to 1.) exact revenge or 2.) hurt my mother or 3.) break up the marriage or 4.) because I enjoyed the drama. It was determined, at this point, to introduce me to a child psychologist.
Her name was Betty. Betty, thank you. You were the first person to come along and save my life, and my gratitude to you will be forever. If I could find you - or if, bless your heart, you read this... I love you forever.
Betty took one look at me. One look at my stepfather. And knew the score. She couldn't do much, but she did as much as she could, including putting me in the hospital a few times, figuring a psych ward was safer than my own home. She continued to see me even though my parents, finding no support for their theory of compulsive lying, cut off the insurance. Bless you Betty.
My memory of these days is like that of any other war survivor... images and glimpses of incidents that all pile one on top of the other, in no particular order....
The first time my mom tried to kill me, she attacked me for trying to end her marriage. I did what was appropriate for any screwed up teen of my generation to do - I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet. Now, mom was a bit of a pill popper, and there were lots to choose from. I chose them all. Total, there were probably a couple of hundred different pills - uppers, downers, cold medication, pain killers - we were well stocked.
By the time the bathroom door was broken down, I was fairly well out of it. At first, my mother was concerned, until she heard me calling for John. At this point, she became enraged... and said something to the effect of "Fine, you little bitch, you want your precious John, he can come save your life." I went to sleep on the couch, calling his name.
At some point a little later, my older brother had dropped by, and I woke to him slapping my face, and arguing with my mother that I really should be taken to the hospital. My mother was against it. "She wants to die, let her die". She was pretty angry with me.
I assume my brother used the argument of jail time to persuade her... though I really have no idea, but I was taken to the hospital, where the nurses worked to keep me awake. I overheard my mother assuring the doctor - "No, we really don't keep much in our medicine cabinet. I assume she may have swallowed a few aspirin, maybe some cold medicine. No doctor, probably no more than 15 or 20 pills. She's just being dramatic." Thanks Mom.
I was given some hideous nasty fluid to drink, probably epicac syrup. I am very grateful they didn't pump my stomach. I wretched for quite some time, and after a few hours, was released to my mothers care.
She said that she hoped I had learned my lesson.
This was the first time mom tried to kill me, but it wasn't to be the last. As I said, she had some anger management issues.
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