three in the morning productions

hyperballad

No one to turn to. Nowhere to go. Anywhere was as good a destination as any.

I thought about South Carolina. Maybe even California. I didn't care. I was going to see the Ocean. And from there, I didn't know. Well I'd never been to the beaches of North Carolina, so I'd start there. I was crying a little, listening to Stabbing Westward and feeling sorry for myself. If you had asked me then how I felt, I would have told you to: "Go fuck yourself" and "DIE." Then afterwards, maybe amidst the self-hating rants you'd slowly pick up details on how one parent prayed to cast the demons out me and the other wanted to put me in an insane asylum, saying how it was "in the insurance," so -that- made it okay. And then maybe it doesn't need mentioning how betrayed I felt. They told me, when I couldn't turn to my friends, when I had nothing left, that -no matter what-, family would be there. So yeah, that was bullshit too, along with all that God stuff they were yet again trying to shove down my throat.

I had a map of North Carolina, a full tank and a hundred and six dollars to my name. I decided I had no reason to wallow in self-pity. I took out Stabbing Westward for Bjork and immediately felt better, happier, even a bit hopeful--though I sure as hell didn't know what I was going to do once I got there. There being the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It was one long ass drive. Partly because I kept getting lost, partly because I wasn't in a hurry; I was going to enjoy myself. I sang along to music and waved to random cars.

Sometimes though, in a moment of quietude--the hurt would come back. I'd recall how I came home already wounded from a painful remark by my sister that made me realize she could no longer be my refuge. And she was always my refuge, from the chaos at home. My dad I suppose was bored and needed somewhere to channel his Righteous energies. Seeing that I was already in tears, he decided to pick a fight with me and armed himself with Religion and Parental mandate. The kind of verbal tussle that always result in his clasping his hands with a rapt expression on his face, praying to the heavenly forces that the Devil (Me) be driven out of this godly home. Anyway, he had told me himself that he felt happier whenever I wasn't home. I answered his prayers for him. The real hurt, though, was with my mother. I left home because I knew I couldn't stay. And I came to her, not expecting her to take sides with me but at least to comfort as a mother would her daughter--no matter her daughter's religious sentiments. What she said, however, made me realize that that was it. When it came down to a moment, there was no one for me, but me, myself and my hate. And yes, dear gods, I hated. I hated religion with all my seething being. I hated the thought of an all-loving God, because I was isolated from the people I loved and I had believed loved me. All in His name. And that if I could have, I'd make myself atheist all over again, just to spite Him.

No one to turn to. I had no one. No one. I told my mother this, but she didn't seem to understand. At first she named Jeni, or Margaret, and a few more of my friends--and suggested going to one of her friend's houses, where I could look after a kid. In the hysteria I was in, even I knew that wasn't going to be very smart. So I repeated to her, "No one--not you, not Jemima, not any of my 'friends'--no one." I was on the floor, clutching my head between my hands and repeating 'No one. No one.' You see, when an exorcism happens to you on a ritual basis, you can understand how it might make someone go a little weird. This was the point when she was at a loss with how to deal with me that she suggested I spend some time in a place where I would be taken care of. She wanted to put me in a nuthouse. I laughed. And laughed and cried all at once. Then she wanted to sedate me. Make me more calm, she said. I nodded, only because I knew it would mean she would have to leave the room to get the shot. The moment she was out of sight, I ran out to my car, ran because I didn't want to see the pained expression on her face. Writing all this has me thinking that my life sounds like something out of a teen flick. But what I've put on here so far hasn't been dramatized or tweaked for "reading purposes." In fact, I've left a lot out. Writing this now is painful for me. If I could, I'd forget. But I don't forget.

As I stared out at the infinity before me, looking and listening to the swelling and the breaking of the surfs, I felt soothed. Cold winds blew at the front, the deceptive sun held little warmth, and I was alone for stretches of shifting dunes. But I felt that that was exactly how it should be. In my solitude, I was all right. I smiled as I walked along the shore, the sea washing so close to my steps as though to reach out for me but always receding at the moment before we met. I thought over and of so many things. I could start a new life. Change my name, get a job. I don't look like a Julia, but that was a name I liked, and the name I gave the receptionist at the Travelodge. I knew of ways to procure a fake identity. I would then get a job-- become a waitress, get my own apartment filled with green green plants. I'd put myself through school. Of course it wasn't going to be so simple. There would be days when I would have to go hungry, or times I would have to sleep on a bench--but if things got really desperate, I'd sell my car. I thought all about this as I sat with my fingers sifting the sands and returning constantly to push the hair out of my eyes. If there's one thing I've learned about myself from this, it's that I know how to be alone and treasure the solitude. I visited historical sights. I gazed up at the greatness of lighthouses. Once when I was driving back from one of these excursions, I saw a doe and her kid--I guess kid is what you'd call a baby deer. I stopped and stepped quietly out of the car. For minutes, perhaps a good part of an hour, I sat there and watched wordlessly as they grazed along, admiring the wonder of nature's soothing effect on me. After that, I haunted the seaside on intervals. It's rather obvious what happens in the end.

I'm not a better person for running away. Nothing has changed. Except that I'm a little bit more solitary. But in the end, you know, there's no one but yourself. I guess I might be a little weird, because I found that out early, at an age when people are still dependant on other people for their emotional security. In life, the only constant is that there are no constants. That I came back home is my defeat. If I could be anywhere, I'd be back to standing before the ocean. Because only when I'm lost in its infinite vastness do I find myself.

