High, I'm Diana.

PT ONE: Based on a true story... except for the parts that are not true at all!

Makeup. Social media. Remorse. Drugs. Everyday. That was my life. 

High, I’m Diana. 

In advance, I don’t know if I’m introducing myself or if I’m actually high. I haven’t used since I’ve been in this program, but maybe now I’m just high on life.

The camouflage concealer covered my sunken racoon eyes from staying up and hiding out in the bathroom all night. Before you question me, don’t act like the bathroom isn’t your only true place of peace. I’d wait until Jerrod was asleep, sneak my phone out from his silky navy blue basketball shorts and sit on the bathroom toilet checking my younger sibling’s social pages. Im not allowed to have a phone, certainly not a social media account, when I was able to use my phone I had to make calls on speaker in front of Jerrod. My siblings are the closest thing to me. My absent dad with six children which we’re all separated across the states with our mothers. But not me though, my mom ditch me when I was fourteen. It’s been made clear to me that i'll never be loved by anyone except Jerrod, but life with him hurts. We oughta have four children by now but you know, foster care, stillborns and miscarriages. I don’t like to talk about my babies though. Obsessed with my insecurities; I can talk about that. Like my pale depressed skin, the lifeless curly hair, the bruises and scars on my body. I was grateful for these entanglements, I found my best friend and had one of the greatest friendships I’ve ever had. Pure authentic cocaine. I didn't live the way it made me feel, but I loved what it did for me. I got to love myself when I was high, I got to love everyone. But not my dad. High or sober. I only loved him as much as he loved me. Not at all. But, perhaps if he had loved a little more, he could be here with us today.

If I don’t participate then I don't get to go home. So I’ll tell you a little about myself, my dad and my love life. Just don’t get greedy and ask about my babies. I won’t ever answer a single question. But in case you’re curious as to why I’m here in the first place, well I wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for Jerrod and his controlling insecurities.

Two weeks before the incident, Jerrod had taken my phone and deactivated my socials because he was suspicious of three consecutive notifications ringing my phone. I remember that whole day I tried to avoid pissing him off, I cleaned all day until there was nothing but the trashcan. I had taken out the overflowing trash on the kitchen floor, next to the broken sink that only worked if we used pliers. Not to my surprise, Jerrod met me at the door on my way back in. The hell you doin’! What, you think I can’t be a man?! He shouted with his chest against mine. I knew better to respond so I calmly walked upstairs looking for a high, analyzing my imperfections in the white vanity mirror. By the fourth line of cocaine, the vanity top was lined with dusty residue.

Realizing I had used all of the drugs and Jerrod hadn’t gotten any, I began scraping what I can and searching around the room for any leftover stashes.

I must’ve been on the ground knocked out for a while. I woke up to Jerrod furiously watching over me. I saw my busted nose through my shattered vanity mirror and the only part that actually scared me was my indifference. The abuse was a part of my daily routine. I’ve counted so many bruises I didn’t care to react anymore. When he hit me for the first time ever, his love for me grew, but since then, he’s proved his point. Although when he’s angry, he doesn’t feel like he has.

“I really wanted to kill you for that, but then how would I get my shit back? You go get my damn money back or you go get my damn eight-ball back, Bitch!” Jerrod said firmly with anger. My brain not knowing where to breathe made it hard to speak; the pain in my nose was too distracting.

I sat in my silver rusted jeep staring in the mirror flap at the gash across the bridge of my nose. Nobody talks to me anymore. Who can I call? I thought. What really bothered me at that moment was the pain of sobriety. It was starting to spread up my body from my feet and ankles. And up hands and wrists. 

After failing my best option at the donation center; having drugs in my bloodstream, I was back at square one. Frustrated, I pulled up my dad’s social profile, went through his photos. I just wanted to know if my dad was an option, instead I came across a photo of my dad with my youngest sibling on his first birthday. I have to admit, I was a little jealous. I wished my dad and I had a picture like that together; or maybe we did and I just didn’t remember. There was so much hatred on the inside that burst into flames, but by that time the pain of sobriety had grown into nausea. Sick and desperate, I text my dad’s last known number hoping for a response, and to my surprise, he responded.

