“There is most definitely a definable, discernable pattern in the method of my madness.” -Yahslily
“Nothing scares me anymore”
-Lana Del Rey
My oldest daughter, who will be 18 this month, couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old on the day Tawanda tried to rob me.
I drove my 1988 white Nissan Sentra down Washington Street and looked over at my little angel, who was in her baby carrier strapped to the passenger seat. Washington Street was in downtown Baton Rouge, on the south side.
The locals call it “The Bottom”.
As I approached the end of Washington Street, I saw this girl I knew, Tawanda, standing in front of a little bar about two blocks from the end of Washington Street.
I was on an impromptu trip in the middle of the day. Back then, in the late 90’s, not many people had cell phones. People, especially drug dealers, still used pagers and I hadn’t had the chance to stop at a payphone to page a dealer. I had my infant with me and I wanted to get the shit and get the hell out of that neighborhood and go home. When I saw Tawanda, I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of eliminating the whole “payphone paging” part.
I pulled into the small parking lot of the bar and she came right to my car. I told her to get in but she had to sit in the back seat, behind me, because I had my angel riding in the passenger seat.
Tawanda got in and turned back onto Washington Street and drove to the stop sign at Highland Road, the road that drives you straight into “Tigerland” at LSU.
I remember asking Tawanda which way to go at the stop sign when, all of a sudden, she put her arms around my throat and started choking me from behind, demanding me to give her my money.
I turned left onto Highland Road. Tawanda had her right arm around my neck and she was using her left arm to tighten her grip.
Tawanda was a crackhead but she wasn’t no skinny ass crackhead.
This girl was at least two or three inches taller than me. She wasn’t sickly looking, like I probably was at that time. Tawanda was dark brown, her skin was very pretty. She had short, dark brown hair and she had muscle…lots of muscle.
I was gasping for air as she was choking the shit out of me, Tawanda switched and began choking me with her left arm so she could then use her right arm to steal the $42 which she knew was hidden in my right hand, balled up like trash in my tightly clamped fist.
At that moment, only me and God knew that money wasn’t about to leave my fucking hand.
I looked over at my angel who was still sleeping peacefully in her infant carrier…completely unaware her mother was being asphyxiated by the big black girl behind her, riding in the back seat.
We were swiftly approaching the outskirts of LSU and both Tawanda and I knew something had to give, and it had to give quick. We passed Highland Precinct, on the left, and Tawanda was grabbing my hand trying to pry it open, and she was still choking me.
It was really hard to drive, while being choked, also having to shift the five-speed transmission of my Sentra. I saw the Taco Bell sign on the right. Since Tawanda was exerting most of her force to arm wrestle the money out of my hand, I was able to use my left arm to loosen her grip around my neck and I told Tawanda, “I’m going to Taco Bell and you know the people sitting right there in the parking lot!”
Tawanda quickly replied, “Yeah, and Ima tell da people you ouchere tryinta buy crack wit yo baby!!”.
Oh yeah…fuck…I hadn’t figured that curve ball in, yet, as I pulled in the parking lot at Taco Bell.
There he was, sitting as usual in his unit. There was always a cop at Taco Bell and the relief I thought I would feel (ironic is my life) at seeing the nice policeman swiftly turned in noia and I drove right past him and headed back out onto Highland.
Tawanda was really mad now and choked me harder, but she couldn’t get that fucking $42 out of my hand.
The three of us were now headed back the same way we had come, and I had to figure out how to get this angry woman out of my car, while still keeping my money so I could then get my dope.
The original mission surely would not be aborted.
We were approaching Highland Precinct again, and just as I was thinking I should hit the next left on West Polk Street, to see if I could get one of my boys to help me out, Tawanda told me to hit the next left on West Polk Street so she could get her cousin, Yella, make me acquiesce to her desire.
I turned left on Taylor Street, made a right on Minnesota Street and there at one of the places I spent much of my money, were a group of guys.
I recognized at least three of them, and I felt flooded with relief.
My angel was still sleeping.
Tawanda said, “There! There! My cousin gonna get you straight!”.
Her cousin, Yella, and his friends recognized me and my car. As soon as I pulled in the driveway, one of them saw me being choked and opened my car door.
Tawanda was promptly removed my vehicle.
I purchased my cocaine.
My angel and I headed back home.
I never saw Tawanda again until almost ten years later, when we were locked up together.
We didn’t speak.
Tawanda Hayes was murdered not long after she was released….stabbed to death.
So, I am giddy tonight (WOO-HOO!!!!!) and I am chuckling…I am thinking about all the fucked up ass shit that has happened to me, in my life. I love that I can laugh now. I never feel sorry for myself, anymore.
My ex-husband taught me that was completely inappropriate, at anytime. So, after a few years of being shamed for sitting on the pot, I did get off of it. I AM ETERNALLY GRATEFUL TO MY EX, for teaching me that lesson because it waS, indeed, a most valuable lesson!
So, today I think about all the fucked up shit and I AM chuckling. I am chuckling that BECAUSE OF ALL THAT FUCKED UP SHIT, I literally have a first-person GRAB-BAG of things to write about, from birth til now, which shall extend to my death.
Life seems bad, but it really is good…you just gotta know how to twerk it.
