AND THEY WONDER WHY

" The Lord never sleeps Victoria. The Lord never sleeps." Twenty four

years, four months, two weeks and three days and her voice still lingers on in my mind. I should probably file a formal petition against the twenty seven psychiatrists, thirty two therapists and eight pharmacists who convinced me that these twelve different brands of drugs would ease my anxiety, get rid of my panic attacks, rewire my flawed brain circuitry and deliver me from my insomnia. If anything, I'd be willing to make a billion dollar donation to each and every company that toils night and day to make me this bitter sweet whiskey because it's the only thing that keeps me calm these days.

History books talk about a dark era in the 1920s where it was illegal to manufacture, sell or even consume liquor. " The Prohibition", that's what they called it. Too bad they weren't smart enough for the speakeasies. If I'd lived in that era I'd probably have taken the " cowards' " way out and slit my wrists in the bathtub or get one of those fancy ropes I see on television but I doubt I would know how to tie a knot. After all what is a life without liquor?

I don't believe in shrinks and doctors anymore though- it's a complete waste of time and money. So I guess I'm stuck with my Mama's voice in my head now. I can still see her, sitting in her rocking chair, humming kumbaya or whatever new song her pastor told them to learn, perusing through her Bible, nodding her head in agreement to nearly everything she was reading and ignoring my presence in the room.

Dad's not home yet which buys me some time to rush through my homework before I need to put on my noice cancelling head phones which by the way seem to work quite differently than I expected seeing as they actually amplify sounds.

Miss Lauren never fails to slip in some challenging questions in the science assignment but Mrs Dorothy, our next door neighbor, helps me sometimes ( when she's not too busy bathing her six "exotic" puppies or training her pigs how to jump rope.) I really liked Mrs Dorothy. I'd never had strawberry cake before until she saved me a piece from her son's birthday. I was never allowed to hang out with other kids so Dorothy is the only person I talked to. She taught me how to draw circles and squares. She taught me how to play guitar and the flute. She even taught me how to ride a bike. Of course when mama found out she was less than thrilled. Told me to keep away from that " cursed old lady". I'd have wished that she'd handled it a little bit nicer. She didn't have to cut my hair and tie me to the tree in the backyard for two days with no blankets and no food.

Now I've got a kid of my own. I called her Hope, a name that honestly just popped out of nowhere. It could mean a lot of things like " I hope I can be of help with your math homework even though I pretty much scored a negative on my algebra tests , I hope I don't give you long sleepless nights like my parents did, I hope you don't have to worry if tomorrow will be the day that I'll hit you a little too hard you're probably never going to wake up again, I hope your mind is not nearly as messed up as mine when your twenty four years old, I hope your daddy shows up one day so I don't have to lie to you about his whereabouts, or I hope you never get pregnant at eighteen and have your pious mother throw you out at 3:00 a.m in the morning with the rain pouring and watch as your dad stares from the bathroom window.

"The Lord never sleeps." I never really understood what she meant by this. For a prayerful woman like her, you'd think that my mother would actually take me to church. But no, I was too embarrassing to be around her golf club buddies. She would lock me up in this tiny little cabinet in the attic and tell me to stay quiet until she got back. Sometimes she'd " forget" to come and get me so I slept there after crying my eyeballs out. Sometimes she'd even " forget" for three- four days and I'd sit there screaming, shouting , calling out to daddy to come get me. Eventually I got tired of hurting my vocal cords so I'd talk to Linda; my imaginary friend from Texas. She had the best accent I'd ever heard and her smile, her beautiful little smile, it kept me from so many nightmares. We still talk sometimes but she had to get married and move to China so we hardly get time to meet.

" Mama, why do you drink so much? Mr Johnson says that alcohol is bad news", I often hear Hope ask. Usually, I give her the easy answer. " Mummy's going through a lot of stress at work. It's what bosses do honey." One day I'll tell her the hard answer. One day I'll tell her that her grandma who was a religious fanatic ironically did not find it hard to prepare a meal and make me watch as she ate and proceeded to throw the excess in the trashcan and ask me to dig in. One day I'll tell her about the black belt that hang by grandma's dresser. One day I'll tell her about the time when grandpa had one too many and came down to the basement where I slept. One day I'll tell her about how loud I screamed that night. One day I'll tell her how grandma came down that night and shouted " keep it down you two. I'm trying to meditate". One day I'll tell her about the time I packed my tiny little bag and wanted to leave. One day I'll tell her that grandma was at the door that day with the black belt in her hand. Maybe I'll show her the scars on my back and my thighs. And maybe, just maybe, I'll tell her about the knife with the blue handle that turned red with their blood. The Lord never sleeps, she said but I guess they did.