- A couple months after Daddy left, we smoked up the rent money and, as a result, got put out. My attitude was pretty much like, "Fuck it."

We got lucky and had to sleep in our ramshackle car for only two days before we found someone willing to rent to us. It was a dump, since, as our bad credit had caught up with us, our choices got worse. I didn't care. I was no longer picky. My motto was, "Anything is better than the car."

Ken had no idea about the insanity that was happening in my personal life. All he knew was that the competence of my work performance was decreasing while my absenteeism was increasing. I was again counseled about my attendance. I again promised to do better.

Shortly after we moved into the new apartment, I left Tommy. Not because of the violence, but because he was in my way. What'd I need him for? Not for protection. I mean, hell, he sent me out alone in the wee hours of the morning to re-up. And definitely not for his money. The paychecks he brought in were next to nothing, since he was also missing tons of work and had no sick leave. No, I left him because he was smoking too much dope. I figured I could get higher by myself. The requirements for my minimum daily consumption of drugs and alcohol had increased drastically. Tommy's using was dipping into that minimum, so, like anything else that interfered with my using, he had to go.

Tommy wasn't letting go easily. Although he didn't hit me, he tried to scare and intimidate me into staying, even threatening to track me down and kill me. I ignored his threats. My mind was made up.

Once he realized that his physical violence and threats were futile, he tried a new tactic-he gave me an ultimatum.

"If you leave here, you leave with the clothes on your back."

His announcement shocked me. I turned to look at him to see if he was serious. He stared at me with piercing eyes and an evil sneer. "You take nothing, you hear me? Absolutely nothing goes with you. Nothing-including the car."

I paused to look around the small, shabby apartment. It actually looked kind of nice because, once again, we'd "come up" a little. We'd managed to get another department-store credit card and had used it to charge new furniture. But I knew that, although the place looked nice at the moment, it wouldn't be like that for long. Then my mind turned to the car. It was shabby, but it did run. I pondered my predicament for a moment.

"Fuck it," I snapped as I turned to walk out the door. "Keep the shit."

- I walked the few miles to Mona and James's and told them I'd left Tommy for good. I asked if I could move in with them just till I could get on my feet. At first they didn't believe I'd really left Tommy. Though I'd gone to their house before saying I'd left him, I always returned to him when he got paid. However, I'd never before said it was "for good." Those words, together with the determined look on my face must have convinced them that I was serious. They were hesitant for obvious reasons, but they were both well aware of my violent marriage and recognized my desperate need for a place to stay.

They excused themselves and went into their bedroom to discuss it. I couldn't understand what they were saying; all I could hear was a bunch of whispering.

After a few moments, they re-emerged. Mona said I could rent their spare room on three conditions. First, I had to agree to let them control my drinking.

"What do you mean?" I asked, truly ignorant to what they had in mind.

Mona explained that anyone who'd ever partied with me knew that I drank too much. And when I did, I got out of control. So as long as I lived with them, they would pour my drinks and they would determine when I'd had enough.

Yeah, right. I chuckled to myself. I had no problem with that condition because there was a simple solution: I'd just hide booze in my room.

"No problem," I readily agreed.

Their second condition: no crack in the house. I could do any other drug, but no crack.

"You've got to be kidding!" I yelped, jumping to my feet. My mind start racing with arguments. Shit, that's why I left Tommy-so I could smoke crack whenever, however, and as much as I wanted without interference, intrusion, or interruption!

I tried to convince them that they should revise that condition. I suggested cutting out all the other drugs, and changing the "no crack" rule to "a few hits a week." But they stood firm.

This second condition was too much. Believing it wouldn't work, I was getting ready to walk out and say "fuck it." Just as I got ready to tell them to forget it, my mind came up with a solution for that one too.

Calm down, girl. Just like you'll hide the booze in your room, hide the dope in there too!

I instantly calmed down and agreed.

Their third condition was the easiest. I had to keep a job and be working at all times.

I moved in. Because I'd left Tommy, taking nothing but the clothes on my back, Mona took me to a thrift shop and bought me some things to wear. Personally, I didn't care. People at my job were long used to me wearing the same things over and over, sometimes for several days in a row. The staff had given up complaining.