I know I’m manic right now but I’m pretty sure that if there were psychiatrists and the DSM-IV available in Jerusalem from…what? Like 2 or 3 thousand years before Christ was born until he died… many Bible dudes wouldn’t have been prophets and martyrs….just literally “crazy folks” and that’s it…Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Amos, Zechariah, Isaiah, Enoch, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John….Jesus?
Haha, Samuel heard voices and Jacob didn’t just hear them, he wrestled with apparitions only he could see … Moses hallucinated and Noah just stayed drunk and built huge ships with Divinely Inspired specific dimensions and supplies.
Um…what if your neighbor was Noah…just chilling in his yard for over 100 years drunk as shit, building a fucking ark to God-given specifications….
Don’t fucking tell me you wouldn’t make fun of him at the least, and call the city on him, eventually…don’t tell me that.
I believe in God. I always have, it’s been in me….always there, even when I knew zero about it.
I did get saved….and it was a life-changing crazy experience which I shall write about later….
However, Christians have turned me away. Yes….”christians”…..
And now, it is my goal to teach people UNCONDITIONAL LOVE….cause that’s all there is that’s gonna save us, at this point.
Stop being hypocrites, church folks….it’s not what Jesus would do.
In fact, if you’ll just read your Bible closely, and perhaps have a Greek-English-Hebrew, interlinear Bible, but that’s not even necessary cause it’s plain as day in John 8:44….you can see where Jesus basically tells all the hypocrites their mom fucked the devil.
The hypocrites were the only ones Jesus was an ass to….
…and in my humble opinion, to the deference of plenty of theologians….I believe THAT IS WHY Jesus rode a BABY donkey to his crucifixion.
A BABY ASS
I feel myself dying and I’m not even trying to stop it cause I keep drinking, sitting here thinking how I watched my own mother drown herself slowly and give herself wholly to that Mardi Gras cup with liquid unholy….I remember thinking as I grew up that I would never drink from that cup of shame and demise; pregnant with lies….That cup made me hate her cause it kept her disguised and life is ironic cause now I’m my mother and I feel so demonic as the Mardi Gras cup, I mentioned before, stays in my hand as I walk out the door and I can hear daddy’s words ring in my head with one foot on the floor as I’m laying in bed…you’re worthless as shit, if you had a brain you’d be dangerous. Your head is a hat-rack and I know you’ll be famous for being the most stupid girl who ever was born, you never were cute, you were always a thorn in the side of me and the woman I married and we can’t wait til you’re buried cause you bring such shame to our name…I guess daddy never took into account the heartache and pain a little girl feels when she loses her mother, ripped from the arms of the one who most loved her. That’s why mommy drank herself to death….She wasn’t lying; my dad stole her breath when he stole her baby from her breast….and I refused to believe her til after her death. Now she is gone and only questions are left.
When I found drugs and alcohol at the age of fifteen, it was at a time when the conversation of mental illness was still somewhat taboo, as far as anything less than straight-up schizophrenia, multiple-personality disorder, and things like that. In retrospect, I understand now that I have always been a person very prone to depression. I can remember writing things like, “I hate my life” and “I want to die”, upon my bedroom wall. I always wrote it very small, though, so no one but me would know it was there.
I used to fantasize about having cancer and different ways of dying and all other manner of morbid self-atrocities. My favorite fantasy was one that I played in my mind, repeatedly, for many years as a child. Here is how it went:
Me, my little sister Katy, and my stepmother, who is Katy’s biological mother are all
standing in this really dark basement. I never fantasize about how we got down there,
but Katy and I are cowering together and right across from us stands my stepmother
and a crazed, masked, unknown gunman. The walls are made of a light tan brick and
they seem wet and slimy. There is only one dim light hanging from a wire from the
ceiling, which swings lazily overhead, in juxtposition between me and my sister and my
step-mom and the crazed, masked, unknown gunman. I am so scared down there, not at
all knowing how to comfort my little sister, because we can’t stand each other, but I feel
bad about it now knowing that both of us are about to die. All of a sudden the gunman
looks at our mom and says, “Ok, I’m going to kill one of your daughters now but you
have to choose. Do you want me to shoot Katy or do you want me to shoot Sarah?”
It never failed, no matter many times I re-ran the scenario in my head, she always picked me to be shot. Even on the good days, in my good moods when there was the thought that she might really, possibly love me….she always picked me to die with zero hesitation.
Now that I’m grown and have learned much about life and a little about psychology and the way the human mind works, I can understand why things in my life have turned out such as they have.
I did it.
I brought all of this on myself.
All of the things I have ever feared the most have now happened.
I really do believe that my biggest fear, which was the fear of losing my children, was so strong and palpable, that I manifested it. Never, in a million years, did I dream I would have lost my youngest four children, the way that I lost them, but lose them, I did.
Now, I have nothing left to lose and nothing left to fear….and I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.
The pain is acute
a knife in my brain
I’ve borne the shit well
except I’m unsane.
The hurt I should feel
more deeply inside
perhaps that I do
but the shame makes me hide.
I don’t want to live
but I don’t want to die
Wings please grow back
allow me to fly.
far, far, far, far, far, far away from here.