Humpty Dumpty
CHAPTER FOURTEEN from CAUGHT UP Truth and Metaphor | An Imaginary Tale
Humpty Dumpty
14
The last thing Petra remembered before falling asleep was the single question that plagued her.
“Who am I?”
Humpty Dumpty, sick and starving, his shell a ghastly shade of wrinkled gray, fell off the wall, shattering into a gazillion pieces. The king’s men approached.
“What is that stink?”
“Disgusting! I’m not going near it.”
“It smells like a dead rat soaking in a vat of sulphur.”
Shuddering, hands covering their noses, they fled the scene in horror.
One of the shattered pieces whimpered.
“Don’t leave me like this. Help me.”
The elemental forces of nature responded to his invitation. A flurry of fire, followed by wind and water, cleansed the inside of Humpty Dumpty’s shell. In its place, a radiant white light, barely perceptible at first, grew into a whirling vortex. It pulled the broken pieces of shell up off the ground and back into its original egg-shaped formation.
Humpty Dumpty, regaining consciousness, found himself seated, once again, atop the wall. His shattered pieces remained unsealed, the cracks visible with white light shining out through them. He had become a living example of the Japanese art form, kintsugi. In contrast, the individual pieces of shell, devoid of light, remained a sickly wrinkled gray. They seemed to house within them an impenetrable fortress of suffering and pain and exuded a morose, stagnant demeanor resistant to change or any form of self-awareness. Only the one solitary piece of shell that had surrendered and called out for help glowed opaque, emitting an energetic stream of luminous hope.
Etched onto its surface were the words, “Not my life, Your life.”
God had commandeered a single piece of her heart. Her insane upbringing and her pernicious thought patterns controlled the remaining pieces. It was up to her to face and surrender each part, one by one. A long, grueling process, a hero’s journey, full of failures and sorrow, victories and moments of ecstasy. Her spiritual journey, set to play out in a recognizable bipolar pattern, would lead, at the appointed time, to one more devastating, drawn-out, six-year dance with the Devil.
She woke to an unsolicited comment from an angry internal adolescent. There is no other way to describe it. Petra had never heard the voice before.
“What the fuck! Are we stupid? That is some Special Ed dream vision bullshit! I get it.—I GET IT! We’re fucked. Humpty Dumpty, you can kiss my ass!”
“Who are you?”
No answer.
Conscious of her complicity in other people’s addictions, she gave notice at the country club. The following morning, she drove halfway up Haleakala, a massive volcano that forms three-quarters of the island, to a rehab facility. With employment in mind, she informed the Director of Aloha House that she was two years clean. A lie, but unintentional. It had been two years since she had done any hard drugs. That was her definition of clean. However, she had only recently put down the weed and alcohol following her “born again” experience.
The facility had received a grant to organize a Drug Prevention Awareness Day. The woman in charge of the event, in desperate need of a full-time assistant, pulled the Director to the side.
“She’ll do.”
While the position offered a respectable hourly rate, it had an eight-month life span, making it difficult to fill.
“Can you start tomorrow?”
Her new boss, Diane, was easygoing, full of energy, and committed to helping the local population. Petra enjoyed spending time on the rehab grounds and appreciated being around real recovery. It differed from the isolation she experienced as the only addict at The Ranch. Everyone at Aloha House was an alcoholic or an addict in varying stages of recovery. The camaraderie was lighthearted and joyful. In a way, it felt like her early drug years when she could still sustain a friendship.
One of the most difficult positions to fill in any rehab environment is the overnight CD Tech position. Notorious for its low wages, it’s often described as a glorified babysitting job.
Here was another position they couldn’t fill.
“Do I have any more applicants for CD Tech?”
The Director seemed flustered and on edge.
“Not a one,” replied his secretary.
Petra asked, “Am I qualified?”
“Not really, but…”
Now, she had a second job. She clocked in for dinner, a 12-step meeting and the remaining night duties.
And the kicker?
Since she was already working a day job on the property, the big boss set aside a bunk where she could sleep and be on call. Yes, the pay was a smidge over minimum wage, but it included a hot meal, mandatory AA, NA and CODA meetings and, even more outrageous, she was earning while sleeping.
Petra attributed all of her good fortune to her burgeoning relationship with a Higher Power. It did not click anywhere in her mind that she was being paid to go to rehab. She built up her savings and moved into a studio apartment a little further up the mountain, in Kula. On Sunday mornings, the Director allowed her to pick up clients and take them to church.
She straddled two distinct lives in two different worlds. One life centered on drug rehabilitation and 12-step programs and the other focused on God, the Bible, and the church. In her mind, the former was secular and the latter spiritual. She was at home and her most authentic self around other addicts and recovery, but felt compelled by an invisible force, some sort of internal driver, toward the undiscovered spiritual path. To her, these were two unique trajectories, much like the doctrine that separated church and state.
