63 Days

Solo was moving quickly. I began each morning with a stretch and a walk down to the small creek that was at the bottom of my hill. I knew people were watching me across the valley, in the hills, on the top of mountains…somewhere.

After Challenger and to this day, I will be at home or work or wherever, by myself, and I’ll still feel like I have an audience, 24 hours a day. I’ll be in my bedroom alone and think that there are people watching me. In my car, I think people can hear me talking to myself or singing along with the radio. I’ve never been alone since Challenger, I’m being watched 24/7 by an invisible audience. Call me ill, call me insane, but its my modus operandi. Its the only way I can live, to this day. I need to feel like I’m being watched.

This day was no different. As I made my way down to the water-fill, I noticed a black dot on the top of a hill to my right. It wasn’t Murdock or Nick, I could see that it was a smaller person, and my instincts told me not to be afraid. I ignored it and went on my way, this time, making sure I was doing everything right. I brushed my hair away as it fell in my face when I bent down to fill my water bottles. It was like I was on stage, and I didn’t want to disappoint the audience.

Carefully climbing back to my camp spot was an arduous hike, but I felt no pain as I climbed today, for I was the star. I knew they’d be watching me regardless, but if I imagined they were doing it for entertainment, well then…it was something completely acceptable to my terrified mind. I could be a performer instead of a prisoner; they were adoring fans rather than monsters.

I sat on the rock after I made my morning oats and looked out over the entire valley. I wrote poetry and put the words to music while I sat and explored my brain, mixing my voice with the blue sky and white clouds to form a perfect and personal relationship between myself and nature.

The day turned to night and I realized that tomorrow was my last day in solo. I was sad for a second, then excited to be back with other teens. I had so much to do, so many things to write about, so many things to document…so that these bastards would never get their hands on another girl again. I had to make a code…a plan. They were reading my journals, watching my every move. I had to be clever, and if there was anything I had 100% confidence in…it was my own intellect. I could outsmart these people a bit so that everyone would know what really happened here. I just had to get my shit together and figure it out. I set to work that day, creating a code that I could mingle with the words they wanted to hear me write so that I’d know and remember, and they’d never notice.

One poem was written that night, one that still haunts me. I cannot believe I was merely 15.

From Journal #2, trip number 1:

Girl, stay strong
generosity to them…
…him
allow. bite your tongue
and grin.
bear.

allow the heat and seering
pain to unlock
one more day that
dawns on FREEDOM
63 days
and a
wakeup.

How else can I make it right?
How else can I accept the morning?
How else can I talk to myself
and not hate myself?

I’ll take a handful of glittery stars
from the dark, nighttime sky
and when he comes,
I’ll hold them in my mouth,
they’ll purify me, be sweet to me.

March, 1990