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snakechahmahJournal - Entry Two - 8th @ 11pm
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
Congrats! I decided that you’ll be my “dear diary”. I mean, I'll never tell you that but, hey...it works.
Something happened today. I hired a new Emcee. And, i don’t know, for a moment it felt…like air. Like breathing. Like a cancerous mass has been removed and is no longer a drain on me, on the club. It feels like maybe the club can survive this. There are still so many hurdles, of course. The fact that the “old Emcee” is still out there scares me. Bad. I’m trying my best to just keep going without worrying about him lurking or plotting whatever he might be planning. If, he’s planning.
I didn’t run today. But…I danced. A lot. More than, say, is healthy. I took the pills that you gave me. They took the edge off but they make me…apathic. I still don’t understand how I can rationally relate to the fact that what happened wasn’t my fault and yet still emotionally feel the need to punish myself for it. Seems completely irrational. But, you’re the expert. You tell me.
Still, all things considered, today was a great day.
Journal - Entry Three - 11th @ 12am
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
How quickly things change. I saw him. No, seriously. He was here. Right here. Outside! At least I thought that I saw him. Em. Emcee. That’s impossible, right? I don’t know whats worse, thinking that I saw him or actually seeing him. Even as I write this, my hands are still shaking. I told one of my waitresses (her name is Nina) to call the cops so that we could at least file a report and out of nowhere she brings out a gun (I'll have to write about Nine sometime). And some of these women have been really traumatized by my father and probably Emcee. Super traumatized, so I totally get the response. But guns at my club? With other staff around? With clients around? As I’m trying to talk her down from her own trauma (and maybe I need to take a class in this cause I am severely under qualified for emergency mental health 101) I’m right back where I started with mine and I feel myself spiraling. Even as I catch myself by my own collar to pull myself up so that I can hang onto her, I’m thinking something horrible…
why not just let us go?
Continued @ 2am
Because it was my father that did this to her. Because it was my father that did this to me. That’s why not. But…to be honest…I’m not sure that any one person can deal with this on their own. And I do, feel on my own, which sounds all boo-hoo, I know…but…
Guess it is what it is. I mean, I have help at the club, God knows Cassie has been helping and watching me like a hawk. Stefi’s around at the club more, too. I shouldn’t complain. I’m never alone. Or I don’t have to be. Just gotta keep reminding myself of that. Just like Nina is not alone in this but I am sure she feels like she is. I guess…I guess that no matter how many people you have around you and the support that’s there, a part of you has to walk through the fire alone. Or feels like it does? I don’t know.
Journal - Entry Four - 12th @ 11am
Please. Just, please. I just want it to stop. Every thought, a knife in my heart. Every dream, a nightmare. Every sound, potential danger.
I’m so tired of fighting. Not just this. Everything. I just want it to stop. I NEED it to stop. Just for little while. Just to regroup. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to go away. I just want to turn it off. Feeling. The pain. My heart. Just off. Like a switch. No father. No Emcee. No responsibility. No disease. No stress. No violence. No guilt. No pain. But that’s just it. I can’t run away from that.
How can something non-physical hurt this much?
Continued @ 3pm
Called the nurse after my run. The other doctor upped my dose. I’m tired. Sleep.
Journal - Entry five - 15th @ 4am
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
As you know, it’s been a tough few days and nights. Thanks for visiting me in the hospital. I bet you might be wondering why I didn’t tell you that I had cancer. It’s not just you. Only one other person knows. Maybe two. Oddly enough, Emcee is one of those people. I told my staff that I was taking time off. It’s no biggie (ahem). I’m better. Yay. I’m still on a course of drugs that I have to take every day for a year but the prognosis looks better that it did. This is my fifth month. I guess I must have over exerted myself both emotionally and physically though. My body just took a bit of a hiatus. I didn’t tell you or anyone else is because the last thing I want in my life is to be remembered as the woman with cancer. Blah! Once you tell people you’re sick, they stop seeing you and all they see is the disease. It begins to define you. People start acting weird around you. They walk on eggshells or do the opposite and try too hard to ‘act’ normal. They start spouting empathic but unhelpful slogans like ‘fuck cancer’ in an effort to try be in solidarity and you end up having to manage their emotional caseload and your own. I get it, but no. I choose not to do that. No. Darling, if i’m going out, you best believe that they’re not going to remember a light being slowly snuffed out, but a explosion of color and sass so large they’ll never have time to miss me because It’ll always feel like I’m there.