The hardest part about leaving Tommy was not having a car. Since he'd kept ours, I was forced to learn how to get around on the bus and to hitchhike. I quickly learned to prefer the latter because it was free and often provided a little money on the side.

"No one hitchhikes anymore!" Mona yelled in shock. She was on her way to the store when she passed me standing in the street with my thumb out. So, to prevent me from hitchhiking anymore (and possibly getting killed), she would often let me borrow her car, though I still had to take the bus to work. Which wasn't really a bad thing since a "late bus" became a regular excuse for my tardiness.

Things at Mona's went well for a while. I'd drink with them and when they cut me off, I'd retire to my room and continue drinking there. Because I was alone in my room, there was no one to fight or cuss out; so I never got violent. I just drank till I passed out.

As for crack, that went well too-at first. Whenever I was home, if we weren't drinking, I spent most of my time in my room. So they thought nothing of it when I'd be in there for hours. And since they rarely came into my room, getting high in there was easy. I'd just put a towel under the door to prevent the smoke and smell from getting out. And voil`a! I could smoke to my heart's content!

I still saw Tommy every now and then. He'd gotten evicted from the apartment because he'd smoked up the rent money. He stored everything in a friend's garage and, like me, was renting a room from friends. He still believed we could save our marriage and was always asking to see me. I always refused, unless he had some dope. So whenever he got some money, we'd meet up, get a cheap hotel room and get high. But as our high intensified, we'd start arguing, cussing, and fighting. By the time the money was gone, we'd be stomping off in opposite directions; but we never physically fought again.

Things at work were getting worse. Though I liked my job and really loved working for Ken, he was starting to discover the mistakes I'd hidden. And he was beginning to complain more and more about my behavior, work quality, and attendance. But he was the least of my worries.

It was taking record amounts of speed to be able to gather the energy I needed to make it through the day. It was taking more and more to get me high and the compulsion to use was increasing. The problem was, my money supply stayed the same. Needless to say, it wasn't enough.

I was miserable. I couldn't get high and I couldn't quit, though I was desperate as ever to find a way to do so. One day while on an intense crash a solution came to mind: I could commit suicide.

Suicide? I asked myself. I'd never really thought about it before.

Could I really do it?

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to be the only rational answer. I couldn't stop using. I constantly felt that I was in an endless hell: If I wasn't high, I was depressed because I wasn't high. If I was high, I was depressed because I was high. Living had finally become a complete hell, maybe dying would be better. But how? I considered my options. I couldn't shoot myself because I wanted an open casket (hey, just because I was a dope fiend didn't mean I didn't have vanity). I thought about OD'ing, but quickly decided against it once I realized it would result in a wasted high (and I never wasted dope). I thought about cutting my wrists, but that seemed like such a wimpy way to go. (Though I hadn't banged in years, I still considered myself a Gangsta. And Gangstas weren't wimps.) No guns, dope, or knives. What was left?

I'd need to find another way-a way that would make people feel sorry for me.

A few days later, as I made my way to a dope spot, I was still trying to figure out how to kill myself. As I'd come to that morning, I'd sworn off dope and alcohol, but as usual, as soon as I got off work, I was compelled to go by the dope man. I caught the bus to my favorite spot-one worked by a dealer I'd known for a while. I think that since I'd copped from him for some time and was one of his regulars, he sort of trusted me, because he left a few fifty-dollar rocks on the coffee table as he went to the back to get me the ten-dollar rock I'd come for. I looked at the rocks on the table and then looked down the hall in the direction he'd disappeared.

Should I take one? I asked myself.

Naw, take two! the dope seemed to be shouting to me.

I was well aware that I could get killed for stealing from a dope man, and in fact remembered the hit that had been put out on me years before for doing just that. But the dope was calling me, and I surely didn't have enough money to get a fifty-dollar rock. I looked down the hall again. Empty. I quickly reached over to the table and grabbed two rocks.

Where should I hide them? I asked myself in a panic. In my drawers or in my shoe? I couldn't decide. Figuring there were too many holes for the rocks to fall through if I put them in my drawers, I decided on the shoes. I bent over and quickly dropped them in. When the dope man returned, he handed me my rock. As he did so, he glanced over at the coffee table. I stood there, shifting from foot to foot, hoping he wouldn't notice the missing rocks. I turned toward the door, as if to leave.

