Naysay Monologue

At about 7:00 am, I was at home, wishing I didn’t have to go class. I was becoming a downer, and never like to pour my poison for others to sip on. Up until recently, I was usually pretty good about keeping my anger, bitterness, resentment, and problems to myself.

Now, only a few months into my journey to a better life disconnect notices flooded my countertops, spilling over onto the floor. Making matters worse, I sent a generous amount of emails to Trenton begging him not to destroy our family, to have mercy, or at least to sacrifice a few dollars. All but one had gone unanswered. The one I received gutted me like a fish.

It read, “Naysay, what will it take for you to see you and I will never be. I am where I want to be at and with whom
I want to be. If it were not for Justice, I wouldn’t even acknowledge you otherwise.” Never had black words on a white page left such a bitter taste of somber. I immediately settled onto the couch and clenched my shirt. I was certain I was experiencing heart failure.

Unfortunately, the SOS text messages I sent to my older girls’ father, Jamil, were also ignored. Jamil, who decided many years ago he was like Bank of America, had expressed to me during a heated discussion over child support, to get money out of him, I must first put money into him. I would need to deposit to make any withdrawals. The words made me instantly envision myself in orange scrubs, handcuffs, and awaiting my guilty verdict. I wouldn’t have killed him, but I would be lying if I said I never thought about it.

Sitting on my couch pretending to be alive, I realized the raising of these girls would rest solely on my shoulders, and what a cross I must bear. I thought about Jesus and how he must have felt being bound to the cross. Deep, incomprehensible sadness must have overwhelmed him as he looked around and realized everyone wanted him dead.

I grabbed my little square couch pillow and clutched it tightly. I buried my face in it for a few moments to muffle the sound of my screams of frustration. I then glanced up and took inventory of my home.

I considered selling all my stuff, even the oversized, gray, designer couch I had fallen in love with at the store. I remember how it had flirted with me.

The day it came home with me I had ditched my family at the door and explored American Furniture Warehouse alone. It was sitting next to two end tables, and the light from overhead shown on it. As I walked by, it whistled at me. I turned around and smiled. I stared at the beautiful floral printed throw pillows and thick, plush cushions. I introduced myself by flopping down on it and rolling around.

It wasn’t long before my family found me making out with my new couch. I was just about to get to second base when they interrupted me. Trenton threw himself on a huge recliner, and the girls snuggled under his armpits. The girls had an innocent look of completeness as they nestled next to him and wrapped their tiny arms around his slender neck. The memory could have triggered a fucking aneurysm.

Snapping out of my daydream, I figured I could have a garage sale. I also had some elegant room dividers, one of which had been in my family for about twenty years. Anytime my mother, sister, or I moved, we alternated it. The other I purchased at a going out of business sale. I figured the sofa might have brought a few hundred dollars, the dividers perhaps one hundred each, and they could take my pride for free.

The sunshine from the cracked blinds splashed off the hardwood floor and highlighted my previous frivolous spending. I really should have saved my money, I thought. I hadn’t made any provisions for becoming a single parent again. While seated, I glared at the piece of paper on my end table. I had recently pulled it off my door. A process server who grew tired of the game hide and seek decided he would stick it to me by sticking it to my door. Apparently, I owed a bank for a closed account, but then again, who didn’t I owe.

Although it was winter and the sun was shining, there were still snowflakes waltzing down my window. Winter had always been my favorite season. I particularly enjoyed watching the world turn white from my cracked window while sipping hot tea and writing poetry. But now “‘Tis the season to be broke” rang in my head whenever I wasn't wearing my earbuds.

