I aint mad at you...(Tupac)

Get into it...

 

 I was in an out of sleep, flipping from over, and then under the covers because I was too hot, then too cold.  Continuously sweating, and unconsciously - subconsciously - struggling against the inevitable consistent pajama changes, courtesy of Gerald, while I fitfully slept.

“Gerald, can you help me with –, “ I said, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, with the intention to go to the bathroom.  Instead, that’s as much as I was able to get out, before the left side of my body hit the wood flooring.

    I woke up coughing and sputtering nonsense mixed with blood.  Bright lights overhead shone directly into my face, giving me an instant headache making everything I saw blurry and distorted.  I saw figures: big and small, brown and peach, some with hair and others without.  I didn’t recognize anyone - not really, I just knew I was in a hospital, and hoped for the best; that I wouldn’t have to stay for too much longer.  I really hated hospitals, and often times did my best to avoid them, even when it would be wiser to submit to my need for healthcare.  I had just gone too many times before, and been stuck for what I thought to be - too long of - a period of time; ranging anywhere from a week to months.  I tried to repress the sob that I felt rising from my core, but I failed.  When it escaped my lips, I felt a comforting, yet unfamiliar, hand pat me on the back.  Raising my head from my chest, I smelt Gerald. 

  While I was happy to feel a familiar presence, I knew him being around would only continue to cloud my judgement and decision making.  It seemed more evident than ever that I needed to focus on me; what I wanted and most importantly, what I needed to be doing for me - vs what I had been doing the past few weeks, since Chimeze had left me; which was any and everything that seemed necessary to keep Gerald calm and non-violent.  I knew he wasn’t good for me, but I couldn’t get past all that he had done for me in the past.  Whenever I took the time to think about how he rescued me from homelessness, when my mom put me out - not too long ago, by taking me into his mother’s home and looking out for me when I was in my deeper - more dangerous throes of - depression, every thought I had about abandoning our tenuous relationship disappeared.  I was slowly accepting that I couldn’t be alone with this illness, and if I managed to play by his rules - I wouldn’t have to be…

Gently caressing the hand that held mine, trained my eyes to the light - focusing on the tall, brown-skinned figure, to the left of my hospital bed, “what happened,” I croaked.

   Turning to me so quickly that he almost fell off his - too small - hospital chair, Gerald situated himself before replying, “I had gone out - to get soup and bottled water - and when I came back you were sprawled out on the flood – half-under the bed.  The EMT said, it looked like you had hit your head on the bed-frame when you fell.  Um…I know this is your hospital of choice so I insisted they bring us – I mean you – here to New York Presbyterian.”

   Turning away, I rolled my eyes to the left.  NYP was fine, I guess, but Chimeze always knew to bring my ass to NYU in an emergency or when I was just under the weather.  “Thank you,” I said softly.  I just wasn’t in a state to argue.  Later on, during a conversation with the physician, I discovered that move –the choice to just not ‘go in’ in that moment - was probably one of the best ones I had made all year.

   “So these charts represent your blood pressure levels, as you can see they have been steadily rising this year; to abnormally high levels - dangerous even.”

   I took the copy of the chart that he handed me, while he went through the motions of the discharge examination.  He paused as he placed his stethoscope on my lower back, “I noticed some particularly dangerous spikes in your blood pressure and cortisol levels, if you look at the dates you may be able to correlate those times with some possibly stressful incidents in your life,” he said, looking over his copy of the charts on his NYP issued laptop.  “I usually find that spikes represent times of high stress with many of my patients, you however are not typically my patient; though I hope that the care that I took of you during your month long inpatient stay, here at NYP will change your mind and make you transfer to my care.  In any event,” he stated, clearing his throat, ”you are going to have to minimize these stressful incidents in your life or you are risking damage to your liver, heart, lungs and other organs.  We have already discussed the issue with your hearing that the lupus has caused, which is why you have had periods of not being able to hear things like your phone ringing, people talking and your door bell - for short periods of time.”

   He paused, looking at me, to make sure I was taking it all in.  I sat straight, with my shoulders back, so it would look like I was totally tuned in - I couldn’t give him any reason to not discharge me from the hospital, I was ready to go home.  “The therapy detailed in this packet has a 85% chance in helping you recover, at least fifty percent of your lost hearing,“ he continued, ”your primary physician will be able to assist you in finding the proper therapeutic care…or if you transfer to my office --“ A sharp knock at the examination room door, followed by the head of a medical assistant poking her head in.  “Excuse us,” she said directly to me, motioning the physician outside.

   

“One moment,” he said to her, holding up two fingers - indicating that he would be out in two minutes. “I am sure you understand everything I said, but please try to stress less…it’s really becoming a lifestyle problem for you.  I can see it all in your blood work…take care of your ears, before it becomes permanently debilitating.  In any event, my office number is on all of the paper work, if you need me you where to find me - you can leave whenever you are up to it, check out is to the left - good luck,” he stated, shaking my hand before heading to the hallway, where the medical assistant was waiting.

