True Confessions. Electa Rome Parks

on the tip of my tongue.

      Through it all, or at least the parts I can partially recall, I wondered what he, Drake, would think of my failed attempt at taking my own life. He was constantly reminding me how I never completed anything, outside of work. I’d start a project and never see it through to completion, or I’d have so many different things going on at one time that I could never give 100 percent to any one task. Oh well, I guess this is the perfect example of not completing a project. I am alive and breathing, even if I am not well.

      Chapter 3

      Day two after my suicide attempt was spent in the hospital. I was a bit more coherent, even though I didn’t want to speak with or see anyone. If I had had the power to disappear, I would have. All I desired was to burrow under my drab hospital sheets and sob. However, I couldn’t cry because that would upset Mother too much and she’d start crying. It pained me to see her upset. Over the last few years, Mother has shed enough tears for the both of us. She took her divorce pretty hard, but that’s another story for a different time.

      The hospital sent their in-house psychiatrist to visit me. He was an older white man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. His eyes reminded me of the tropical waters of Jamaica; you could get lost in them. He was rather animated and talked with his hands. He dropped by and asked a ton of questions about what I was feeling, took a lot of notes on a yellow legal pad, and eventually gave me a business card with the name of a psychiatrist for me to see after I was released. Dr. Mitchell, (I think that was his name) suggested I start keeping a journal to help sort out my thoughts and deepest feelings. Before exiting my room, he gently squeezed my shoulder, gave me a sympathetic smile, and that was that.

      Mother was acting so strange, like this never happened. Like it was all an unintentional act. Like I accidentally swallowed a bottle full of prescription pills. I may be a coward, but Mother is afraid of handling things. If it is something she doesn’t want to address, she will act like it doesn’t exist. Case in point, my attempted suicide. If ignoring that brought her peace, so be it.

      No one knew what happened to me at my job as a senior relations service representative for a telecommunications company. You know what? Even if they had known, they probably wouldn’t have cared. I pretty much went to work, performed my job responsibilities, and went home. I had not accumulated many friends in the three years I’d been there. As far as they knew or were told, and this included my manager, I had been out sick for a few days. That was believable, because lately the flu had been going around and everybody was catching the bug.

      Drake.

      Drake. I never wanted to set my eyes on him for the rest of my life. If I never, ever saw him, that would be too soon. I don’t know what led me to believe that I’d make a difference in his life and he’d fall hopelessly and helplessly in love with me. What made me think that I’d possess him someday? Drake could never be possessed by a mere woman. I think he secretly hates the female population and only tolerates and uses us for his enjoyment and pleasure.

      Chapter 4

      Day three after my suicide attempt had me being released from the hospital, and going home to an empty apartment with an even emptier life. Still pretending everything was peachy keen, Mother had cleaned up my apartment, stocked my refrigerator with nutritious, healthy organic foods, thrown out every bottle of pills I had in my medicine cabinet, and even had a homecoming gift waiting for me: a leather-bound, tan, lined journal with hundreds of pages to fill with my confessions.

      Dr. Mitchell may be right. If I write my feelings down, maybe I can make sense of my life as it’s laid out in front of me in black and white. The only way to do that was to start from the beginning. What was that quote? The past holds the clues to your present.

      Like Mother, I could pretend too. I could pretend to feel better because there was no way that I was going to visit that shrink and get a crazy label attached to me. I’m not wacky; I simply had a momentary lack of judgment due to depression. However, I was determined to make a fresh start without Drake in my life and in my dreams.

      Chapter 5

      Dear Journal,

      I should start by telling you something about myself. Let’s see. There’s really not much to tell, not that’s interesting anyway. I’m pretty average in most ways and live a relatively tame lifestyle. I’m twenty-eight years old. Work as a senior relations service representative for a telecommunications company in Midtown. By the way, it’s a job I despise with a major passion, but I do my best nevertheless. It could be a cool job, but there is always so much drama going on with the women there. Trivial stuff at that. Why can’t women just get along?

      Oh, I’m adopted. Mother and Daddy adopted me when I was two months old. I was born to a crack-addicted biological mother who simply gave me up at birth. Signed over her maternal rights. Just like that. With the snap of two fingers. In the blink of an eye. She signed over her maternal rights, and I became a ward of the state of Georgia. She wasn’t even sure who my biological father was. That line on my birth certificate was left blank. Recently, more and more, I have thought about hiring a detective agency to locate my birth mother because I have many questions. I even researched a few agencies online in the metro Atlanta area but I haven’t made a decision, mainly because I don’t want to hurt Mother.

      I don’t get it. And believe me, I’ve tried. How can a mother, any mother, give birth to a child she has carried for nine months, felt her moving around inside her, bonded with, and then, then…just give her up like she’s dumping the trash? Me, I could never do that in a million years. It’s actually ironic, my life didn’t mean anything to my biological mother and I guess it didn’t mean anything to me either since I tried to take it.

      Luckily for me, Mother and Daddy came into my life when I was two months old. Mother said she took one look at me lying all alone in the hospital crib, underweight because I was born premature, and knew she had to have me to love, shield, and nurture. Mother said she’d never forget how small, fragile, and vulnerable I appeared. Like I was calling out for her to love and protect me. And she did and hasn’t stopped loving me in all my twenty-eight years.

      What else? I guess you could say I’m a loner. As I stated before, I don’t have many friends, male or female. That’s fine with me. I’ve halfway attempted to be friends with women at work, but in the end, there are too many jealousies, insecurities, and backstabbings going on. Mother said I shouldn’t stress or worry about it. She claims these women are jealous of my good looks. I don’t know, I think I have average looks. I’m about five feet seven, very fair skinned, long, naturally wavy brownish-red hair, hazel eyes, and a slim frame. Mother is always saying I could be a model with my long legs, slim waist, and exotic looks.

      Anyhow, whatever the reason, I choose to go to work, do my job, and leave. My coworkers wrongly assume I’m a snob since I won’t get involved in their gossip, after-work activities, and petty ways. Until a year ago, most weekends found me at home curled up with a good book.

      Occasionally, Taylor, a college friend, would convince me to hit a local nightspot with her. I’d tag along to please her, even though the club scene wasn’t really me. Clubbing wasn’t my thing. Typically, I’d sit in the corner for most of the night, nurse one drink, and turn down dances left and right. Taylor, on the other hand, lived on the dance floor and loved the attention men showered on her.

      I’ve never been good with men, either. I’ve never had problems attracting men, only with attracting the right ones. I honestly think I have an invisible sign posted on my forehead that says: USE AND ABUSE ME. PLEASE. The wrong ones flock to me like bees to honey.

      After I met Drake, I thought all that had changed, that it was all in my past. I felt like I had won the lottery and I had the chance for love, marriage, and a family. How wrong I was. Love is so blind. It feels right, even when it’s wrong.

      Looking back, Drake knew exactly how to make me feel good; sexually, that is.

      “Ohhh yeah, baby. That’s right. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.” Drake was in heaven.

      “Okay,