This is a small excerpt from the forthcoming (in a year) Desert Chrome, because twenty-eight years ago now, as in today and tonight and tomorrow, this happened:
Sonoran Desert 1992. Scott’s driving me south through the desert, to Tucson, to treatment. I try to write, journal in my lap, pen in my grip; I try to keep my eyes open, to see those giant saguaro cacti, their angular arms rising to snag the sky; sun too bright, my eyes keep closing behind my shades; I’ve popped so many pills I feel like heroin as my head drops to the side and I try to lift it, to watch the desert grate by, but the sun glares and my eyes close again; Scott’s talking and I want him to stop, to not care, I want not to care; I can’t lift my head, my mouth slack, breath slow; I feel the nod through a body filled with the warm slow buzz of near-death and I sink into it all the way. The pen falls from my hand.
Scott pulls into the circular driveway of the women’s treatment center and shakes me awake and when I open my eyes the first staff person I see is a man. Anger burns through me as I step from the Blazer. Scott tries to hug me but I’m on the fight, swinging a suitcase the man takes from my grip, not to help me but to go through it, confiscating shampoo for its alcohol content because, what, I might drink shampoo? Are you fucking kidding me? and Scott drives off into the desert night alone. A female nurse coerces me into a bed, gives me Benadryl (pills, not a shot), and I’m gone.
Drugs kept me going as I lived without my children. But drugs like a marriage can eventually stop working and I was sinking to the floor of the deepest body of water I could find and I wanted to stay in that quiet darkness . . .
. . . but my kids, my boys . . .
Thank you, best ex, for seeing me through that day and night and the many days and nights after.
From there to here:
All photos by TJ Holmes.
Tough time, waiting for the book.
Thank you, Pat, and you and Frank are in the book!
Wow! That’s powerful writing. It’s so good that you’re putting this into a book, Kat. I’m behind you all the way. Love, Erica
Erica, thank you for your support of me, and my health, through the years!
Wow! That’s powerful writing! So glad you’re putting this into a book. I’m behind you all the way, Kat. With love, Erica.
Couldn’t not care then, and still do now, best ex. Happy happy happy birthday!
Well. You know. There are so many things to say that I cannot say. All best to you and yours!
Twenty eight years! Thank you for making the choice you made. Powerful writing, powerful woman.
Mahalo for listening through all those years, and for being there at the crucial times.
What can I say, I’m crying . . . moved by your story, in appreciation of your best ex, in gratitude of all that hard work you did, and in joy that these days you choose life and living.
You are funny. Yeah, the best ex was–is–pretty great. Onward for all us recovering people!
I’m so glad I got to know you Kat🙏
Thank you Karen. I know you understand how mustangs can help one see the beauty of life–it’s in all your paintings!