I really wanted to tell him how much I hated his absence, how shitty of a father he was for being there for my other siblings but not me. But I swallowed my feelings, and asked if he had any time to meet and catch up, although I was calling for drug money. A settling moment came over me. I wasn’t so sure what I really wanted anymore. I thought I needed money from him, I thought I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. Turns out, I just needed someone and my gut told me I needed my dad. My gut wanted to split into several pieces. Was I spiteful of  him? Was I yearning for him? Or was I conning him? Do I destroy the rest of him or do I let him build the rest of me? Many thoughts filled my mind. I wanted to chicken out and face the consequences at home. This could be my chance of closure. A chance to tell him face to face how harshly he shaped my life, how awful of an example he was to all of us. I thought. 

Trying to avoid the awkwardness, I sat outside the motel room working up the gut to go inside. I looked around the vehicle for something distracting to bring inside that would minimize my audacity. I knew I couldn’t leave for ten years and just ask for money. I thought about just demanding the drug money, since he owed me for emotional damage. I also thought about calling Jerrod to rob him. I thought of all kinds of ways to get the money. What if this, what if that, but no matter that idea, the awkwardness seemed inevitable. I still had to see my dad.

I remember checking my siblings page again before going inside, convincing myself  “this was for us.” But when I got out of the car, I realized I did it for me. I didn’t care about my siblings as much as I thought I did, but I cared about the bond they’ve grown without me, as if they never knew about me. It made me sick. I cared about how my dad was in their lives and not mine, even if it was only for a few years. It made me wish I had someone. The thought of needing someone sucked me dry. It made me desperate to be a part of what they had. The more I wanted it, the more I looked for my dad. And each time I looked for him, he wasn’t there.

The humid air of the dim motel room smelled of cigarettes. The paint on the walls was dirty from the excessive cigarette smoke. Around the corner of the wall was the edge of the bed where the cream colored blanket was tossed back, my dad had already left his wrinkled body print in the cream sheets. The room was cheap. It looked like a serial killer could‘ve stayed there. I looked around thinking about what I might do or what I might say. And to the light of my eye, I found the solution to the problem, but a problem that added more problems.

 “Jackpot!” I whispered in excitement.

Hands shaking uncontrollably, adrenaline pumping, I quickly reach for the little mountain of cocaine next to a poured cup of Vodka. I could get high right now or scrap the drugs off of the table and run. I thought to myself.

“DI? Is that you?” My dad yelled from the bathroom. The adrenaline raced throughout my body, my heart pumped even faster. Everything was paused and suddenly I wasn’t so sure about motives. I couldn’t make up my mind. I wasn’t sure why I was there, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run, I wasn’t sure if I missed him, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry, I just knew I was all talk. There wasn’t a bone in my body that really wanted to hurt him. It had been so long since I heard my dad’s voice. My body told me to run, but there were weights on my ankles planting me down in one spot.

He was smiling from ear to ear with his arms wide open. He looked as if he had been waiting his whole life for me. Speechless, I couldn’t help but to walk right into his arms. His hug felt like a magnet. There was a hint of alcohol on his breath and his shirt reeked of marijuana. I wanted that to be a reason to snatch away, instead I remained attached to him, I felt whole. Something that had been gone for a while, that I missed so much had returned to me. Something that was sore and tense had softened with ease. This is what it feels like to be loved. This is what it feels like to be missed. His arms wrapped tightly against my back, and for the first time in years I felt alright. I felt saved from myself. Everything felt calm. My body relaxed. I pressed my head on his chest until my tears gave me a reason to not care anymore. I quickly released myself from his arms.

I didn’t think I’d ever want to see him again, but seeing him wasn’t as hard as I thought, he didn’t change one bit. He still had the low cut jerry curls as I remembered from my childhood. He was still skinny and muscular with a dingy white muscle tank as he had always worn.