In the meetings, she hung out at the smoker’s table. It was her last vestige of addiction, and her comrades in AA assured her it was just fine to continue. Her new Christian family felt that smoking was harmful to the body, which they considered a temple. In their opinion, she needed to stop. The sooner the better. The studio she rented was on a non-smoking property and the landlord prohibited smoking inside and out. She took this as a sign and leaned further toward the church.
Two very opposite men were vying for her attention. The first was Mark, a member of Alcoholics Anonymous with five years of sobriety. He was a beautiful person, a nice stable guy. Not her type at all, but under consideration. The second was Nick, a client at Aloha House and an avid believer, down on his luck. He was edgy with a Marlboro Man vibe and had spent the last six months surfing the pipeline on O'ahu's North Shore.
“I appreciate you driving me to church. If I can just get back on track with Christ, everything else will level out,” said Nick in a sexy North Carolina accent.
“Who will I choose?”
Turning that question over in her mind was a serious, all consuming distraction.
The Drug Awareness Prevention Day went off without a hitch, garnering a larger-than-expected crowd. There was a new drug flooding the streets called “Ice,” a freebase version of crystal meth. Manufactured in the Philippines, the powers that be chose the Hawaiian Islands as their test market. Ice brought with it a tsunami of pain and sorrow. As if the local population needed any more hardship.
Petra observed one young woman muttering to herself. She sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking for hours on end, picking out single threads from a piece of cloth. Scabs covered her face and arms, picked apart just like the cloth she was holding. Decayed, blackened teeth rotted in her mouth. She remembered when she and Vincent had looked into each other’s eyes at Lance’s loft and said, in unison, “No Base!” It filled her with an overwhelming appreciation for God’s protection in her life and a profound sadness for the plight of this girl.
Val, an Aloha House board member, ran a peer counseling and mediation program at Maui High School. She wanted to launch the fall semester with a bang.
“Would you talk to my students about the Ice epidemic? And, if it’s not too much to ask, maybe you could share your personal experience with addiction?”
“Of course!”
The class was an elective. She stood in front of fifteen students seated around a conference table in Val’s office. In her excitement, she failed to remember her debilitating fear of public speaking. Forgotten were the two college courses she dropped to avoid a class presentation. There she stood, in front of a group of high school juniors and seniors and Val; let’s not forget her, sweating bullets and shaking. Her distress was off the charts, the arrow straining at the breaking point. Even her throat was quivering. She wanted to run. Instead, she locked her hands behind her back. She flashed on the memory of her first PTSD episode back in Mrs Davis’ classroom.
“It’s okay, focus. You’re a grown woman. Pull yourself together.”
Following Val’s introduction, she opened her mouth and after just a few shaky words, a sense of calm descended on her. She spoke about drugs and family dysfunction, about life and the situations we humans get ourselves into, social and spiritual paths, and so many topics. It poured out of her as if she had been public speaking for decades. There were tears and all-out laughter. The students saw themselves and each other in her story. In short, it was magical.
Afterward, they hugged her one by one, and Val shook her hand. With Petra’s hand still in hers, Val looked her straight in the eye.
“Do you want to be my teacher’s assistant?”
So unexpected. She had no idea she was auditioning for a job.
“That sounds amazing. YES!”
Petra turned in her notice to Aloha House and helped Diane shut down the Drug Awareness Prevention program.
She continued giving rides to residents who wanted to go to church every Sunday and stopped going to meetings. Mark, never one to push, did not pursue her. Nick, however, locked her in his sight and did not let go.
He found them a new Pentecostal church, a mega-church where all the traveling evangelists performed. Over the Christmas holiday, he took her to the coast of North Carolina to meet his family. Petra adored his mother and fell for her, the same way she had fallen for Ezra’s mom. Gail was a devout believer and would talk to her for hours on end about the love of Christ. She was a prayerful woman, a “Prayer Warrior” is what she called it. With a family like his, Nick was bound to succeed. He proposed, and they set a date to get married.
This is how things stood when Vincent stopped by for a visit. She had seen him once before, while still at The Ranch. They spent a single night together in a motel room. It was strange that The Ranch allowed her off campus, but Petra was persuasive. She may have outright lied and said he was family. He was heading to Martha’s Vineyard for another cure. She was a couple of months into her sobriety, feeling frumpy, toting around at least forty extra pounds of gushy fat and not understanding who she was. There was a desperate sexual encounter and a sincere longing for what had been.
Sad, sad, sadness.
On the telephone, Vincent assured her he was clean. He had secured a teaching position and planned to spend his summer vacation relaxing on the beach in Bali.
“I arranged a layover in Maui.”
There was no question whether or not he was welcome. He gave her his itinerary, and she agreed to pick him up.
“Are you out of your mind? Why are you allowing this man into your house? We’re getting married, for Christ’s sake!”
“You’re going to have to trust me. I have to close this door before I can open a new one with you.”