I would have loved to sit and skinny dip in my misery, but it was a school day. My energy depleted, but I fought through my fatigue and pulled myself to my feet. My cell phone buzzed with the words “Do Not Answer” splattered across the screen to torment me. I had programed all bill collectors with those words. I had trouble explaining why a grown woman had no income or resources, so I didn’t try.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I struck my foot on the base of Justice’s car seat in the middle of the hallway.
I then proceeded to cut open the toothpaste and scrape the remainder out of the bottom. While brushing my teeth, I glanced over at the one sad little sheet of toilet tissue hanging from the roll. It stared at me. It was as if it had eyes, eyes that said, “Hello Naysay, you’re such a fucking loser you can’t even afford a roll of damn toilet paper.” What would they use when they came home from school? I had grown accustomed to being less rich (less rich sounds better than dirt poor) so, because I was less rich for most of my life, I had learned to keep a stash of restaurant napkins in the case of emergency. I grabbed the stack out of the junk drawer and tossed them onto the back of the toilet.

I finished cleaning myself up, patted my tear-covered face on a towel, and headed into my bedroom. I searched my closet for a clean shirt. I hadn’t the time, energy, or money to do laundry, so everything was dirty. I pulled one from the dirty clothes pile. I smelled it, scrunched my nose, thought, fuck it, and slipped it on. I pulled out those smelly old shoes and dumped some of Justice’s baby powder in them. I slipped them on, and a white cloud of dust covered my
feet.

Just before I left my room, something called me to pray. I was tired of praying. Annoyed, I threw a pillow on at the side of my bed and plopped myself down. I stretched my arms across my bed and just cried. I couldn’t pray. Why couldn’t God just understand I couldn’t pray? Prayer was torture. If I prayed and nothing happened, I couldn’t take it. Besides, the people making my life hell didn’t pray, and their lives seemed perfect. So, for the moment on my knees, I considered the possibility there is not a God, and I was only making a fool out of myself believing there was.

Without a word, I pulled myself back to my feet and made my way back to my living room. Despair crouched next to Justice in her car seat. I had wished both hypochondria and despair would take a hike. I wished they would just leave me alone already. I knew they were there, and they didn’t have to be so damn arresting.

Justice had sucked down her bottle. Her appetite was gradually increasing every day; I hadn’t enough formula supply to meet the demand. She was now fast asleep, and an invisible halo covered her small, round head. I loved to cuddle her and smell her hair. She smelled like soft pink and baby powder. I thought I’d better make her a bottle for the trip to school. I snatched the can from the counter. It was light as a feather. I turned it over and tapped the bottom. Maybe I hoped a Genie would pop out, and I could make a wish for more formula.

I frantically searched my cabinets for anything resembling formula. Maybe some almond milk I used for cereal when I was on a diet kick? Maybe some condensed milk I had gotten from a food donation center? Maybe some regular milk I could dilute just to get her by?

I searched the cabinets and the fridge. No, No, No, I screamed. Our fridge was pathetic. In it was a pack of hot dogs the girls would never eat unless their stomachs touched their backs, and a full jug of Kool Aid my oldest, Tony, had made but added too much sugar to be consumed.

I scratched my head, tugged at my hair, and closed the fridge. I leaned my back against it and slid down to the floor. My relationship with hardwood had never been so intimate. I crossed my hands and said, “Okay, God, you want me to pray? Fine.” I was sure this was his way of forcing a prayer out of me. “I need milk, if you can at least give me some milk, it would be fine.” My desperation masked my faith in him.

Joslyn honked. I fanned my face with my hands to dry my eyes, I snatched my daughter, and I made our way out of the door. I couldn’t tell Joslyn about the milk, toilet paper, or the toothpaste. I knew she would offer to help. On top of abandonment, I didn’t like feeling like a charity case. I knew the day care provided formula. It just wasn’t the same kind Justice used. She had a milk sensitivity, and that fact was pushed against my conscious when I lied to the daycare staff.

“Oh, you can give her the same milk as everyone else. I am trying to switch her over.” The teacher in the infant room seemed confused. I quickly kissed Justice and rushed to class.

I found myself in anatomy class, staring off into space. My situation at home was tugging at my heart. I excused myself and found a bathroom stall to cry in. I found many places to hide in the world. I became the queen of hiding. Heck, I had even been hiding from myself for the past decade or more. When I was sure I let it all out, I went to see Charlie.