BAM! He backhanded me. The blow knocked me into the wall five feet away.

"Where's my dope, bitch?" he yelled as he came after me. Ignoring the stinging in my face, I tried to run, but wasn't fast enough. He grabbed me by my head and slammed my face into the wall. I turned my head ever so slightly, so the impact missed my nose, but caught the entire left side of my face. I dropped to my knees from the pain. I was sure my cheekbone was broken.

Grabbing my hair and jerking my face up to his, he repeated his question through clenched teeth. "Where's my dope, bitch?" I wasn't sure if his eyes were bloodshot from rage or getting high.

"I . . . I . . . I don't know what you're talking about!" I sobbed. My face hurt like hell.

I hope these damned tennis shoes stay on!

"Oh, you a smart-ass?!" He reached into the back of his pants and pulled out a .45 Magnum and placed it against my right temple.

"If you don't give me my dope, I'm going to blow yo' crack-ass up!" he hissed.

My mind was racing as to how to get out of this situation. Either way, I was dead. If I gave him the dope, that would be admitting stealing, and he'd kill me. If I continued to deny it, he'd beat me till he found it, and then he'd kill me. Then an idea hit me.

Maybe this is the way I should go! Instead of suicide, I could let him kill me. Then people would feel sorry for ME! I could go with dignity! In that split second, I thought about it and decided that letting him kill me would be the best way to go.

Fuck an open casket, I told myself. In fact, keeping it closed will bring even MORE sympathy!

"Go ahead," I said softly, as I pressed my head against the gun. The cold steel felt odd against my skin. "Kill me. You'd be doing me a favor."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what I'd said.

"What the fuck did you say?" he snapped, tightening his grip on the gun.

I repeated my request. I told him that I was so fucked up, I'd been contemplating suicide but couldn't figure out the best way to do it. So his killing me would be better than my doing it myself-and I'd die with sympathy.

For a few moments he said nothing. He looked at me in astonishment.

"Crazy bitch!" he screamed.

Then everything went black.

- When I came to, it was still dark. I was lying behind a Dumpster. My whole body ached. There was an extremely intense pain coming from between my legs. That particular pain felt familiar, but I couldn't remember why. Then it came to me. Pete! I hadn't felt that kind of pain since being raped by Pete.

Have I been raped? I asked myself. I reached down and felt where my underwear should have been. They were ripped apart, but the elastic waistband was still intact.

I must have been raped. But by who? I had no idea. I couldn't remember where I'd been the night before, let alone with whom.

This must be some hangover, I told myself as I struggled to regain my memory. You've had some bad ones before, but never like this! Not only was my body aching, the pain between my legs was brutally throbbing and my head felt like it would explode.

What the fuck happened to my head? I asked myself as I reached up to rub my right temple, where it seemed to hurt the most. I didn't feel any blood, but it was tender to the touch. Still, my mind drew a blank.

Unable to answer my own questions, I decided to try to stand up. Unfortunately, my legs weren't quite ready to get up. They instantly buckled, forcing me to the ground with a thud. I decided to take a moment to get my thoughts together. I sat up, leaning my back against the Dumpster for support.

Where the fuck am I? I looked around in bewilderment. It took a moment, but then I recognized the street. I was in an area of San Diego called the Coast.

But how did I get here? Shit, I hated it when I couldn't remember the events of the night before. Though it happened all the time, I still hated it. I concentrated with all my might.

The coolness of the metal Dumpster felt good against my back. Then, like a flood, it all came back to me: copping the dope, stealing the dope, the gun to my head and . . . blackness.

He must have knocked me out.

"But I'm supposed to be dead!" I yelled out loud to no one in particular. The intense pain coming from every part of my body told me I was definitely alive. It also told me that screaming was a bad, and painful, idea.

Fuck! I yelled at myself. You can't even get KILLED right!

Disgusted with my failure at bringing about my death, I tried to stand again, this time using the rail of the Dumpster for support. My legs cooperated and I got to my feet. Pain shot through every inch of my body. I stood for a moment and made sure my legs wouldn't give way. Once I was sure they'd hold up, I began walking in the direction I thought was home. I'd taken only a few steps when I felt something inside my shoe. I reached down and, lo and behold, the two rocks were still there! All of a sudden, I felt better.