My mom once said, ‘dead stars are still beautiful in the night sky because they shine so bright in their last moments.’ That’s right, shine on.
I’ve always tightly controlled that aspect of my life…I guess I wanted to at least have a bit of control of how I’d be remembered. Like, don’t ever forget that I’m the gal with the smile. Even when it’s bad, like now, I still smile. Small, maybe. But because of everything that Ive been through in my crazy beautiful, crazy painful and just crazy life, I can say that I truly mean it. But, I mean, that was then. I'll be ok. You'll see me right again. You will.
This journal thing is kinda cathartic.
Journal - Entry Six - 18th @ 12pm
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
I have to go to the cemetery today to pay for the replacement of my mom’s gravestone and a reburial (of what?). Also, they asked me if I was the one that was going to plan (and pay) for my father’s funeral.
Good God. Give me strength.
Journal - Entry Seven - 18th @ 5pm
I just got back from the cemetery. You won’t believe what happened. The graves were paid for already! My father’s funeral was paid for already! When I asked who had gone and done that, they said that the person had paid in cash that morning and that they were a “family friend”. What?!
Come on. It’s gotta be Emcee. Right? Except…the description that they gave me didn’t fit Emcee or any of his associates that I know.
The funeral is this weekend.
All I ever wanted in all of this was to know the truth. And there are still so many questions.
Doctor Deyncourt, I’m feeling compelled to do something really, really stupid.
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
Congrats! I decided that you’ll be my “dear diary”. I mean, I'll never tell you that but, hey...it works.
Something happened today. I hired a new Emcee. And, i don’t know, for a moment it felt…like air. Like breathing. Like a cancerous mass has been removed and is no longer a drain on me, on the club. It feels like maybe the club can survive this. There are still so many hurdles, of course. The fact that the “old Emcee” is still out there scares me. Bad. I’m trying my best to just keep going without worrying about him lurking or plotting whatever he might be planning. If, he’s planning.
I didn’t run today. But…I danced. A lot. More than, say, is healthy. I took the pills that you gave me. They took the edge off but they make me…apathic. I still don’t understand how I can rationally relate to the fact that what happened wasn’t my fault and yet still emotionally feel the need to punish myself for it. Seems completely irrational. But, you’re the expert. You tell me.
Still, all things considered, today was a great day.
Journal - Entry Three - 11th @ 12am
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
How quickly things change. I saw him. No, seriously. He was here. Right here. Outside! At least I thought that I saw him. Em. Emcee. That’s impossible, right? I don’t know whats worse, thinking that I saw him or actually seeing him. Even as I write this, my hands are still shaking. I told one of my waitresses (her name is Nina) to call the cops so that we could at least file a report and out of nowhere she brings out a gun (I'll have to write about Nine sometime). And some of these women have been really traumatized by my father and probably Emcee. Super traumatized, so I totally get the response. But guns at my club? With other staff around? With clients around? As I’m trying to talk her down from her own trauma (and maybe I need to take a class in this cause I am severely under qualified for emergency mental health 101) I’m right back where I started with mine and I feel myself spiraling. Even as I catch myself by my own collar to pull myself up so that I can hang onto her, I’m thinking something horrible…
why not just let us go?
