There Goes My Social Life (8 page)

I went to the medicine cabinet and looked for bottles labeled “drowsy.” Plenty of options. I dumped the pills into my hand and washed them down with a large drink of water. I put my hand on my neck when the pills scraped on the way down and smiled at the irony.
I
'
m literally killing myself
,
so what does it matter if my throat hurts a little bit?

I sat at the top of the stairs and looked down over the house. I made peace with God. It was quiet, and I didn't even hear traffic outside. My mom and stepdad wouldn't be home for a while, so there was time. The heater came on, and the glow of the kitchen light at the foot of the stairs made the place—which was so full of pain—seem downright cozy. Darien and I had had some good times in that kitchen. As a part of our chores, we'd dutifully start washing the dishes but would end up laughing, telling stories, and spraying each other with the nozzle from the sink. Our antics always doubled the mess—and our work—but we didn't mind. I loved my brother, and any time spent with him was well worth it. I loved watching him grow into a smart little kid. By the time he was old enough to think, he thought strategically. He was always thinking of ways to make money. He created a business loaning his Speak & Spell, Millennium Falcon, and Atari cartridges out to his friends. I loved watching him develop more into a man. But of course he was only twelve at the time. If I went through with this, I wouldn't really see what the future held for him.

Then it hit me.

Darien.

When would Darien be home? I certainly didn't want him to find me. No kid should have to deal with that. If I died, who'd take care of him?

A sense of dread came over me. Many times in life I'd made a mistake—the kind you can't undo—and felt shame and guilt wash over me. But this sensation of regret was so acute that I lost my breath. I had just swallowed God knows how many pills. What had I done to myself? What had I done to Darien?

I darted up and put my hand on the banister to steady myself, though it hardly seemed necessary. I felt fine.
That
'
s good
, I thought.
The pills aren
'
t even working
. I ran to the kitchen to try to throw up and get some water. I had time. I felt fine. When I heard a knock on the door, I jumped. Who could that be? What horrible timing to show up during someone's suicide attempt! Well, it was just as well. The pills I'd taken must've been old, or simply weak. I was filled with gratitude that they didn't work. When I opened the door and saw my friend Eric, I sighed in relief.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Come in.”

When we sat at the table and began chatting, everything seemed normal. I could scarcely believe that just a few minutes ago I had thought I was staring death right in the face. Life wasn't necessarily good, but I could handle it. I could stick with it and help Darien make his way in the world. But when I looked back up at Eric, I realized I couldn't quite hear what he was saying. His eyes were as big as saucers. His lips were moving, but his words were muffled, like he was talking underwater.

I thought I heard him say my name.

Then, nothing.

“How can you be so selfish?!” My body was tucked under crisp white sheets. Fluorescent lights were above me, but they weren't turned on because the sun was pouring in through the window. Too bright. When I squinted, I could see the silhouette of my mother, hunched over the bed, screaming. “How could you do this to me?”

Another person was in the room. Darien. I heard him crying. Apparently Eric had scooped me up and taken me to the emergency room, saving my life. I wiggled my fingers and my toes. Yep, I was alive, but my survival didn't seem to be welcome news to everyone.

“If you're going to do something,” my mother said through clenched teeth. “At least do it right.”

“Next time,” I managed to say, “I won't fail.”

Darien began to cry even more.

“I'm taking you to a mental hospital,” she said. “Because you're crazy.”

Crazy Stacey
. I'd heard that before. But in school the nickname had kept people away and protected me. Coming from the lips of my own mother, it was a vulnerability. It hurt. One of my biggest fears has always been somehow losing control of my mental faculties and being left dependent on others. I spent my first years of life dependent on others, and that didn't work out too well. Threatening to take me to an asylum was probably the only thing my mother could've said that would've gotten my attention. In fact, it horrified me.

True to her word, she didn't take me home after discharge. She drove me to a mental institution in New Jersey, a huge facility with imposing beige walls.

“Mommy, Mommy, please don't do this!” I cried. “I'm going to listen! I'm going to be good! I'm not going to do it again!”

“You're selfish and crazy.”

“Please don't do this!” I sobbed. “Don't leave me here.”

“Get out,” she said as she parked the car.

She took me up to the window to sign me in.

I dragged my feet, crying so hard I could barely speak. “I promise I won't ever do it again! I promise!” She turned to look at me. I'm sure I looked like a mess. Surviving a suicide attempt should've filled me with relief, could've given me a new lease on life. But instead I realized the attempt had made my life even worse. “Mommy? Please?”

“Don't ever do that again,” she said, before turning around and taking me home.

Two weeks later, we had a disagreement over whether I should go out. I admit it. It was later than proper girls should probably go out at night, but I was no proper girl. Since my own mother had given me my first line of cocaine, I thought we were beyond the pretense of caring about things like rules and social conventions. We stood there arguing in the kitchen, as we'd done many times before. Then, I saw her grab a knife—the kind that you use to cut large slabs of meat—and a lump formed in my throat.

“Put the knife down,” I said slowly. I'd seen this move before. Before she had a chance to do anything, my stepdad intervened. He grabbed her and took the knife from her hands. My mom was furious, so she grabbed a bag of frozen collard greens off the kitchen counter and ran after me with it, trying to beat me.