Vincent didn’t stand a chance, and it was an awkward couple of days. He could not wrap his head around her “born-again” persona. The most disturbing aspect of the transformation was the part where she denied him access to her body.
In his imagination, he was there to propose marriage and whisk her away. He had purchased an extra plane ticket and expected everything to go as planned.
“Yes, darling! I’ve been waiting for you. What took you so long?”
Instead, he received a contrary memo.
“Sorry, I’m engaged.”
Timing is everything. Had she hooked up with Ezra, chances are the sun would have set on that relationship. More than likely, she would still be waiting tables and back on the weed. Under those circumstances, she would have run off to Bali with Vincent without hesitation. Disheartening as it was to admit, he had become her death card. She understood this deep in her gut. Her love for him remained otherworldly, but she could see the future. He would have intellectualized her away from God, the Bible, and the church and taken her back to New York. She would have insisted he score some dope before the end of the day. It was an inevitable certainty.
Heartbroken over Vincent and the futility of their love story, Petra moved on.
The marriage was a heavenly whirlwind, with one provision after the next falling into place. The property her studio was on had a sweet romantic cottage that became available. Nick installed drywall, was proficient at his craft, and made excellent money. Demand for his skill set grew exponentially. Maui High School hired her as a full-time employee with benefits. They had everything they needed to succeed, including a genuine appreciation for each other.
She asked her new husband, “Do you, maybe, want to hit a meeting at Aloha House?”
“AA is a spiritual kindergarten. You don’t need it. It’s a waste of time.”
They attended church services twice on Sundays and also on Wednesday nights. Their life continued to get better and fuller as they became an integral part of Maui’s largest congregation of believers. Because of its location and the wealth of its congregation, the church attracted the most sought-after evangelical speakers from all over the world. In addition, the expression of native Hawaiian culture brought a unique and powerful component to every service. She would weep every time the locals beat drums and danced hula for God. How blessed could two people be?
Her experience at the high school was exhilarating and rewarding. The students enjoyed the process and learned how to help each other. The peer counselors uncovered family abuses. On-campus violence dropped because of documented mediations, performed student to student with Val, or Petra facilitating. She taught two electives in the morning with the rest of the day devoted to conflict resolution, peer counseling sessions and paperwork. She picked up new life skills that she never knew existed at lightning speed by teaching and facilitating.
Val, hiding a cancer diagnosis, gave Petra more and more responsibility. She was unaware that her mentor was sick. She assumed she was off writing grants or drumming up support in the community. Petra also did not know that Diane, privy to inside information, had recommended her as a viable assistant and a potential replacement. The following year, Val handed the entire program over to her. Well before that exchange, her marriage went off the rails. Totally haywire. A catastrophe.
Nick began coming home later and later.
“It’s nothing. Stop your worrying. I’m just playing poker with the boys.”
No, he was all out gambling, which led to all-out drinking. Soon he didn’t bother to come home. He stopped working, disappeared on three-day cocaine binges and became notorious around the island for his gambling and drinking escapades.
“Where’s Jesus in all this?”she asked.
He replied with his fist first, tore her shirt when she tried to escape and almost choked the life out of her. She ran topless to the landlord’s house, who telephoned the police. Straight away, she kicked his ass out. She had learned a thing or two about healthy and unhealthy relationships teaching those kids.
“Oh, hell no! I am not leading a double life for this motherfucker.”
A year of on-again, when he was sober, and off-again, when he was not, ended in a restraining order and divorce.
Halfway through her second year at Maui High School, the principal called her into the office.
“I’m sorry to tell you the grant is not being renewed for next year. I have enjoyed working with you and wish you all the best.”
Dismayed is not a strong enough word to describe her sense of loss. Had the Principal even hinted that she would consider her for a regular teaching position, she would have pursued the required teaching credential. She did not. On the upside, she had learned invaluable skills that would help her navigate the uncharted experiences approaching on the horizon.
The only thing she knew to do was pray.
“What do you want me to do?”
Over time, she had become familiar with the unmistakable, loud voice of God. It was the quiet, intuitive, gut-based voice that often confused her, a voice she could override with her pre-existing thought patterns and beliefs.
In the middle of a church service, a booming voice resonated through Petra’s mind. It was so loud, she looked around, expecting a reaction from the rest of the congregation. No one seemed to notice.
“Go home to your mother.”
Her knee jerk response?
“No fucking way!”
If you would like to support my work, I invite you to make a donation. “Buy Me a Coffee” is a friendly metaphor, not real coffee. Each “coffee” is $5 and you can buy as many as you like. It is a one time much appreciated gift. Thank you for caring!
A harrowing tale, shot through with unlikely humor and fantastical creatures.
This autofiction (autobiography and fiction) novel revolves around a lifetime spent underwater struggling to find the surface. The narrative follows the journey of an unlikely heroine from the bondage of childhood trauma to self-awareness and freedom.
It is a roller coaster ride from the depths of hell to triumphant success that finishes with a big Hollywood ending.
