March 07, 2007
Originally published June 2, 2003
When my ex-wife told me that she didn't want to be married anymore, she took my son and ran off to shack up with her unemployed, dope-smoking lover in his single-wide trailer 50 miles down the road. Whatta woman.
She WAS clever enough to cancel all the credit cards and clean out the bank accounts first, so that she threw me into the street with a sheriff's warrant on my head with $60 to my name. I checked into the cheapest motel I could find. Lots of Spanish was spoken there.
I felt as if I had a feral animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. I never hurt so badly in my life. I drank a pint of vodka. That didn't stop the pain. My One True Love broke my heart. I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it to this day. But she planned it, she did it, and she carried it off exactly according to plan. I remain stunned by that fact today, but I was REALLY disemboweled that night.
So, I wrote three suicide notes, laid my identifications out on a table, broke open a Bic razor and cut myself really bad on every major artery I could hit. I still have the scars to show you from that episode. I did it in the bathtub with the warm water running, because I wanted to die. I still don't know why it didn't work.
I passed out from loss of blood, but I clotted and didn't die. I woke up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital after the maid found me the next morning. I was really pissed about the way things turned out. The doctor who sewed me up was pissed, too, and didn't use any novicaine. I didn't care. The stitches didn't hurt that bad. He kept cussing at me, telling me that my hemoglobin was down to 7 and I would suffer all sorts of organ damage from that kind of blood loss.
Ha! I didn't. Of course, I had collapsed my veins so badly that the three pints of whole blood they gave me had to go in my leg, because that was the only vein they could find to hit. I really should have died.
They threw me into the looney bin for ten days under Suicide Watch, which I found amusing. An orderly was tasked to come to my bed once every hour and ask me, even if I were asleep, "Are you going to try to kill yourself again?" I was hooked up to an IV tripod and wearing one of those assless hospital gowns. "Are you going to believe anything I say?" was always my answer.
I finally got pissed at that idiocy and told him (although the night guy was okay... just doing his job) that if he woke me up again to ask me such a stupid question that I might KILL HIM, because I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! He left me alone and allowed me to sleep after that.
I finally talked the shrink into letting me out of there. He signed all the papers to release me and I was going to stay at mama's house and go back to work to put my life back together.
That's when the Bloodless Cunt got involved. She hit my mama with all sorts of logic about how unstable I was and how I didn't need to go back to work in a chemical plant after attempting suicide, and mama ate every crumb of it. She called the doctor and cancelled my release. My mama once trusted Jennifer the way I did. She knows better now.
I was stopped at the door the next day and told that my release was cancelled. I spent another night in the looney bin while Jennifer managed to get me put in Willingway Hospital, a rehab clinic in Statesboro. My mama paid for it, of course. I didn't really need rehab, because I never needed dexox, but once you're grabbed by those people, you stay there until THEY say you go.
My brother drove me there. I was just happy to get out of the looney-bin, because at least I could smoke cigarettes again, but I asked him, "Dave, did you have a fucking thing to do with this? If you DID, pull the car over right now. I'm going to beat the dogshit out of you."
He said, "Rob, I'm just following orders."
For a high-octaine litigator, he ain't much in a pinch.
I spent 35 days there and got out after I told my councellor that I was going to jump the fence if they didn't let me go. I had prostate cancer. Jennifer was sending me nothing but divorce decrees in the mail while she ran off to rock concerts in Jacksonville with her new lover. I wrote Quinton every day and NEVER got a reply. Jennifer saw to that.
Yeah, I whine. I've got a lot to fucking whine about.
Walk a mile in my shoes, THEN tell me how much you know. As soon as I was safely ensconsced at Willingway, the Bloodless Cunt moved the unemployed dopesmoker into my house. That disease-infected (hepatitus "C") cretin slept in MY bed, saw MY son every day and fucked MY WIFE while I was locked up in a goddam rehab clinic.
When I got out, I had to bring my brother with me as protection against her calling the law on me because of the peace warrant when I picked up my stuff (all NEATLY PACKED, by her) to try and rebuild my life. I had my guts and my manhood cut out 28 days later. She put a swimming pool in her back yard last week.
Don't you fucking people tell ME to be tough. I've hung my head into the abyss. I liked what I saw there. It's better than what I've seen and lived before.
All content © Rob Smith