Even my psychotic half is an attention seeker

I stopped taking my medication.

It seems like a simple statement, but to some it’s the equivalent to “there’s a bomb on this plane” or “the rubber just broke”.

I’m terrible about taking medicine anyway. I rarely finish antibiotics and birth control pills are out of the question (not that I’ve needed them recently). I have a cabinet full of half empty pill bottles from one time or another, one sickness or another, one dark place or another. I should throw them away, but instead I line them up like mutilated sentries and shut them away in the dark with a satisfied click, too helpless to do their job.

I’m not ignorant. I know it’s not healthy to stop taking a prescription before it’s finished. The majority of the time, when it’s for a sickness, it’s because I’m absentminded or lazy. The rest of the time is more difficult to explain.

When I was kid they gave me Ritalin. I couldn’t sit still in class, had trouble paying attention, and I could be a bit high strung. The Ritalin made me settle down, sure, but it didn’t help me pay attention. I was simply bored, but back in those days it was easier to drug um’ up than ask questions. No one asked themselves why I could sit still from dawn to dusk and read a book the size of my head, but had trouble in the classroom.

I had to go to the office every afternoon for my pill and one of the ladies would follow me to the water fountain in the hall to make sure I took it. I eventually learned to let it fall from my mouth and into the little slots of the fountain as I leaned over to take a drink, shielding it with my body. When the doctor eventually decided it was ok for me to come off Ritalin, that I was (halleluiah!) cured, I smiled to myself and thought, “Idiots”.

I suppose it’s safe to say that I’m defiant, in part, for the feeling of smugness it creates. Though I may have been right not to take the Ritalin then, it doesn’t mean that I’m right now. I’m well aware of that.

But once I start feeling better, once the pills get me over the first hurdle or two, I stop. I say to myself, “You’re fine now. Good job.” And I go on about my business. I add another sentry to the shelf and turn my back – satisfied that their task is done, I’ve stripped them of their ammunition and it’s all up to me from that point forward. I can handle it. I've won.

Life goes on.

Then I’m riding in the backseat of a car on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve just finished a book and I close it with a sigh of satisfaction. But mere moments later I’m restless. We pull over for gas and as the driver gets out to pump, I stare out my window at the busy street. That’s when I see her. She’s wearing a knee length flowered dress and a scuffed, ragged looking pair of Keds. A green and white stripped sock stretches halfway up her left calf, the other is bare. Her hair is cropped close to her skull and her shoulders are hunched around her bent head, as if expecting a blow to fall any minute.

As she passes a few feet from my window I notice her battered black suitcase. Gripping the handle in a dirty fist, she trudges by. In a high pocket on the outward facing side, a grimy brown teddy bear rides shotgun. I stare at his slumped form, rolling along behind his slumped mistress, until they disappear from view.

I feel my face tighten and my eyes begin the tell-tale swim and burn. I hold my breath and lean my head against the back of the seat. “I must be getting my period”, I think. But even as the words form in my brain, I know they aren’t true.

I’m willing to bet that nothing about that woman or her ratty bear would have bothered me had I not stopped taking my meds. They weren't the cause, just the trigger. I probably would have laughed at her one striped sock and her stupid bear and forgotten all about them later. As it is, it’s been weeks and here I am recounting it to you in vivid detail.

Then, just last week, I was on my way home from work. I’d gotten off early and I was in a great mood - singing along with the radio, enjoying the sunshine through the open roof and the wind in my hair. But 15 minutes or so into the hour commute, as if in answer to a brisk snap of summoning fingers, it all went south. I can name no trigger, no real reason for my abrupt change in mood. Suddenly everything was just wrong.

Every unhappy thought or trivial problem I’d had over the past week went ricocheting around my head, gathering strength with each pass and manifesting into a giant ball of “What the Fuck”. I fought back tears and felt my face grow hot. I tried to make sense of it all, to reason with myself. Again, “Must be getting my period” and “Stop it, stop it right now”. Neither helped. By the time I was five minutes from home I’d managed to work myself up so much that I was having trouble breathing.

And all over what? - An argument with a friend, the distance of another. A sudden feeling of loneliness because I’m the last single person in my circle, attending another wedding that weekend. Pressure to be this, do that, feel something, feel nothing, smile, put on the cocky Alyson show. So tired, so tired.