I felt so much better that I walked all the way home.

"Cup, you been out all night?" Mona asked in amazement when I walked through the door.

Ignoring her, I went straight to my room. Just before I closed the door she said, "Don't go to sleep. You know you'll oversleep and you'll be late for work."

Work!

Like a bullet, I shot out of the room. "What day is it?" I frantically asked.

"It's Friday. Girl, you partied so hard, you done forgot what day it is?" She shook her head-though I wasn't sure if she did so in amazement or disgust.

I knew I couldn't go to work in the condition I was in. Besides, I had two rocks in my shoe! There was no way in hell I was going to work when there was dope left to be smoked! But I was on probation, so I needed a good excuse. I thought about it for a moment and then called Ken. I told him that I'd been vomiting and bleeding through the night and that I was going to the hospital for testing.

He seemed shocked at the symptoms and said he understood my need to go to the hospital right away. "Well, take care of yourself, Cup," he said before hanging up.

I went into my room and got high. Then, to be able to forget the shame from the night before and go to sleep, I got drunk.

- I needed a disease. I'd told Ken I was going to the hospital with horrible symptoms. You can't have symptoms like that without having some kind of disease.

But which disease should I give myself?

I didn't know much about diseases. I knew about Alzheimer's. My grandmother had had that. I couldn't fake that. Besides, I was too young. I'd heard about strokes and heart attacks. But I knew I was too young to be able to fake those. Then I was watching television, and someone mentioned colon cancer.

That's what I'll have! I told myself as I jumped to my feet with excitement. Colon cancer! That's gotta be good for . . . what . . . three, four days off? It was an excellent plan.

As I prepared to go to work that following Monday, I realized that there was one problem with my plan. I had no idea where the colon was. I mean, I'd surely have to bind it or rub it when I went into Ken's office to give him a report on my condition. Sitting on the bus on the way to work, I realized this was a difficult obstacle.

Where IS the colon? I seriously had no clue.

Who would know? I looked around the bus to see who I could question. Everyone looked as if they didn't want to be bothered.

Fuck 'em, I told myself. You don't need them. You're smart enough to figure this out on your own. And I was.

Luckily, when I got in, Ken wasn't in the office yet and Dorothy had called in sick. I sat at my desk and continued contemplating. While thinking, I just happened to look at my typewriter. There was a key for the colon and the semicolon. I stared at the tiny image of the colon. Its shape was vertical-straight up and down. So I figured the colon in the body also had to be somewhere where it could sit vertically.

But where can anything sit vertically? I asked myself. I put my chin in my hand and began to think. Then it hit me.

The throat! I excitedly answered myself. Of course! The colon HAS to be in the throat. It's the only place that can hold a vertical organ!

I was so proud of myself for having figured it out all on my own. I immediately reached into my bag and grabbed the scarf I'd brought along to wrap around the colon area once I'd figured out where it was. I quickly wrapped the scarf around my neck and got into character: I began coughing, put a sad, sick look on my face, and began rubbing the scarf.

That's what Ken saw when he came in about an hour later.

"How are you feeling, Cup?" he asked appearing genuinely concerned. I didn't respond, but motioned toward his office, signaling that I wanted to talk in private.

We went into his office where I explained that the diagnosis wasn't for sure yet, but they thought I had colon cancer. I rubbed my neck and coughed as I said "colon cancer." Ken asked a few more questions like, "What are they going to do?"; "When will they know for sure?" I told him I didn't know, but would let him know when I did.

"Well, take care of yourself," he said. "I need you around here."

That was the end of it. He never asked me about the scarf around my neck or the cough. He never questioned why, if I had colon cancer, I was rubbing my neck.

Dorothy let me know that she had her doubts, but she knew better than to voice them to anyone other than me. To harass an employee with cancer would be going too far, and she knew it. So she kept her mouth shut.

Of course, I played the cancer out as long as I could; it afforded me at least a week and a half off with pay. Afterward, I told Ken the "spots" were "noncancerous." He smiled, mumbled something about that being a "good result," and waved me out of his office. He never mentioned it again. And neither did I.