Overdose, Part One: May 1995
It is dark and in the middle of the darkness there is only a pinpoint. In the middle of the darkness is a pinpoint and it is in the far dark distance and only the dark and the pinpoint are the things that matter. And I am in the dark and I can stay in the dark and be happy forever, floating nearer to the pinpoint and the distance and through the warm and comforting dark.
“GLADYS!!” I have never heard such panic in JP’s voice,; it pierces the darkness and comes through to me. Whatever is making that panic sound in his voice, it must be important somehow, and I listen even though I resent his intrusion into my darkness for a moment.
Something is moving across my face, first to one side and then to the other, and through it all I hear him shouting my name, panicked still. In the darkness I sigh, annoyed—god, WHAT, JP? I think, and open my eyes.
JP is hovering over me and he looks terror-stricken. He throws down the phone and says “Babygirl—can you hear me? Are you okay?”
I move a little and realize where I am. JP pulls me up from the living-room floor, or tries to, but I am nearly dead weight. “What happened?” I slur, as he puts his arm under me and hoists me toward the bathroom.
He lifts me into the shower and turns on the cold water. “O.D., I think. ”
I lunge out from under the spray and toward the toilet, gagging. JP tries to hold my hair, but I wave him off. Between bouts of vomiting I manage to blurt out, “Don’t watch me.”
He does not move. “Please,” he says. “I saw Bethany do much worse than that.”
I retch again. “That doesn’t help,” I tell him.
Wiping my mouth, I sprawl boneless on the floor, my back against the bathtub. “How long was I out?” I ask him.
“Almost twenty minutes,” he said. “I tried to call 911 but I kept getting ‘all circuits are busy’.”
Looking up into his eyes for the first time, I see how closely he is watching me, how scared he is. “I only did one bag,” I say. “I’ve done way more than that before.”
“Yeah,” he says. “We haven’t done any in a few days, though.”
I hear this last through the fog; I am drifting again, nodding off, back towards the dark. JP comes and picks me up off the floor. “C’mon,” he says. “Walk.” As he picks me up I see myself in the bathroom mirror: pinpoint pupils, eyes watery from puking, and purple bruises coming up on either side of my face where JP has slapped me, trying to bring me around.
And even though I’d so much rather just drift away, I lean on him and together we walk out the door and down the block together, his arm around my shoulders, holding me up.
“GLADYS!!” I have never heard such panic in JP’s voice,; it pierces the darkness and comes through to me. Whatever is making that panic sound in his voice, it must be important somehow, and I listen even though I resent his intrusion into my darkness for a moment.
Something is moving across my face, first to one side and then to the other, and through it all I hear him shouting my name, panicked still. In the darkness I sigh, annoyed—god, WHAT, JP? I think, and open my eyes.
JP is hovering over me and he looks terror-stricken. He throws down the phone and says “Babygirl—can you hear me? Are you okay?”
I move a little and realize where I am. JP pulls me up from the living-room floor, or tries to, but I am nearly dead weight. “What happened?” I slur, as he puts his arm under me and hoists me toward the bathroom.
He lifts me into the shower and turns on the cold water. “O.D., I think. ”
I lunge out from under the spray and toward the toilet, gagging. JP tries to hold my hair, but I wave him off. Between bouts of vomiting I manage to blurt out, “Don’t watch me.”
He does not move. “Please,” he says. “I saw Bethany do much worse than that.”
I retch again. “That doesn’t help,” I tell him.
Wiping my mouth, I sprawl boneless on the floor, my back against the bathtub. “How long was I out?” I ask him.
“Almost twenty minutes,” he said. “I tried to call 911 but I kept getting ‘all circuits are busy’.”
Looking up into his eyes for the first time, I see how closely he is watching me, how scared he is. “I only did one bag,” I say. “I’ve done way more than that before.”
“Yeah,” he says. “We haven’t done any in a few days, though.”
I hear this last through the fog; I am drifting again, nodding off, back towards the dark. JP comes and picks me up off the floor. “C’mon,” he says. “Walk.” As he picks me up I see myself in the bathroom mirror: pinpoint pupils, eyes watery from puking, and purple bruises coming up on either side of my face where JP has slapped me, trying to bring me around.
And even though I’d so much rather just drift away, I lean on him and together we walk out the door and down the block together, his arm around my shoulders, holding me up.
posted by GJC at 8:14 PM
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