When I arrived home I immediately went to bed and hugged my pillow, just laying there with my eyes closed and breathing slowly, willing myself to calm down. And after a few minutes, I did. I got up, changed my clothes, and walked down to the lake to join the pre rehearsal dinner party that was already in full swing. I was back up again, inwardly rolling my eyes at my dramatics. “Ugh. You are such a fucking girl.”

And that’s where I’m at now. At this moment I feel relatively normal and objective. I have things to look forward to in the coming weeks, things that I’m excited about. But who knows? Tomorrow someone might not call or I might see another homeless person with a battered suitcase and I’ll think it’s the end of the world. Or that my abrupt change in mood has something to do with my period.

Right now I know better. I know I shouldn’t have added that last sentry to the shelf so soon...maybe ever. And when it gets to be too much, I’ll get another and then another. Until one day the door won’t close on them anymore. They’ll band together, form a misfit army to bring me down, and I’ll be found out. Then everyone will know I’m crazy.

But I’ll wait until then. Because haven’t you heard?

Vicious cycles are my specialty.

The Champion

It took me five days to get over that fucking flu. Five miserable, snotty, head aching days. And I know that sweaty bastard has to be the one that gave it to me. HAS to be.

So, before I disappeared last week to smother myself with tissues I’d planned on writing about the aforementioned sweaty bastard that most likely gave me the flu. I was a little hesitant about it. At first I though, “Wow…this probably makes me look like a big slut.” So I put it off.

Now that I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, “Who gives a rat’s ass. I have nothing else to write about…and it’s nothing if not, um, entertaining.” I comfort myself with the fact that I’m not really a slut. There are men out there ten times worse than I’ve ever had time to be. Screw the double standard that will likely never die.

That night I went out with my cousin and his fiancé and another girlfriend of mine. We went to dinner and then to a bar in the small downtown district. I’d usually rather sit home and stare at a wall before I’d go to a bar in my town, especially this particular one. I avoid it like the plague. It’s like a high school reunion every time. Ugh. However, my cousin doesn’t like the city night life like I do and he was paying for all of our drinks so I said, “Why the fuck not?”

It actually wasn’t bad. They had a sort of early St. Patty’s thing going. We went upstairs where it was less crowded to play a couple games of pool. Of course I ran into the usual small town school folks that never leave, (I’m still desperately trying NOT to be one of them.) but it wasn’t so bad.

A guy that my cousin knew well was playing at the table next to ours. He graduated a few years before I did, but I knew him from parties, rumors, and the usual small town run-in. He’d recently gotten back from Iraq, which surprised me. He’d been pretty big into drugs last I heard.

Anyway, he came and said hi to everyone and I could tell he was pretty wasted (but probably only slightly more than I was). When he got to me he shouted, “HEEEEYYYY! JIMMY’S DAUGHTER! WHAT’S UP?”

Yet another reason I avoid small town bars. There’s always one…always…that fucking calls me “Jimmy’s daughter”. I cannot stress just how much I hate being referred to as JIMMY’S GODDAMNED DAUGHTER. As if having the man show up to nearly every party for my entire high school career wasn’t enough embarrassment to last a life time. Not to watch out for me, never that. He was either already there and drunk, passing out god knows what, when I arrived or showed up later. Everyone thought he was fantastic of course. No one else’s dad partied as hard or gave out as many free illegal substances as old Jimbo. He’s a legend. It’s been years and he’s still causing me embarrassment merely by name association. Sometimes when they talk about how cool he was I want to tell them, “Yeah, he’s the coolest! I think it’s great that all of you got to snort my college fund up your noses!” I digress.

I sneered at him. “That’s not my fucking name.”

“I know your name, geeze, Ally...chill.”

We all went back to our games. My cousin started buying shots. About an hour and a half later (I’m estimating), I was lit like a Christmas tree. Everything was lovely! The originally offending party was especially lovely with his military muscles and tattoos. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to sleep with him or not. He’d approached my cousin and expressed an interest I was already plainly aware of, even in my drunken state.

The deciding factor that tipped the scales in his favor? He said, “You know, your dad and I were at (somewhere) once (back when I was still in school) talking and he opened up his wallet for something. I saw your picture and I said, ‘I didn’t know she was your daughter. Nice!’, and he said, ‘Stay away from my daughter’. He scared the shit out of me. He doesn’t live here anymore, right?”

I laughed so hard I spit my drink out, barely missing some poor player.

“No, he doesn’t. We’re leaving soon. Are you coming with me?”

That was all she wrote. He left before we did and I made plans to meet him where I’d left my car. HA Jimmy!