Continued @ 2am
Because it was my father that did this to her. Because it was my father that did this to me. That’s why not. But…to be honest…I’m not sure that any one person can deal with this on their own. And I do, feel on my own, which sounds all boo-hoo, I know…but…
Guess it is what it is. I mean, I have help at the club, God knows Cassie has been helping and watching me like a hawk. Stefi’s around at the club more, too. I shouldn’t complain. I’m never alone. Or I don’t have to be. Just gotta keep reminding myself of that. Just like Nina is not alone in this but I am sure she feels like she is. I guess…I guess that no matter how many people you have around you and the support that’s there, a part of you has to walk through the fire alone. Or feels like it does? I don’t know.
Journal - Entry Four - 12th @ 11am
Please. Just, please. I just want it to stop. Every thought, a knife in my heart. Every dream, a nightmare. Every sound, potential danger.
I’m so tired of fighting. Not just this. Everything. I just want it to stop. I NEED it to stop. Just for little while. Just to regroup. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to go away. I just want to turn it off. Feeling. The pain. My heart. Just off. Like a switch. No father. No Emcee. No responsibility. No disease. No stress. No violence. No guilt. No pain. But that’s just it. I can’t run away from that.
How can something non-physical hurt this much?
Continued @ 3pm
Called the nurse after my run. The other doctor upped my dose. I’m tired. Sleep.
Journal - Entry five - 15th @ 4am
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
As you know, it’s been a tough few days and nights. Thanks for visiting me in the hospital. I bet you might be wondering why I didn’t tell you that I had cancer. It’s not just you. Only one other person knows. Maybe two. Oddly enough, Emcee is one of those people. I told my staff that I was taking time off. It’s no biggie (ahem). I’m better. Yay. I’m still on a course of drugs that I have to take every day for a year but the prognosis looks better that it did. This is my fifth month. I guess I must have over exerted myself both emotionally and physically though. My body just took a bit of a hiatus. I didn’t tell you or anyone else is because the last thing I want in my life is to be remembered as the woman with cancer. Blah! Once you tell people you’re sick, they stop seeing you and all they see is the disease. It begins to define you. People start acting weird around you. They walk on eggshells or do the opposite and try too hard to ‘act’ normal. They start spouting empathic but unhelpful slogans like ‘fuck cancer’ in an effort to try be in solidarity and you end up having to manage their emotional caseload and your own. I get it, but no. I choose not to do that. No. Darling, if i’m going out, you best believe that they’re not going to remember a light being slowly snuffed out, but a explosion of color and sass so large they’ll never have time to miss me because It’ll always feel like I’m there.
My mom once said, ‘dead stars are still beautiful in the night sky because they shine so bright in their last moments.’ That’s right, shine on.
I’ve always tightly controlled that aspect of my life…I guess I wanted to at least have a bit of control of how I’d be remembered. Like, don’t ever forget that I’m the gal with the smile. Even when it’s bad, like now, I still smile. Small, maybe. But because of everything that Ive been through in my crazy beautiful, crazy painful and just crazy life, I can say that I truly mean it. But, I mean, that was then. I'll be ok. You'll see me right again. You will.
This journal thing is kinda cathartic.
Journal - Entry Six - 18th @ 12pm
Dear Doctor Deyncourt,
I have to go to the cemetery today to pay for the replacement of my mom’s gravestone and a reburial (of what?). Also, they asked me if I was the one that was going to plan (and pay) for my father’s funeral.
Good God. Give me strength.
Journal - Entry Seven - 18th @ 5pm
I just got back from the cemetery. You won’t believe what happened. The graves were paid for already! My father’s funeral was paid for already! When I asked who had gone and done that, they said that the person had paid in cash that morning and that they were a “family friend”. What?!
Come on. It’s gotta be Emcee. Right? Except…the description that they gave me didn’t fit Emcee or any of his associates that I know.
The funeral is this weekend.
All I ever wanted in all of this was to know the truth. And there are still so many questions.
Doctor Deyncourt, I’m feeling compelled to do something really, really stupid.
