“To Whom It May Concern”: The Lament of Scarlett McQueen

Overture

It was a long time ago- stickers from the dentist were an event, Santa existed, and my Mom was my best friend. I was 5. My family used to take annual summer vacations to Disney World, though now it all seems like a kaleidoscope of sequins, castles, and popsicles-different dazzling rays of magic formulating a distinct memory. Walking through the neatly landscaped gates with its grand architecture brought me to a joyous place every time. Here, everything could be possible in my little world of innocence.

My favorite ride was “Snow White’s Adventure” in The Magic Kingdom, my small frame dripping with sweat, for hours waiting to get on the ride. Strangely though, I cannot recall gaining any kind of amusement on my theme park attraction of choice. I obnoxiously cried while beating down on my father’s test every time. I felt an overwhelming sense of anxiousness, as if every organ in my body were sitting in my throat, impatiently waiting to explode. Why I would obsessively wait, sit, and get back on for such a journey of emotional nausea I cannot fathom. Yet, I guess somehow, it would be a preview of my real life as opposed to the tourist-friendly, breakfast buffet, fantastical enamel I had in front of me.

The White Room

My flaming eyes opened to a muddled, hazy room, slowly sharpening with each blink. I gawked at my bruised hands and clutched onto my sopping wet scarlet hair in utter bewilderment. A sandpaper gown dressed my shaking 16-year-old body, bound to a bed by straps and a nurse’s hand. Family and friends surrounded me, waiting for anything- a movement, a word, a sign of life. Three hours later, I was discharged from a hospital, left with nothing but questions and way too many answers. The car ride home was plagued by violent shrieks of silence as my parents doubted my sanity. I was betrayed. I was ashamed. I was vacant. And now, I was alone. Only I could answer the question of where had I been and where was I now?

No one ever thinks anything will happen to them-wither it be an STD or the lottery, we never want to admit the possibility of impossibility. As my father guarded me from the Evil Queen on “Snow White’s Adventure,” or my mother taught me how to ride a bike, they would have never thought this could happen to them. Finding your daughter unconscious on a basement floor is not exactly the highlight of any parent’s career. “Where had they gone wrong?” they must have thought. I guess I asked myself the same question at that point as well. I had experienced near death- resuscitated and awaken hours later. Even if my new life had depended on it, conjuring up any memory of that night would, in fact, be an impossibility in itself.

I knew what everyone was thinking. I knew what everyone thought I was thinking. The truth was, I didn’t posses the mandatory cliché background of a bad childhood that led to my alcohol abuse. My parents were kind, supportive people, there for me every step of the way. I was a normal, confused teenager voyaging on this ailing road we call life and somehow losing my core along the way. What happens when we begin to confuse who we are with who we want to be? At that time in my life, I clearly was sure of either. However, I knew I needed help. An unidentifiable something began to poison my life, thieving the person I once was.

Entr'acte

I was born real, but never realistic. An adamant that believer that delusion rides shotgun on the road to our realities, I’ve spent a majority of my life feeding off my perception, rather than what actually is. Life is a result of one’s virtue’s and vices, each of them paving the way for either accomplishments or misfortunes. I found myself drowned by these vices- alone, unchanged, and yet completely faded. The days of grass stained knees, heavy metal, and summer nights ending in regret were still part of me, however, and it would not be long before I would retreat to the Original Sins of my downfall.

The Foundation to Foundations

Addict- defined as physiologically or psychologically dependent on a habit-forming substance. A pretty heavy label, yet at the same time, loosely used. My misuse of alcohol had crazed me so much so that it could have been fatal. Hostility, complete memory loss, and betrayal to those I cared for became a consistent occurrence. My friends were offended, concerned, or disturbed, and my parents disappointed and helpless. Thus, at only 18, I brought myself to my first AA meeting. Although I wasn’t exactly ecstatic, I knew it’d be more of a step forward than any of the backward ones I seemed to be taking. Without treatment, experts say, five out of every six active alcoholics will die at an early age. Since I had already been (slightly) saved from such a fate, Alcoholics Anonymous seemed like a suitable fit. And so, my thwarted father and I ventured in our red mini-van to the land of recovery or something like it.

The room smelt like molding sawdust and everyone looked like they wanted to eat me, slowly, piece by piece. I took a big gulp, inhaling my pride and exhaling the regrettable truth. With my father at my side as the only female, I awkwardly sat on a torn burgundy bench in sea of lost men. For an hour I would be graced with tales of the fallen- some sad, some preventable, some inexcusable. Every vocal chord I possessed want to shout something, anything, but I felt as if my story did not yet exist. I had come to discover what I was, not to tell a plagued posse of delinquents a sob story. After the meeting was over, I rested my throbbing head against the car window as my dad rattled on about “how much progress I was making” and “it’s the little steps that mattered.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I had failed AA, rather than AA failing me. Yet, I wasn’t sure why. I retreated to my room to think and find answers, when I realized- just because you were once more does not mean you now have to be less. The anger, confusion, and partial denial I felt was a step. After all, how can you feel complete if you’ve never felt empty?

After my first and last AA meeting, the decision was made to attend an outpatient rehab, High Focus, from the beginning of July until I left for college. During 4-hour sessions (attended 4 times a week) I would face an obstacle course of psychological madness. I felt completely suffocated under the watchful eyes of my counselors, Michelle and Tim, and would consistently debate my issue’s existence. High Focus taught me more about myself than I perhaps would still want to admit, with its method of treatment attempting to suck the poison out of my past. Still, it’s as if yesterday I compulsively dyed my hair red, fell in love twice a day, and pondered if I was going to survive this shit we so affectionately call life.

Finale

To your plastic I am bound,

Veins, vice, and veil-

The aethestic prothestic-

The rhythm of my sound.

Dress the fantasy,

Render the prophecy-

I’ll wear all the is all of me.

Reality’s factory, delusion’s hometown-

My corporal existence,

My ambition’s persistence,

My future’s penance.

The function,

the disguise-

the misery of my mind.

Fully and forever mine,

My mannequin.