Jeanne: Autobiography (late 2007 — )
[Writing as therapy, so here goes...]
I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t scared. I was instead almost blissful, wondering if all the religion I was taught as a youth would turn out to be true—you know: the heaven and hell part. Of course it didn’t matter. Even black oblivion was better than how I felt. I had tied one end of the thick yellow rope to one of the vertical posts in the upstairs railing and let the loop end hang down to the first floor living area. Good, I didn’t have to make any length adjustments; it looked like it would work just fine I thought, as I got one of our barstools and moved it into position under the rope. Actually it wasn’t a ‘rope’ as such but one of those nylon things fishermen use. My husband had miles of this stuff all over the garage. Handy.
Humorously, looking back to that moment, the only thing I’d been fretting over was what to wear. Can you imagine? Sheesh, what to wear! I was concerned about what I’d look like to those who found me, I guess. I chose ‘minimal sexy’ by wearing a simple tank top (no bra) and blue cotton bikini panties which I knew I’d soil anyway. Why spoil good clothes?
I stood on top of the stool, which was one of our more wobbly ones, so I wasn’t worried about it not toppling over at the right time. I had a different perspective of the house from up there. My first melancholy thought: I put a lot of work into this house. I looked at the loop—‘noose’ wasn’t a word I wanted to think of—a few seconds before I slipped it over my head and tightened it. I didn’t think of my husband, my daughter or ex-lovers as the old barstool tipped. I said goodbye to no one as the jolt at my neck brought almost instant darkness; the last thought was the last image my brain processed—the sight of my dangling feet and (wow!) how FAR they were from the floor.
J
This white light wasn’t like anything people ever talked about seeing. In fact, it was on the bluish side. Oh well, I’ll just wait for someone to show up, perhaps the guy with the horns and cloven hooves. Certainly won’t be St. Peter, I laughed to myself. At least it was heartening to feel humor in the afterlife. But why did my laughter/thought HURT so damned much? Maybe I was in hell after all. I coughed a few times and REALLY HURT. Yes, this was hell. But no, hell didn’t have little old ladies with white coats who appeared and hovered over my body.
“You’re awake!” She cried, like a sailor in the crows’ nest of a ship who cries “Land!” when he first spots an island in an old movie. “Oh darling, this is so special, let me get the doctor.” Nope; no doctors in hell I think, so that means my demise is on hold. Doctors! They’ll give me something for this god-forsaken headache!
They didn’t. I had all kinds of white-clothed folks visit me but not a one did anything for me. Curiously, I tried talking to every one of them—actually, I tried to holler—but though it felt like I was saying something in my head, nothing seemed to be coming out. Was I deaf too?
I wanted to see my daughter, but strangely I couldn’t remember her name. I did remember my husband’s name but I didn’t want to see him. Ever. For about a week I laid there, hurting, unable to talk coherently, trying to remember things. I knew my daughter had visited several times but I didn’t want her to see me like this, and not be able to talk to her. I knew my husband Steve had visited also, but him I ignored. I cried when I first got out of bed and saw myself in a mirror. I cried for two reasons: I hurt like hell and it didn’t seem like the doctors cared, and I looked like hell—dark bruises on my face and neck and one side of my face drooped like it was made of melting candle wax. Nurses tried consoling me and my lead doctor assured me I’d get better. It was explained to me that the “trauma” (I love that word—I felt like shouting IT’S CALLED A FUCKING ROPE...I HANGED MYSELF!) cut off oxygen to the brain and the damage was much like what people who’ve had a stroke experience. Dain Bramage—fucking great, I thought.
That’s when all the psychiatric stuff began. While I physically healed I saw quite a few shrink types who all had their methods, and I thought this is what I get for tying a shitty knot...I’ve got to find a way to end this once and for all. My future hell was being laid out before me: where would I go, where would I live, how could I support myself when I’m fucked up like this? I knew I would never live in that house again.
