By the end of that first night, I was a little buzzed and had gotten rid of my huge stack of registrations, and then that Clinton guy won. I like to think his victory was entirely down to me.
These girls saved me, but not all in one night. My relationship with this man went on, but they sparked something inside me.
I had to be my own savior. I always fought back, I always physically struggled, but sometimes I feared that was so that he would hurt me more. I think part of me wanted him to hurt me. I wanted him to beat the shit out of me. I wanted him to beat my face up. It took me years to understand why—and then I realized it was because I wanted help. Just like when I was younger and I would take pills or cut myself, I wanted someone to say, “My god, look what he’s done to you. We’ll get rid of him for you.” I didn’t know how to do it myself—in fact, it wasn’t even an option. We must have broken up eight or nine times throughout the relationship, and each time he’d guilt and woo himself back into my life, saying things like “You need to give me five thousand dollars because you’re making me homeless.”
On one of the occasions when we broke up, he left and went to San Francisco. When he called me a few days later, I faked trying to kill myself, faked that I was stabbing myself—this is how ridiculous the whole situation was. I wanted him to feel as bad as I felt. I would do anything to try to make him feel guilty for what he’d been doing to me.
But instead of showing guilt, or concern, or God forbid realizing the damage he was doing, he drove all the way down from San Francisco and showed up in my house. I woke up to him looming over me, like he’d caught me in a lie, which I suppose he had.
On and on I stayed with him, with a constant and futile determination to turn it around, turn him around.
In late April 1991, I fell pregnant. I want to turn away from what happened, but it’s all recorded in my diary. There are moments in my life that are too painful to force into narrative or meaning, so I’ll let my voice from back then speak.
Well, yesterday I found out I was 6½ weeks pregnant. Too many emotions are filling my soul. I love this being. Anyway, two days before I found out, I got into a car accident on the way to the gynecologist. My car didn’t survive, but luckily, I did. I knew I was pregnant. I couldn’t understand why even though I was watching my eating I still felt fat. I couldn’t understand why sex made me sick and I cried at the drop of a hat. Now I know. I always felt that if I ever got pregnant when I knew it was the wrong time, I wouldn’t have any problem having an abortion. “Oh, whatever, it isn’t even a baby yet.” That’s bullshit. This creature is incredible. It makes me feel whole, safe… My boyfriend said I was a disgusting, self-obsessed, eating-disordered fat pig today (not in so many words). That opened my eyes a great deal… I don’t really understand my relationship anymore. It isn’t good. Sometimes I don’t think it’s worth it. It all started to get heavy when we moved into the new house, which, by the way, is fabulously, incredibly beautiful. Maybe I just want to enjoy it on my own. Maybe I want to have whoever over whenever I want… I feel I have lost myself somewhere, and I can’t find her for the life of me.
Only days later, my diary takes a brutal turn.
I’m fucking pregnant and I’m killing my child on Thursday. I’m thinking where the fuck can I go to recuperate from murder… His family will hate me when they find out that I killed their family member because they don’t believe in it. But I can’t have this baby because I have work to do to entertain this fucking world. Besides, I can’t… now.
It breaks my heart, reading these pages. On June 9, I wrote a poem to my child, convinced it was a baby girl. I have no actual proof, but that doesn’t matter: to this day, Iknow.
Hello little thing.
I feel you every moment of my day
Such a tiny existence
Such an immense effect you have
…
You are a miracle
A tiny-handed miracle
I love you.
But you know your fate.
It is not your time.
I know you didn’t make the decision.
But it can’t be your time.
You will live on, though…
You will live through another.
…
I hope you will forgive me.
But I want you to know how you’ve changed me.
You’ve opened my eyes.
You’re letting me know something is more important than myself.