My dad was one of those handsome guys who told smooth lies. One of those unemployed felons but still had women fighting over him. The guys that did have a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of. One of those guys who suffered from addiction from time to time. When he did well with sobriety his weight looked healthy, he would get cocky and forget he even had a problem, but when he struggled with sobriety he looked sick and awfully tired. I remember when he used to convince himself and his mom that the drugs were just helping him get by. “Scratching the itch” as I like to call it. 

When the nausea in my body started to settle, my dad rubbed the back of his head, walked over to the table with great humiliation. Only god knows how many times he’d promise to stay sober and it's exactly what it looked like and he couldn't convince me or anyone else, not even himself, otherwise. But of course he didn’t even bother to explain it; he just scraped the cocaine into a bag, shamelessly. I remember gasping, ready to cry, thinking I had blown my only chance. That one gasp did the trick. I gagged. When my dad noticed me trying to swallow my vomit back down, he chuckled. Perhaps to minimize the guilt.

“I remember that feeling,” he said. “You’re gonna start begging god for forgiveness in about thirty seconds.” I was so sick I had forgotten about the deadly consequence that was waiting for me at home. I was in need of a scratch and my dad was the only person on this earth that mattered to me in that moment. He had what I needed and I got desperate enough to ask.

And can you believe that selfish bastard said “no"?! I heard different, I heard ‘no, get your own.’  I looked him in his eyes and saw the same terrible person I thought he was earlier. I wanted to cry! I wanted to take it and run! I wanted to hit him! I wanted to do anything that would make him hurt, but it was during my last extreme thought that I had come up with what seemed to be at the time, a brilliant idea… which also landed me here. Since then, I’ve taken more drugs trying to forget about it.

“I know I ain’t the best, but I know you can be better than me, DI.” he encouraged. I couldn’t feel the encouragement, I couldn’t feel the truth. I knew it was going to be tough so… I begged and made it easy for myself. Turned out, he wanted to give me the drugs after all. He rubbed my back as I puked in a small black trash can. His fake ‘I love you’ grin I witnessed, made me more sick. Sick to my core. I hated every bit of him. He was disgusting. He was an even bigger disappointment than he was before.

I waited for him to feel woozy. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I wasn’t sure what I had put in his drink. The more he reacted to the unlabeled pill I found in the car, the more angry I had gotten. He felt good while he wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t like that he felt better than me. It made me sick how comfortable he was in his life, he didn’t care anymore, a multi-felon deadbeat father whose mother gave up on him before he turned eighteen. Seeing me did nothing to him. He didn’t shed a single tear. He didn’t deserve any of his beautiful kids, he didn’t deserve a beautiful life. His comfortability made me so furious it became a sudden urgency to hurt him. And hurting him became the goal of the night. I helped make everything a lot easier for myself.

My dad pulled out a tightly rolled fifty dollar bill and handed it to me with an apology.

Line after line until my eyes watered and her nose burned. I stumbled onto the bed and he watched as my body sank into the mattress, as my thin dress sank into the crack of my thighs. My messy hair spilled over my face as I turned to look him in his face. He shook my shoulder to see if I was alright, but I was too high to react. I was watched as his his nervous eyes slowly dragged lower and lower. He didn’t want to look at me, but he couldn’t help but to notice how smooth my skin looked. His eyes glided down my arm, to my breasts. The longer I watched him stare, the more he didn’t look like my dad. And when he crawled in bed next to me, I was certain I didn't look like his daughter.

We stared at each other for a moment trying to see if we shared the same motives. We made eye contact as he laid his hand on my inner thigh and slowly slid his hand up and down; testing my thoughts. Nothing came across my mind. I was high and it was really happening. We were naked and screams of arousal filled the motel room, screams filled the space. And I felt everything, from the motion of the ocean to the relaxed roaring waves. My thoughts flickered back and forth. Disgusted and loved.

On my way home, I realized one thing… I still didn’t have any money or drugs to bring home. Was my last high worth the death penalty? I drove all the way home in fear and deep thought. I wasn’t sure how to explain why I still didn't have the money and how I had the drugs and consumed them with my dad. But it didn’t matter, I was greeted at the door with a baseball bat for being gone all day. And after two swings and a kick top the gut, I confessed to a crime that never happened.

