Inside The Threshold of Her Undoing

Was it really only yesterday?

I honestly can’t remember.

My days don’t end. The sun comes up and it goes down again, but my eyes don’t close.

I don’t sleep, therefore there is no yesterday.

As I sit here playing endless games of backgammon with myself, I have no hopes for tomorrow because tomorrow never comes if you don’t go to sleep, right?

I don’t mind being by myself in this tiny two-room space I call home. Oh, wait. I have a bathroom. Three-room space – excuse me.

I’ve been sitting on this floor for so long I don’t even bother to pull out the convertible couch. It’s extremely uncomfortable, but I don’t sleep anyway, so why bother? I’m too wired to have sex, so that’s another reason not to pull it out.

Ha ha! Did I just make a funny?

Here, let me show you around. This room is where I live. There, against the wall to the left of the front door, is my faded green pull-out couch. I can’t remember the last time I threw off the pillow seats and extended the mattress; it’s uncomfortable as hell and takes up too much room in my three-hundred-square-foot efficiency. Over there, alongside the opposite wall is my little seventeen-inch black and white TV sitting on top of an empty electrical cable spool. You’d never know it’s an abandoned wooden cylinder. I’m quite the decorator and have it disguised by a turquoise-colored table cloth. Next to the makeshift entertainment center are my speakers and a primitive stereo system. Gotta have music, don’t you know?

Follow me. Over here, a few steps to the left is my kitchen. Yep, I’ve got a fridge, a tiny stove, and a sink. If’n ya gotta pee, just turn to the right and walk straight in. What do you mean that’s gross? I find it pretty convenient!

My tiny abode, adorned with roadside finds, has a couple of windows to let the light in even though it hurts my eyes, but curtains take care of that.

I don’t live here alone; I’ve got six cats. They’re my buddies. I take good care of them. I give them lots of love and pets and make sure they’re fed twice a day. And they love me unconditionally in return. They are free to come and go through the front door, ‘cuz I leave it open for them. The only time I venture out is to go to work. I can’t even tell you what I do for a living right now; it’s a blur, but I must have put whatever I do for work on automatic pilot because I make it there and back every day. I’m good at that. Automatic pilot lets me fly even when my brain is in the “off” mode.

Oh, sorry, I got off track. I do that quite often, so please hang in and try to pay attention.

Walk over here with me and take a look in my fridge. Let’s see… there’s vodka in the freezer (saves on ice), juice, and iced tea. There’s also a ton of hot dogs. That’s what I feed my cats when I run out of cat food.

As for me, well I’m a helluva cook, but that’s a lot of effort for one person who has no appetite anyway, so I don’t bother.

When was the last time I ate?

Was it really only yesterday? Shit, I don’t know. Yesterday hasn’t happened yet; I’m still on the perpetual “today”.

You might think I’m lonely, but I’m really not. People come over quite often to spend time with me. We usually play backgammon, and once I even let someone write a poem in my journal of thoughts. I write poetry all the time. It makes me feel alive. But I have to admit, to this day, I can’t put the face to the man whom I allowed to pen in my very private journal. Maybe one day I’ll show it to you, but he’s long-gone from my memory, so it won’t be anytime soon.

Anyway, back to what I was saying:

People come over all the time. They bring me snow in a state that doesn’t get snow from the heavens. How cool is that?

Snow makes me really thirsty. Maybe because it makes me talk a lot and my throat gets dry. Anyway, I find vodka mixed with juice or iced tea—or water, if it comes down to that—keeps my snow-filled mind on an even keel.

I can go for days like that and never get hungry. Good thing—that means I only need to worry about feeding my cats. Besides, I think I look pretty good at ninety-five pounds.

I’ve become pretty proficient at playing backgammon. I beat everyone I challenge. Hell, I even beat myself when I play all by my lonesome. How do you play a two-person game with yourself? Well, you imagine that someone is sitting on the other side of the board, and you don’t cheat.