Skipping over the majority of the in transit details, I met the other guy and he rode with me to my cousin’s house. During the drive, we were both more sober and had a pretty decent conversation. Nothing to write home about, but he was a little more intelligent than I’d originally thought. We hung out with my cousin and his fiancé for awhile before they went to bed. I took him to the guest room.

I really didn’t want to complain about another sex partner. I didn’t want it to seem like I’m this really hard to satisfy bitch, because I’m not. I just have really, really bad luck. Evidently. So here it goes.

Before I could do anything he had my arms pinned to my sides and was trying to swallow my entire face. I ended up jerking my head side to side so much I’m surprised I didn’t end up with whiplash.

The sex itself wasn’t so bad...at first. Then the sweating started.

Sweat is normal. I understand that, especially given the acrobatics he was pulling out. But his sweating was not normal at all. He started to get slick. I started to get slick. It was fine as long as I stayed on top, but he kept throwing me around all over the place. It started to drip off his forehead and nose and when he pulled me back under him, it started soaking my hair. I was gritting my teeth and trying to decide if it was funny or disgusting when a giant drop fell directly into my eye. INTO MY EYE.

I froze and opened my mouth to say, I’m not exactly sure, but that wasn’t a good idea. I sputtered and coughed and made him get out and go get a towel.

He was apologetic and wiped my face and his. Against my better judgment, activities commenced. That’s when it got weird.

I love talking shit. Love it. It can be quite sexy. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was not. I didn’t initiate the talking. He asked me once if I liked it rough. I said yes and he took that as an OK to turn into the Shump Daddy. (Taken from his last name…how clever.)

He started pulling my hair. Ok. Great. Good. Fine.

“…you like that baby?”

“…uh huh…”

(This is gonna get graphic…)

“Whose pussy is it?”

“What?”

“WHOSE PUSSY IS IT?!”

“Um…yours?”

“THAT’S RIGHT! Say its Shump Daddy’s pussy!”

“What!?”

He yanked hard on my hair.

“SAY IT’S SHUMP DADDY’S PUSSY!”

I started convulsing on top of him…with laughter. I was biting my lip so hard, but little noises kept coming out, which he took as pleasure.

“SAY IT!”

I choked it out as best as I could, trying to keep from laughing out loud completely which made me shake harder, which made him think I was about to have a melt down.

“DON’T STOP! RIDE IT LIKE A CHAMPION! YOU’RE A FUCKING CHAMPION! A FUCKING CHAMP! CHAMP!”

I lost it. I stopped and doubled up laughing, out loud this time.

“What’s so funny!?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He was perturbed. He grabbed my hair in one hand and my throat in the other, not really putting any pressure on it, but the intent was clear. I gasped when he pulled my head back. Which meant game on again, I guess.

He got so excited that he flipped me under him again and, pardon my rough and descriptive phrasing, pounded me so hard if I’d been a nail, he’d have hammered me through a whole stack of boards. You know how guys sometimes do that REALLY fast, vibrating, jack hammer thing? Yeah, it was like that. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over my face, as much to muffle the laughter as to stop my head from jolting off my neck.

That’s probably the worst of it. It turned out to be about a two hour ordeal. I finally had to fake the most dramatic orgasm I’ve ever faked in my life. And I really, truly hate to do that because then they think they’re great and make other women’s lives miserable. But he was crazy. I didn’t really have a choice.

While he went outside to smoke I started cleaning up the room. The sheets were completely soaked with sweat. I mean SOAKED. They could have just come out of a washing machine they were so wet. I took everything to the laundry room and threw it in the washer. Then I went to the bathroom.

I looked like maniac. My hair was wet and matted, mascara all over my face, bruises starting to show up all over. I combed my hair out with my fingers and put it in a ponytail and prepared to get rid of the Shump Daddy.

Thankfully he went kind of quietly. With a parting, “I really pounded you good, huh?”

I couldn’t answer without having hysterics, so I just nodded.

I went directly home (it was 6am by now) and got in the shower.

The guy had to have been on something other than alcohol. I’m guessing cocaine. Of course I had to tell my cousin and his fiancé about it. They thought it was absolutely hilarious and have been calling me ‘The Champion’ ever since.

Lovely.

It’s that asshole’s fault I got the flu. I know it.

Ah well. Another notch, another laugh and I got 2 ½ days plus the weekend off from work. Still, I’ll be avoiding that bar and the Shump Daddy indefinitely.