“I WAS RAPED!” I screamed.

Jerrod felt so terrible for the beating, he went upstairs and ran a hot bath for me. “Soak that man off.” I remember him saying.

I slept with one eye open that night. I watched Jerrod pace the floor most of the night. He stared at me for a while, I was as still as a statue. I was afraid to fall asleep because I wondered what he thought. If he was thinking about who did it and why or if he thought I cheated. I only knew for sure of two problems. I remembered I was ovulating and unprotected sex with another man didn’t sit well with Jerrod. Consensual or not. Jerrod thought he owned me. He didn’t want anybody to touch me, nobody to talk to me, nobody to make me feel better than he did, nobody to take me away from him. But whatever was on Jerrod’s mind, he couldn't handle it. He needed answers. I saw him go through my phone, by then I knew what he was thought. What was I doing to get raped in the first place? Although he didn’t ask, I didn’t have answers. I remained still. I wanted to get high again. I lied a little too still and my breathing fell out of the pattern. He watched. I thought he noticed. Instead, Jerrod thought of something else. He put the phone to his ear with a very serious and dark look. I heard the phone rang once and go straight to voicemail.

“Please leave your message for:

Daymen Lamar Wills.

Sorry, mailbox full. To send an SM—”

He hung up and called back. Again and again, listening to my dad’s voice on the voicemail, unsure of who it could be. He listened to how deep the man’s voice sounded, he sounded like he could’ve been better than Jerrod, he sounded like he could’ve been more attractive, he sounded like he could’ve been interest in me and Jerrod didn’t like that. After calling and pacing the floor, Jerrod climbed in bed, lied beside me and stared deeply at me. I couldn’t move, I tried my best to control my breathing. I squinted my eyes to minimize the whiteness. I wasn’t sure what he was thought and I certainly wasn’t sure why he stared at my soul from the outside of my body through the dark. He watched my body breathe. His head turned in discovery, as if he had caught me pretending to sleep. I remained as stiff as a dead body, he rubbed his hands through my hair and kissed the top of my head.

I wondered why my dad suddenly didn't answer my calls. I wondered if he was going to disappear again. I hated him, but I didn’t want to feel alone. At least I knew I still had a dad, but now I’m not so sure what he is…

The next morning I was in the kitchen whisking eggs when Jerrod startled me, causing me to drop the bowl. He stood in front of me, squishing his eyebrows together in great skepticism. “Why didn’t you make a police report?” Jerrod questioned. I choked on the same words I couldn’t spit out and puked the guilt in my mouth. My brain began whisking my thoughts as I crouched down to clean the spilled egg. Jerrod lowered himself making eye contact. “Bitch if you ain’t got nothing to hide, why don't you make a fucking police report?” I had no words; I swallowed the vomit. I knew for sure he was going to kill me. “You hear me askin’ you somethin’? You stupid junky ass bitch!” A split thought of my last happiest moments with my babies scooted across my mind. That time I took them to Speelar’s Scoop Ice cream. We walked in ninety degree heat and they ran out of chocolate ice cream, so they gave us the entire bin of strawberry ice cream and we sat outside of Speelars and ate strawberry ice cream off a wooden stick. It was so hot. My babies complained the entire walk, but that ice cream did everything I wanted it to do. Fill me with love from the smiles of my babies. I remembered it like it was yesterday.

“STUPID BITCH!”

I imagined myself being too high. I tried to make myself relax. I tried to convince myself that sobriety was kicking in. I felt several throbs on my head, some throbs on my back. I tried to think of something else. I balled up on the dirty, eggy floor and thought about what life would have been like had I grown up with my siblings… and you know what I realized in that moment? Everyone’s been happy without me all along. I untucked my head from my arms and realized no one had ever looked for me. No one had ever missed me. A kick to the forehead, I tucked my head in like a turtle. I had nothing else to live for.

There was never so much regret in my life. Camouflaging my insecurities and bruises with makeup, watching my own blood move on in life forgetting about me, my own creator blindly deceiving me. I hadn’t lived life at all. Life lived me.

I was ready to die…