You’ve had Snow Days when you were in school, I’m sure. We used to pray for them because that meant school would be shut down until the roads were safe for travel. Snow days keep you inside and force you to entertain yourself, unless you like dressing up like the Michelin Man to play outside in the snowbanks. It’s no different when the snow comes in a form that doesn’t melt. At least as long as you don’t mix it with water, anyway. I don’t do that. No. That would mean I have a problem. And I don’t have a problem. I just like the way I feel when it snows in Florida.

I can do just about anything when I’m snorting the white powder. I get extremely poetic and philosophical when it snows. I’m at my best. And I’m getting really skinny. Whoo hoo, down to a size zero!

Going Through the Threshold of Her Undoing

Shit! I’m not only poetic and philosophical, but intuitive to boot. My boyfriend’s cheating on me—I can feel it. I go through that door, my front door—the door to Nowheresville. This time it leads me somewhere and I know exactly what I’ll do when I get there.

Fueled by tropical blow and a steady dose of vodka, I hop in my Toyota and head for a destination I know by heart. There’s no answer at the door, yet I hear voices, one of which belongs to the homeowner and the keeper of my heart.

While repeating my mantra silently, Italian, Irish, English, Scottish, German, and Cherokee—don’t fuck with me!, I round the corner and make my way to the backyard. I’m coming in, dammit! I spot a clay pot and throw it against one of the back windows. It bounces back to me like a rubber ball.

Now I’m really pissed!

I fold my right hand into a fist and – voila! – contact! I break through the double-tempered window and climb through, dripping blood all over the place.

I must look to be a fright. The woman, whom my boyfriend picked up in a bar, complete with black eye—and obviously someone else’s problem, high-tails it out of there right quick.

I don’t remember the ensuing conversation, but let’s just say that that night it stopped raining vodka, but the snow continued to sprinkle my being.

If I hadn’t been so fucked up, I probably would have ended up in the hospital.

Satisfied I’ve made my point, I go home to heal my wounds and my broken heart.

Thank God for snow!

Was it really only yesterday? I can’t tell because I haven’t slept. How many days, weeks, months have gone by?

I Realize I’ve Created My Own Locked Exit

Man, my nose burns. I’m right handed, so I do everything with the right side of my body. No problem, I have a left nose! It takes a bit of effort, but I train my left nose (nostril) to do the job of its stronger – and now depleted – counterpart.

Then it happens. I no longer like the way I feel when it snows, yet I can’t stop making my proverbial snow angels.

Snow Does Not Angels Make

Ironically, I stopped drinking vodka after the incident at my boyfriend’s house. No worries, I’ll just substitute rum for vodka and carry on.

Easy solution, right?

What do people do when they can no longer tolerate the weather? If they’re bold enough and strong enough, they move to a different environment, a different climate where they can breathe, where the doors open to vast expanses of knowledge and happiness.

I looked at that door to Nowheresville and realized I’ve kept it shut. I can open it if I want to and get myself out of the hellhole that I’ve called home for far too long.

Do I want to open that door?

Am I ready to see what, if anything, lies beyond?

Bidding Adieu to the Threshold of My Undoing

I took a long look at that door, bade it farewell, and never looked back.

I moved to a chillier climate, but one that would never be as chilly as the one that held the gateway to regret, for that door would have eventually led me to within an inch of Death.

I don’t regret not trying to open that door before I was good and ready.

Once I realized I had created my own prison, my own trap door, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps, flung that door wide open and let it close behind me.

I have since found the one door that is always open. Open to opportunity. Open to Love. Open to Life. Open to me!

And that door isn’t bound shut by snow drifts, alcohol, or bad choices.

Was it really only yesterday?

No, it wasn’t.

I finally woke up…

…and now I see…

…It was a lifetime ago.

To this day, some forty-odd years later, I have a scar on my right F-U finger where I’d busted through that glass window.

It’s a constant reminder to never step through that threshold—or into that lifestyle ever again.