by Suzy Spencer

If I had a gun, I think I'd stick it to my head. The embarrassment and the shame are too much. I see God shaking His head wondering, "Will she ever learn?"

I can't please Him. I can't please others. I certainly can't please myself. I make a fool of myself. Like an alcoholic under the influence, I phone and phone and phone. And listen to the answering machine, answering machine, answering machine. Listen to the number of beeps before I can talk to know how many others have phoned and left messages. Then I don't leave a message. Then I phone and phone. Then I leave a message. Then two. Then three. Then a whole string of messages until the machine fills up and there's no space for anyone else to call.

Sheesh, I'm tired.

Is this PMS?

Can I blame it on that? I did have a white chocolate chunk cookie today. And a McDonald's Quarter Pounder. Fries. Coke. Grilled cheese. Potato chips. An orange.

Nope. It can't be PMS. I wouldn't eat an orange if it were PMS. Besides, I don't have PMS. I had a hysterectomy. I used to call it my hysterical hysterectomy and wondered why a doctor, a man I'm sure, would name a surgery for a woman hysterectomy, like in hysterical woman. Maybe we wouldn't be so hysteriical if they'd pay a damn bit of attention to us and not say, "Oh, it's just emotional. You really need a psychiatrist."

I had a doctor tell me that once. Actually, I've had several doctors tell me that.

"Why not try a psychiatrist? He's who can really help you. Not me."

Or, "How about Prozac? You really need to go on Prozac."

"I god-damned well don't need to go on Prozac!" I scream. "This is not psychological!" I yell sounding more and more and more like a lunatic, even to myself.

I see God shaking His head again.

Even He doesn't have mercy on me.

Oh, am I sure this isn't PMS? It's such a nice excuse. But I COULD ravage the rest of the potato chips right now. Or, I could dream of the good-looking, bearded man at the Al-Anon meeting today. His long legs. His hard thighs. Actually, he probably has a receding chin. That's probably the reason for the beard. Or, being at Al-Anon, be probably has some deep daaark horrible secret that would destroy any chance of a relationship.

Damn, he's perfect. Why didn't I go for him?

Oh, when I held hands with him for just a moment today (during the Lord's Prayer) I wanted to hold on to him forever. Well, for another 20 minutes are so. It felt so good to have my hand entwined in a man's. It's been so long. I wanted to throw him down and kiss him deeply on the floor. That's what I really wanted to do. Before God and Al-Anon and all. Ravage him, like a bag of potato chips. Lay's potato chips, of course. Dripping, oozing grease.

Damn! COULD this be PMS?

I said to the doctor, "These lumps in my throat, are they psychological?"

He felt them again. "No, they are real."

But he still wouldn't give me any medicine. He gave me the name of a psychiatrist instead.

"There's something in my body that's not supposed to be there. I can just feel it," I told another doctor.

She gave me the name of another psychiatrist.

"This bleeding," I said, "it isn't real?"

"Yes, but..."

Finally, there was surgery. The bleeding was real. Little tumors she couldn't feel. The bleeding stopped ...for a few months.

"This bleedings," I said, "it isn't real?" I could barely walk for weakness.

"It's in your mind," he said.

"You wouldn't say that if it were blood leaking out of your penis and you had to walk around with a Baggie stuffed full of cotton around it for 18 days."

He didn't say anything. He turned his face to his desk and ignored me.

I fucking hate being ignored. Hence, the alcoholic dialing of the phone. I can't get enough of the phone. I can't get enough of it into my veins, being ignored, rejected, avoided, dismissed. I crave it.

"More!"I beg God. "More rejection." That He gives me.

The price is high. "More!" I scream. "More!" I demand. He shakes His head and reluctantly allows me to shoot up. Aaah, the pain, it feels normal. It feels good. I feel alive. I feel.

Why do I feel so bad?"I say. My body is shaking, not quivering, downright shaking so that it feels like it is moving an inch with every nonstop vibration. I am an earthquake in a stainless steel and white room.

"Am I dying?"

"No," the doctor says.

I don't believe him. "Is this normal?"

"Yes."

I don't believe him.

I see the white light at the end of the tunnel. I don't want to go. I argue with God. "No, I can't. I've got things to do. Responsibilities."

Damn. He listens to me. I'm here. I'm dialing thare. I'm dialing that phone as fast as I can. It's not fast enough. I start hitting speed dial. Faster. Faster. I can't embarrass myself fast enough. Let me leave another message. Begging for attention. Begging for a reply.

Think on the bearded man. His hand in yours. He wouldn't squeeze it at the end of the prayer. Everyone squeezes everyone's hand in Al-Anon. The fact that he didn't squeeze it, does that mean he's interested and didn't want to show me? Or, does that mean he was repulsed?

If he was replusled, let me phone him now. I need another fix. Hell, I don't have to shoot myself. I;ve already killed my self-esteem. Bang. Bang. Bang. There it goes as I slam the pbone down in frustration. In anger. In sadness. At myself.

"This is just PMS, I moan. "This is just PMS."

"Cancer," she said. "The tumors were cancer."

I stare at the phone. Someone finally returned my call. It's not the someone I wanted. I feel sad. I feel lonely. I feel tired. I feel like closing my eyes and sleeping for eternity.

I don't feel like killing myself.