That’s when I was visited by angels.
No, I wasn’t hallucinating. My visitors were my younger cousin Lisa, and her friend Karen who I’d never met. Lisa was just about all the family I had left, with my mom and her brother long dead and all. She was younger than me and lived in NY, about an hour north of the city, with Karen who is her lover and partner. We hugged and talked for a long while. Lisa didn’t seem to mind my messed-up face or my messed-up speaking. Unlike everyone else who tiptoed around the subject of what I did, Lisa told me she wished she had known how “sad” I had felt so she could have “made me happy again” and stopped me. I didn’t get any “How could you?” or “Why?” from Lisa. What I got was “When you get out of here why don’t you stay with us while you get better?”
Angels!
So that’s what I did. After making arrangements for my mandated therapy and counseling, I was allowed to leave the hospital in the care of my cousin. From the moment I walked into their home, I was family. They seemed to care about me with no strings attached. Lisa knew my ‘history’—my bisexuality—and on the second night there she invited me into hers and Karen’s bed. I was numb and a little disappointed in them at first. Did they do all this simply for sex? It wasn’t until after we talked for a while (with nighties on, I might add) that they explained their intuition that my unmet sexual needs were at the root of my despair, and they wanted to “make me feel better.”
They caressed and kissed and touched me in ways only a woman knows how to treat another woman. Their love for me and each other was obvious. I couldn’t cum. No matter what they tried, no orgasm was forthcoming. I could feel their disappointment. I was disappointed too. I chalked it up to brain damage and told them not to worry. I’d get better, and they shouldn’t feel obligated; they had each other and I didn’t want to insinuate myself into their relationship.
The next few weeks were trying. I had to get used to my physical limitations: the stumbling walk, the facial tics, the slurred speech, the forgetfulness. I seemed to be progressing though. The bruising around my neck and face was ugly, but healing. I was gaining better motor control each day. My doctor said the speech and memory issues would take longer to heal. He wouldn’t say how much longer. I did this to myself so how could I complain?
My new role was being “Mom” to the two girls. While they worked I cleaned and cared for their small house. I cooked dinner for them so it would be ready when they got home. I enjoyed the physical as well as mental therapy in keeping busy. They even trusted me with the snowblower after a big dump of the white stuff! Their love and acceptance of me was amazing. Though I felt like a burden, they did nothing to make me believe they considered me one. I couldn’t drive so once I didn’t look so damned scary to strangers they took me to the mall and other stores to get me out of the house. Over my protests, they bought me things—little presents to “cheer me up.” I was cheering up even if I didn’t seem to be getting better as fast as the optimist doctors told me.
Christmas was special. They let me do most of the holiday decorations. On Christmas Day I cooked the whole meal as the girls had several friends over. What a holiday! There’s something about a houseful of young out-of-the-closet lesbians that can warm the heart, though I still didn’t have any warmth in my loins. Just when it seemed my once-rampant libido was gone for good, in walked Laura. Her older sister was Lisa’s friend and she had tagged along to our get-together. I pegged her at 14 or 15 when I first saw her, and I was instantly curious of her sexual inclination. She was a cute chunky long-haired blonde with big blue eyes to go with her big dimples. When we were introduced, I felt something—yes—THAT kind of something. I’ll never understand it as long as I live, but young girls always seem to gravitate to me. I’ve often wondered about ‘vibes’ or maybe pheromones or whatever. It happens. Laura hung around me and nervously asked if “everything” she heard about me was true. I pulled her aside and gave her the cautionary tale version of my life. I told her of my teenaged loves and hurts and warned her not to jump too soon into sex. I found it very hard to concentrate while looking into those big baby blues of hers. I felt ‘it’ but was ashamed of ‘it’ at the same time.
