being so alone and desperate Iâll say yes to the first psycho who likes my ankles and end up with someone like my high school boyfriend Sam.
The first time I tried to break up with him, ten minutes into ourfirst date, he burst into tears and threatened to kill himself, which was weird since he was twenty-two and could drink legally, so he had it made. It was so flattering and horrific I ended up staying with him for four months. He tried to push me out of a moving car so many times for things like singing along with âthat fagâ David Bowie, I started jumping out at stoplights even if Dire Straits was on the radio, just to be safe. If I tried to go out with my age-appropriate, happy high school friends, heâd threaten to kill himself. Thankfully, like most failed stand-ups who live in their mothersâ basements, his follow-through was horrible.
Iâm guessing I was the only junior in my high school getting pushed out of a car by her twenty-two-year-old boyfriend. It was all so Tammy Lisa.
Last month, I found out that for the first eight days of my life, my name was Tammy Lisa. The adoption agency let my birth mother and birth father each give me a name for my original birth certificate. My birth father chose Tammy and my birth mother chose Lisa, so put it together and youâve got Tammy âGet off me, Daddy, youâre crushing my smokesâ Lisa. My adoptive parents recrowned me âLauren Huntington,â but no matter how many country club sports they trained me in, they couldnât quite scrub all the coal dust off my neck.
Tammy Lisa lurks. I have to be very careful.
My back has stopped throbbing, and I could probably get up if I wanted to, but my head hurts. My headache could have less to do with a concussion and more to do with the gas leak in my apartment. Ever since I read Sylvia Plathâs journals Iâve been paranoid that the gas heater in the corner of my bedroom is leaking, and Iâm dying a slow, drawn-out version of her death.
You know what bothers me about the idea of death? Itâs so hard to look forward to, and I love planning. I guess I can add âgo blind, go deaf, lose teeth, and start to shit myselfâ to my list of things to do.
One by one, you lose your senses as you age. The only thing that connects us to life is our senses. Thatâs pretty deep. You see, my Buddhist boyfriend pot still treats me right. Iâm going to get up really quickly and write that down in my journal. Then Iâll lie right back down in case I have a concussion and shouldnât be moved.
You know what else this headache could be from? The giant zit on my forehead. Itâs morphed the entire shape of my head. I could barely get my hat on this morning. Or it could be my new vitamins. Besides the daily pot smoking Iâm really trying to take care of myself.
Itâs getting dark out. Magda will be home in twenty minutes. If I get up now she may not believe me when I tell her that I fell. She might think itâs just a big ruse to get out of dealing with the mound of cat hair she calls her living room.
You know when I peaked? Fifth grade. Words like âuglyâ and âprettyâ didnât matter to me. The ability to make my arms into the shape of a
Y
and an
M
and a
C
and an
A
as I sang along with the Village People gave me all the happiness I needed. As many days of the week as I could, I wore my purple satin disco pants and matching purple satin jacket that said STAR on the back, and under the word STAR , in case anyone found the yellow cursive stitching hard to read, was a giant yellow satin star. I strutted down the hallways of Grandview Elementary like they were the streets of Brooklyn and I was John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever.
Then puberty hit. I bought a DISCO SUCKS T-shirt and never wore purple satin again.
Well, Tammy Lisa, traumatic brain injury or not, get up off the floor. Tonight could be the night Magda plays squash;
The first time I tried to break up with him, ten minutes into ourfirst date, he burst into tears and threatened to kill himself, which was weird since he was twenty-two and could drink legally, so he had it made. It was so flattering and horrific I ended up staying with him for four months. He tried to push me out of a moving car so many times for things like singing along with âthat fagâ David Bowie, I started jumping out at stoplights even if Dire Straits was on the radio, just to be safe. If I tried to go out with my age-appropriate, happy high school friends, heâd threaten to kill himself. Thankfully, like most failed stand-ups who live in their mothersâ basements, his follow-through was horrible.
Iâm guessing I was the only junior in my high school getting pushed out of a car by her twenty-two-year-old boyfriend. It was all so Tammy Lisa.
Last month, I found out that for the first eight days of my life, my name was Tammy Lisa. The adoption agency let my birth mother and birth father each give me a name for my original birth certificate. My birth father chose Tammy and my birth mother chose Lisa, so put it together and youâve got Tammy âGet off me, Daddy, youâre crushing my smokesâ Lisa. My adoptive parents recrowned me âLauren Huntington,â but no matter how many country club sports they trained me in, they couldnât quite scrub all the coal dust off my neck.
Tammy Lisa lurks. I have to be very careful.
My back has stopped throbbing, and I could probably get up if I wanted to, but my head hurts. My headache could have less to do with a concussion and more to do with the gas leak in my apartment. Ever since I read Sylvia Plathâs journals Iâve been paranoid that the gas heater in the corner of my bedroom is leaking, and Iâm dying a slow, drawn-out version of her death.
You know what bothers me about the idea of death? Itâs so hard to look forward to, and I love planning. I guess I can add âgo blind, go deaf, lose teeth, and start to shit myselfâ to my list of things to do.
One by one, you lose your senses as you age. The only thing that connects us to life is our senses. Thatâs pretty deep. You see, my Buddhist boyfriend pot still treats me right. Iâm going to get up really quickly and write that down in my journal. Then Iâll lie right back down in case I have a concussion and shouldnât be moved.
You know what else this headache could be from? The giant zit on my forehead. Itâs morphed the entire shape of my head. I could barely get my hat on this morning. Or it could be my new vitamins. Besides the daily pot smoking Iâm really trying to take care of myself.
Itâs getting dark out. Magda will be home in twenty minutes. If I get up now she may not believe me when I tell her that I fell. She might think itâs just a big ruse to get out of dealing with the mound of cat hair she calls her living room.
You know when I peaked? Fifth grade. Words like âuglyâ and âprettyâ didnât matter to me. The ability to make my arms into the shape of a
Y
and an
M
and a
C
and an
A
as I sang along with the Village People gave me all the happiness I needed. As many days of the week as I could, I wore my purple satin disco pants and matching purple satin jacket that said STAR on the back, and under the word STAR , in case anyone found the yellow cursive stitching hard to read, was a giant yellow satin star. I strutted down the hallways of Grandview Elementary like they were the streets of Brooklyn and I was John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever.
Then puberty hit. I bought a DISCO SUCKS T-shirt and never wore purple satin again.
Well, Tammy Lisa, traumatic brain injury or not, get up off the floor. Tonight could be the night Magda plays squash;
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