12.21.02 - 10:30 p.m.

	hyperballad No one to turn to. Nowhere to go. Anywhere was as good a destination as any. I thought about South Carolina. Maybe even California. I didn't care. I was going to see the Ocean. And from there, I didn't know. Well I'd never been to the beaches of North Carolina, so I'd start there. I was crying a little, listening to Stabbing Westward and feeling sorry for myself. If you had asked me then how I felt, I would have told you to: "Go fuck yourself" and "DIE." Then afterwards, maybe amidst the self-hating rants you'd slowly pick up details on how one parent prayed to cast the demons out me and the other wanted to put me in an insane asylum, saying how it was "in the insurance," so -that- made it okay. And then maybe it doesn't need mentioning how betrayed I felt. They told me, when I couldn't turn to my friends, when I had nothing left, that -no matter what-, family would be there. So yeah, that was bullshit too, along with all that God stuff they were yet again trying to shove down my throat. I had a map of North Carolina, a full tank and a hundred and six dollars to my name. I decided I had no reason to wallow in self-pity. I took out Stabbing Westward for Bjork and immediately felt better, happier, even a bit hopeful--though I sure as hell didn't know what I was going to do once I got there. There being the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It was one long ass drive. Partly because I kept getting lost, partly because I wasn't in a hurry; I was going to enjoy myself. I sang along to music and waved to random cars. Sometimes though, in a moment of quietude--the hurt would come back. I'd recall how I came home already wounded from a painful remark by my sister that made me realize she could no longer be my refuge. And she was always my refuge, from the chaos at home. My dad I suppose was bored and needed somewhere to channel his Righteous energies. Seeing that I was already in tears, he decided to pick a fight with me and armed himself with Religion and Parental mandate. The kind of verbal tussle that always result in his clasping his hands with a rapt expression on his face, praying to the heavenly forces that the Devil (Me) be driven out of this godly home. Anyway, he had told me himself that he felt happier whenever I wasn't home. I answered his prayers for him. The real hurt, though, was with my mother. I left home because I knew I couldn't stay. And I came to her, not expecting her to take sides with me but at least to comfort as a mother would her daughter--no matter her daughter's religious sentiments. What she said, however, made me realize that that was it. When it came down to a moment, there was no one for me, but me, myself and my hate. And yes, dear gods, I hated. I hated religion with all my seething being. I hated the thought of an all-loving God, because I was isolated from the people I loved and I had believed loved me. All in His name. And that if I could have, I'd make myself atheist all over again, just to spite Him. No one to turn to. I had no one. No one. I told my mother this, but she didn't seem to understand. At first she named Jeni, or Margaret, and a few more of my friends--and suggested going to one of her friend's houses, where I could look after a kid. In the hysteria I was in, even I knew that wasn't going to be very smart. So I repeated to her, "No one--not you, not Jemima, not any of my 'friends'--no one." I was on the floor, clutching my head between my hands and repeating 'No one. No one.' You see, when an exorcism happens to you on a ritual basis, you can understand how it might make someone go a little weird. This was the point when she was at a loss with how to deal with me that she suggested I spend some time in a place where I would be taken care of. She wanted to put me in a nuthouse. I laughed. And laughed and cried all at once. Then she wanted to sedate me. Make me more calm, she said. I nodded, only because I knew it would mean she would have to leave the room to get the shot. The moment she was out of sight, I ran out to my car, ran because I didn't want to see the pained expression on her face. Writing all this has me thinking that my life sounds like something out of a teen flick. But what I've put on here so far hasn't been dramatized or tweaked for "reading purposes." In fact, I've left a lot out. Writing this now is painful for me. If I could, I'd forget. But I don't forget. As I stared out at the infinity before me, looking and listening to the swelling and the breaking of the surfs, I felt soothed. Cold winds blew at the front, the deceptive sun held little warmth, and I was alone for stretches of shifting dunes. But I felt that that was exactly how it should be. In my solitude, I was all right. I smiled as I walked along the shore, the sea washing so close to my steps as though to reach out for me but always receding at the moment before we met. I thought over and of so many things. I could start a new life. Change my name, get a job. I don't look like a Julia, but that was a name I liked, and the name I gave the receptionist at the Travelodge. I knew of ways to procure a fake identity. I would then get a job-- become a waitress, get my own apartment filled with green green plants. I'd put myself through school. Of course it wasn't going to be so simple. There would be days when I would have to go hungry, or times I would have to sleep on a bench--but if things got really desperate, I'd sell my car. I thought all about this as I sat with my fingers sifting the sands and returning constantly to push the hair out of my eyes. If there's one thing I've learned about myself from this, it's that I know how to be alone and treasure the solitude. I visited historical sights. I gazed up at the greatness of lighthouses. Once when I was driving back from one of these excursions, I saw a doe and her kid--I guess kid is what you'd call a baby deer. I stopped and stepped quietly out of the car. For minutes, perhaps a good part of an hour, I sat there and watched wordlessly as they grazed along, admiring the wonder of nature's soothing effect on me. After that, I haunted the seaside on intervals. It's rather obvious what happens in the end. I'm not a better person for running away. Nothing has changed. Except that I'm a little bit more solitary. But in the end, you know, there's no one but yourself. I guess I might be a little weird, because I found that out early, at an age when people are still dependant on other people for their emotional security. In life, the only constant is that there are no constants. That I came back home is my defeat. If I could be anywhere, I'd be back to standing before the ocean. Because only when I'm lost in its infinite vastness do I find myself. 12.21.02 - 10:30 p.m.