Lisa and Karen were attending a New Year’s Eve party. They didn’t like the idea of leaving me home alone; probably worried I’d get depressed and try suicide again. Someone made the suggestion that since Laura would also be home alone that she could come over to keep me company. Oh God! I didn’t need the temptation, but the demon inside said yes.
I sensed Laura’s tension right away. As we watched television countdowns interspersed with inane musical numbers, her agitation was palpable. What she wanted was obvious. She plainly didn’t know how to play the game. I wasn’t wearing much: no undies, just silk pajama pants and a tank top. She kept glancing at my nipples before hurriedly looking away so as not to be caught. I knew what I was about to do was wrong but for both of our sakes it was inevitable. I wasn’t going to seduce her; I was going to help her learn how to do it herself.
I asked her to sit next to me on the leather sofa. When she did I asked her a number of questions trying to draw her out: what music did she like; what movies; what was her favorite subject in school? I saved the best question for last—“Do you have a boyfriend?” When she looked away shyly before answering “No,” I really HAD my answer. I put an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to me. “I guess you’re a lot like me, hon. I bet you have a girlfriend and I bet she’s as pretty as you are, right?”
She looked into my eyes and in a trembling voice said, “No...I do...like girls...but nobody is like special right now. My sister says I’m too young to, like, make those decisions now anyway.”
“It’s not a ‘decision’ Laura, sweetheart, it’s what’s inside you, how you feel,” I said to her. “From what you just said I guess you’re still a virgin.” She looked away and said she was.
I asked her how she felt right then. She brought her eyes back to meet mine and said she “liked” me a lot and wished I wasn’t “so sad.” I then asked a question she wasn’t expecting. “Well, it’s getting toward midnight, so how do you want to celebrate the ringing-in of the new year?” In a more trembling voice than before, she told me she wanted to kiss me at the stroke of midnight. My insides did a cartwheel as forgotten warmth spread through me. We held hands waiting for the Times Square ball to drop.
At midnight, I shouted “Happy New Year” and pulled her to me. When our lips met, I felt her shiver. Her lips were tense at first but in seconds she had loosened up and her tongue slipped between mine and began their exploration. When we stopped kissing, her expression was one of extreme fire. She wasn’t sure of the next move and was uncertain how to proceed, but the heat radiating from her youthful body was intense. I gave myself up to be consumed by that heat. “It’s okay, Laura, you don’t need to worry or be nervous. You can touch me and do whatever you want to me. It’s just us here...nobody else.” Our lips pressed together again as she slid a hand up under my top and toyed with first one nipple then the other. My nipples are extremely sensitive and this was driving me crazy. I wanted to touch her, to explore her, but I didn’t. This was her painting; I was her canvas. She wanted to explore my body so I gave her instructions (“... over a little bit; that’s the sensitive spot for me; yes, there! ...”) and she relished the experience. Besides kissing, I hadn’t touched her, yet she was breathing so hard I thought she’d faint. My pants and tank top were off by now but she was still clothed.
She could barely ask me if it was her turn. I asked her if she was sure, considering our age difference and the illegality of it all. She pulled her pants off in answer. She had cute pink cotton panties on and the crotch was obviously soaked. I helped her remove her panties and then proceeded to remove her ‘virginity.’ When she orgasmed she screamed as loudly as anyone I’ve ever been with. We slept in separate beds; no more sex between us. In the morning as I fixed breakfast (and Lisa and Karen were out of the kitchen) Laura thanked me and promised she would never tell a soul. I thanked her too—for letting me be her first.
During the first couple of weeks in January, instead of getting better I began to get worse. The tremors, the forgetfulness, the slurred speech reversed their progress. My doctor brought in a new specialist to run some tests. This doctor believed I had some new bleeding in my brain. He said the hanging had stressed and weakened a lot of blood vessels in my head and he was certain one or two had let go. I was in and out of the hospital as they ran a bunch of tests and scans. The specialist was sure I was bleeding but they couldn’t find it with their tests. I went home and had tremendous headaches and felt dizzy. My doctor and my psychiatrist argued over my medication.
