Boundaries

Back in 1967, at the age of seventeen, I knew everything. I defiantly quit high school, left home, and shared an apartment with two roommates. Manuela was a party girl, loud, exuberant, fiery and fun. Roger was a flamboyant gay guy from Trinidad who had a flair for dancing and drew enthusiastic audiences at our downtown hangout, the Blue Note, where we grooved to Motown and Soul music.

 The Blue Note closed down, leaving us bereft without our weekend social outlet. To fill the void, Roger invited some of the patrons over to our place to party. Our guests provided hash and wine in exchange for a place to trip. I preferred the mellow effects of combining alcohol and THC to the unpredictable paranoia of LSD.

           One night, I was handed a capsule full of yellowish-white powder and told it was MDA – the love drug. For the next few hours, we all grinned like Cheshire Cats. I’d found Nirvana. I floated, slow and easy, through air like honey. I “saw” music as a fluctuating array of brilliant colors, shimmering around the best friends I had ever had. My body was energized, beautiful, and erotic. No need to talk.  Everyone was telepathically connected by vibrations of good will.

           After my first trip, I wanted to get high every day. However, an annoying reality persistently interfered with my euphoria – my job. I repeatedly called in sick. I overused the excuse of having the flu and resorted to a shameful lie about attending a funeral for my brother, who was, in fact, alive and well.  Many mornings, after riding high most of the night, I stumbled over sleeping house guests in my haste to catch the subway. The only relief from the fatigue and depression was to take more MDA. Since the fridge was often emptied during the day by our new tenants, I was losing weight. I figured this was a good thing, but was alarmed about the raging rash of acne spreading across my face, chest, and back.

            During the endless parade of visitors, Roger, who loved to cross dress,  repeatedly “borrowed” my lipstick, false eyelashes, and glittery blue dress without asking. He was also continuing to leave a ring around the tub after he bathed, even though I had nicely reminded him over and over.

 “Roger, could you please remember to scrub the tub next time?”

 He kept shrugging and saying, “Sorry about that, girl,” as I sprinkled Comet, scrubbed, and sighed. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of all our guests.  

 One evening, Manuela arrived home from work later than usual and showed me a new red party dress. “I got it on sale at Eaton’s!” she bragged. I applauded enthusiastically when she insisted on modeling it. Then she lowered her eyes and whispered, “There’s just one problem…” A feeling of dread lodged in my throat.

She breathlessly explained that she had used her share of the rent money to buy the dress. “It’s so gorgeous. I just couldn’t pass up the bargain. It was the last one.”

“I know you really wanted the dress, but we could get evicted if we don’t pay the rent,” I explained as kindly as I could.

I went to my mother to grovel. Her dark brown eyes pierced mine with disapproval and she commented about my poor choice of friends. She loaned me the money and insisted I pay her back $5.00 per week. I sulked because she was always buying liquor for Dad and never expected HIM to pay her back.

 Manuela forgot that she owed me money and I didn’t remind her. I was not greedy and materialistic. Instead, I swallowed another hit of MDA and forgot about my grudges.

           I lasted a month with little or no sleep. Finally, on a Friday afternoon, I staggered home to collapse into bed. I longed for solitude. I’d hit a wall and had no desire to party or get stoned. As I entered the apartment, a cloud of cigarette and hashish smoke billowed out into the hallway. Dirty dishes, empty bottles of wine, and overflowing ashtrays littered every surface. Manuela and Roger were sprawled on the couch having an animated conversation with two unfamiliar girls who squealed like seagulls. We were introduced and I mustered up a polite smile to mask my grinding teeth.

I wandered into the kitchen to grab a bite. The fridge was empty, as usual. Four unshaven, shirtless guys I’d never seen before were crowded around the table. One of them wound a rubber band around his bicep, knotted the ends, and pushed a needle into the crook of his elbow. I watched in disgust as he drew blood back into the plunger and then emptied the contents into his vein. He shuddered and stiffened with a groan. The guy next to him grabbed the needle and did the same thing. “Want some speed?” he asked over his shoulder. Without answering, I headed for my bed, craving private oblivion.

           When I entered my bedroom, a writhing couple jerked to attention. They yanked my sheet to cover themselves. Stunned, I stumbled toward the bathroom – the one place I could lock the door and be alone. Two more strangers were squatting in the tub, passing a joint.

          I ripped off my mask of conviviality and bellowed. “Get out! All of you! Get out of my bed! Get out of my bathtub!” I raced back out to the living room, picked up an ashtray, and hurled it. Butts and ashes scattered as it thumped off a wall. The two seagulls squawked and headed quickly for the door.

Next, I marched into the kitchen, hurled a dish, and watched in awe as it sailed through the air, crashed to the floor, and shattered into shards. Roger slowly rose with his hand stretched towards my shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” I shrieked. “Get them out! All of them!” Blood thudded in my temples. In slow motion, people silently picked up shirts, shoes, cigarette packages, and other items, never taking their horrified eyes off me. In single file, they exited. The last to escape closed the door with a soft click. Manuela and Roger peered at me, speechless. Shocked at my terrible outburst, I turned, stumbled into my bedroom, and collapsed. I slept fourteen hours.

           When I emerged, two subdued roommates tiptoed around me. The place had been tidied. There were no guests. “Thanks for cleaning up. I’m sorry I got so mad. I was really tired.”

           Guilt had a habitual way of eroding my efforts at self-care. Before long, the bathtub again had to be scrubbed before bathing, and Manuela invited a new boyfriend to move in. I generously offered my private bedroom to the couple and seethed on the living-room pull-out couch.

           I began to contemplate moving back home and returning to school.

           *******************************************************

           Four decades later, I signed up for an Anger Management class.

           “Why are you doing that? You never get angry!” declared a friend.

           After filling out a questionnaire, I was labelled a “pressure-cooker.” Heaps of resentments, buried deep, were being excavated by my work in recovery from alcoholism.

           Awareness, a flashlight in a dark cave, became a catapult for gradual change. Eventually, I was able to emerge into the sunlight. There are still cloudy days in my process.

           Whenever I feel a tinge of anger, I pay attention. I am learning to validate myself and speak clearly without guilt. One of my favorite phrases, spoken from a place of calm, is “This isn’t working for me.” Another is, “I need some time to think about this.” And of course, it is always helpful to remember that “No,” is a complete sentence.