The collard greens are what did it. Finally, after years of neglect and contempt, seeing my mom chasing me with a bag of frozen collard greens pushed me over the edge. I'd had enough.

I ran upstairs, slammed the door to my bedroom, and went to the window. I placed my fingers on the window and yanked. Years of accumulated paint caused it to stick, but eventually it pulled free. The cold air hit my face and I gasped. I wasn't prepared for the cold, though the ground
was
covered in snow. Using my left hand to brace myself, I crawled out onto the windowsill and looked down. My stomach leapt into my throat. I was on the second floor. Nine feet down? Twelve? I was never good at estimating distances. Not that it mattered. I had no option except to jump. I could no longer stomach life within the walls of that house. That's all there was to it. If jumping cost me what was left of my life, then at least my mom would be satisfied that I “did it right” this time. My bare feet pressed into the wood of the windowsill, and I tried to find a soft spot to land, but couldn't see the ground at this hour.

Did I have to do this? Chill bumps appeared on my arms and seemed to be warning me. This is dangerous. This isn't right. But there was nothing “right” about this situation. My own mother had threatened me with a knife. How dangerous is leaping from the second floor compared to living with a drug addict who apparently wants me dead?

I said a prayer and looked down. In the dark, it all looked the same.
Should I keep my legs up?
I wondered.
What is the best way to fall?
I'd never done this before. Instead of leaping, I lowered myself down and held onto the ledge with my fingertips. Then I dropped into the darkness, and—in spite of myself—a little scream escaped from my lips. The snow rushed by my face, stinging. Before I knew I'd left the ledge, I hit the ground with an excruciating thud.

I checked my arms. They worked. My legs. My left one hurt, but it was still functional. I'd done it!

“Are you okay?” Darien's face appeared above in my window.

“Throw me some shoes and a coat!” I said as I shook off the jolt of the fall.

“What are you doing?”

“Please!” I said. “Just help me. I don't have time to explain, but if you ever do anything for me, do it now.”

Dutifully, he left the window and appeared back in a moment. My feet were wet and turning to ice fast.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“Just toss them!”

He held the items out the window, and they fell right down to me.

“Thank you, Darien,” I said, looking up at my brother and seeing flashes of our lives together: sitting in front of the television for hours, laughing at Fred and Wilma; playing stickball in the street; spraying each other with water instead of doing the dishes. When he was little I had tried to shield him from a mother who wouldn't feed us, and I hated leaving him there, but Mom had a different relationship with him. She was less combative, more loving, with Darien. He'd be okay with her in a way that I couldn't.

I took one last look at my brother in the window of my room, and ran off into the woods.

I would never return.

I ran through the woods and made my way to the train station. I was crying hysterically, that angry kind of crying that dared anyone to cross me. That driving anger allowed me to run through the woods at that hour without worrying about the danger. When I arrived at the Port Authority—which was filled with hookers, homeless people, and the smell of urine—nobody was about to approach me. Not after what I'd just been through.

I got a train into the city, where I crashed at my godfather's place for a while. His house was full of any sort of drug you'd ever want. He kept a bottle of cocaine with a bullet-shaped nozzle that sat on the coffee table. Anytime I wanted, I could just walk through the living room and take a hit. Drugs were available all the time, and I had no reason to refrain. But after a while, I knew I was wearing out my welcome, so I got my own place. Even though I was only seventeen, I was now officially on my own. I got an apartment on the Upper West Side, got a job as a receptionist at a hair salon in Chelsea, and decided to make a way for myself in this world.

I didn't need anyone's help.

Mom didn't want me to act, so that's naturally what I decided to do. The first job I got was for a hair perm commercial for Jheri Curl. To do the commercial, they actually put a perm in my hair. While I appreciated the truth in advertising, my hair was already curly enough.

“You're really good,” the producer of the commercial said to me. “Do you have a theatrical agent?”

“No,” I said, trying not to look as pleased as I felt.

“You should go see mine,” she said, handing me her agent's business card.

I took the card and slipped it into my purse, vowing to call as soon as I got home.

That commercial made my hair unmanageable, but every time I looked into the mirror and saw that head of hair, I knew: I was a professional actress.

Suddenly, I had a new commercial and a lead on an agent—who signed me right up.

“In fact, I think I might have a role for you,” my agent said after just a few weeks.

“Well, I hope the role calls for curly hair,” I said, still recovering from the effects of the perm commercial. “Are you going to make me ask what it is?”

“
The Cosby Show
,” he said, emphasizing each word like he was laying down a gift at my feet. In a way, he was.

“Seriously?” Every Thursday night I sat in front of my television set at 8:00 to see NBC's lineup of comedies—
The Cosby Show
,
Family Ties
,
Cheers
, and
Night Court
—to distract me from my regular life. I'd never seen a television family like the one portrayed on
The Cosby Show
. Yeah, there were
Good Times
and
The Jefferson
s, but those shows were all about race: J.J. was always “scratchin' and survivin'” in the inner city of Chicago, talking about “black Jesus,” and poverty; George and Mr. Willis were always arguing and calling each other racial slurs.