While this was going on, several of my “Internet” friends abandoned me. One man, named Mauro who I had chatted with for ages and was very fond of, refused to correspond with me any more. Though we never met in person, I believed him to be a sensitive and caring individual. He is a photographer in Massachusetts and I toyed with the idea of meeting him someday and sitting for him. Well, not anymore—he won’t chat with me any longer—I cried and cried but what could I do. Karen said I had to forget people like him and move on.
On the other hand I gained some new friends. Brian in England is a sweet man who didn't judge me for what I did. We have kept up our e-mail communications as friends. Maybe I'll visit England some day and meet him. Amanda on the west coast fell in love with me ‘long distance’ through my stories and our IM chatting. We traded photos; she is very pretty. I was skeptical at first since you never know over the Internet who people really are, but I felt she was sincere. She wants me to move out to California to live with her, and I am thinking about it. However, my symptoms were getting worse and my face was drooping again and I didn’t want anyone—especially her—to see or hear me like this. I could barely concentrate but managed to finish a couple of new stories. People seemed to like both of them (Fair Exchange and My Brother’s Girlfriend), though it really hurt to concentrate and not end up writing like an idiot. I also wrote Manda’s Dance for my new long-distance love and our someday-fantasies.
On the cusp of February I’m back in the hospital having more tests. They did some sort of dye-trace thing trying to find bleeding. I got very sick from the procedure (as they warned me I might) and my regular doctor told me he was very worried the stress to my brain would kill me. I laughed and told him maybe medical science would do what a rope couldn’t. Predictably, he didn’t think it was funny.
I left the debate over what to do with me up to the doctors. Instead I went home to Lisa and Karen’s and contemplated my future. Steve came to visit me. It was extremely awkward having him there, but we were civil. I saw how much I’d hurt him and for that I was very sorry, but what was done was done. I spoke with my daughter on the telephone. My fatalistic tone surprised me and I hoped she didn’t hear it in my voice as I had. I kept thinking of Amanda and her offer. I also found myself scouting locations within Lisa’s and Karen’s house for my next try. I found a whole coil of clothesline rope in a closet. This time I’ll think of who will find me—if I do it. I guess I’ll wait to see what the doctors decide first. Surprise, surprise I also got a call from Bronson! Steve told him about me, and he wanted to cheer me up. I could hear the sadness he couldn’t conceal in his voice as he listened to what Lisa lovingly calls my “dummy talk” (she really means well) of slurred words and dangling sentences. He teased me about his cock and about our affair of so long ago, but overall he failed in his cheering attempt though it really wasn’t his fault.
We had a Super Bowl party at the house with most of the girls from Christmas. I had to suffer an entire house of Giants fans as I watched my beloved Patriots lose. Laura kissed me and said she was sorry the Patriots lost because she knew how much I wanted them to win. She’s the sweetest thing. No, we didn’t have sex; one indiscretion was enough. I thought about it: no sex in a month—I’ve never gone that long without it—wow! The power of brain damage!
Headaches are bad. I can’t concentrate on my writing. It looks now like they will probably operate on me, though the doctors seem to be disagreeing on exactly what to do. That’s NOT bringing me any optimism, I’ll tell you. I’m tempted to call Amanda and have her come get me as she has offered, and leave all the doctors and their bullshit behind.
My operation has been scheduled for next week. I went to church on Ash Wednesday. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" has a lot of meaning for me today, and next week. I sent Amanda an e-mail asking if she could come visit me but I haven't had a reply from her yet. I'm so nervous about what will happen to me.
We changed one
person’s name for obvious reasons. Everything else is exactly as we found it on her
laptop. It is so sad she never made it to her operation.
We found dozens of pages of an amazing story she was working on. Lisa and I are not sure if we should try to finish it (if we can) or publish it as is. One way or the other it would be a fitting tribute.
Karen