   “I’m ready,” I texted Gerald, who swooped in, helped me dress; before I knew it I was lying in my bed, waiting on him to come back from filling my prescriptions at the pharmacy - a few blocks away.  I drifted into a cursory sleep thinking about how much of a lost cause this whole hospital affair would have been without his assistance.  While I was in, he stayed at my place, in the city and took care of everything I needed; if he continued being this helpful, capable and strong, a girl could get use to the idea of him being the man in my life.  It had been almost two months and Chimeze wasn’t going to forgive me, so maybe it was time to let go of the past - as just that - the past - and focus on keeping Gerald.  I needed him and he was rising to my need, so I would have to let go of his past instances of violent behavior; maybe drop the charges or something.  I just knew I couldn’t afford to have him disappear; not to jail, not to another woman, not to do anything. 

   I wrestled with the idea of making him stay and keeping him happy, whatever the cost.  That fall, a month ago, and all of his actions since, showed that I needed him more than ever.  ’Love who showing love to you,’ I thought over, and over.  Suddenly, I couldn’t take any air in, I couldn’t breathe.  The need for fresh air broke me out of my trance like sleep, and I opened my eyes into fabric.  Fighting the constriction of the fabric against my nose and mouth, I heard, what I thought to be Gerald, murmuring “you fucking bitch!  You cunt whore,” he spat, “piece of shit! “

 I clawed at what I thought to be a piece of flesh, before I felt a cool rush of air rushing my lungs.  I gasped for it, when I was knocked off the bed with a solid right hook to my jaw, then a forcefully lowered heel of the hand wacked against my eye and I saw stars, as I felt my back hit the familiarity of the hard wood flooring, again - this time for a different reason.

   “What is this,“ Gerald screamed, raining open envelopes and the corresponding letters, that were once enclosed in them, over my floor-bound shaking form.  My mind rushed to think of a suitable answer, one that would ring true, but wouldn’t get my ass kicked.  I remembered the letters, I had mailed them to Chimeze in attempt to explain what was ultimately unexplainable.   

I had mailed Meze over 200 letters, only to have them returned - marked ‘return to sender.’  I loathe to give you an example, but then Gerald started to violate the past and present of my mind set by reading the first lines of each letter aloud:

Letter 1: “It’s not what you think…”

Letter 5: “It’s exactly what you think, kind of…”

Letter 10: “What is it that you think…”

Letter 15: ”Honestly, I don’t know what to do”

Letter 20: “I love you and I love him...”

Letter 21: “I loved you first, and I love you more, but he took care of me when you didn’t…”

Letter 20: “I am sorry for coming to your house to see you, I just thought things would be better if I saw you…”

Letter 25: Why did you promise to take me to Jamaica and not follow through?”

Letter 30: “Why did you play games with me, when you met me…”

Letter 50: “How could you expect me to forgive you after you treated me so horribly after our first date…”

Letter 75: “When you told me ‘why you did it,’ you hurt my feelings…”

Letter 80: “You knew she wasn’t better than me, in any way.  How could you choose that lesser woman over me?”

Letter 83: “How could you keep punching me with ‘fucked up facts’ after I forgave you?’

Letter 86: “How could you date me and have a girlfriend, I thought you were better than that?  How could you hurt me in these ways?”

Letter 95: “I was never going to forgive you, I was going to string you along - that was the plan.”

Letter 100: “The plan was never to fall in love with you, how could I love you after what you did?  To me?  Me!?”

Letter 125: “I feel like I made it too easy for you to get forgiveness, but you make it hard for me…”

Letter 183: “I wanted to make a baby with you, even though I said I didn’t want kids…”

Letter 186: “I came to your house because I missed you, I just wanted to see you…so I came”

Letter 190: “I want to leave him, but I am scared…”

Letter 200: “Just give me time to make this completely right, I promise I will do everything I said I would. I just need time…I love you.”

   I recalled writing a few more letters after that, but they rang false - so I never even bothered to put a stamp on them, much less send them.  The first line of letter 200 was the last and final words that I needed Chimeze to know of me, all those months ago when I wrote it.  I remembered sending him ten letters a day; I just wanted him to know how I really felt.  What had really been bothering me all this time.  What I really cared about.  I wanted him to know how my intentions got all messed up - that it wasn’t intentional…and mostly that I loved him more than I had loved any other man.  That’s what I wanted him to know more than anything else.  More than all of the bullshit I fired back through social media when I was frustrated with his silence or his choice of hashtags.

   And now all of the words were hitting me, instead of him, spat from Gerald’s mouth like a forty five caliber rifle . Along with his strikes to my face, I thought I was going to crumble, be split apart by his blows…and breakdown in tears because I remembered how I felt when I wrote those letters.  I had never let go of those feeling, and I am too sensitive for my own good.  Gerald was hurting me, but my sensitivity to my own words was killing me….

   “You know what…” Gerald asked rhetorically popping up, away from my face-staggering to his feet while huffing and puffing, “I’m not going to jail for your ass…” he stumbled away , as I coughed up blood, dressing quickly and grabbing the things he brought over while I laid sick in the hospital.

“You fucking time-wasting bitch,” he screamed, as he grabbed my neck, choking slamming me down to the floor, before purposely slamming out the door - rattling the building in his wake.

MOOD