Not Sure Yet

This is only the beginning to a story. I haven't yet finished the rest. Wanted to get some feedback first.

There was no pinnacle moment that caused my steady declination into the dark corners of my mind. Rather, it was a continuous wave of terrible circumstances, gut-wrenching tragic love affairs, and long periods of sedentary insanity. I could sit here and blame my mother for all of my unhappiness. All of those days I spent lying in bed wishing the bunk above my body would come crashing down, crushing every bone in my body and silencing my mind by flattening it into a bloody pulp. But it was not my mother’s fault. Maybe it was the Heavenly Father Above’s fault. I could sit here and blame Him for predispositioning me to such a hellish life. But maybe it was supposed to serve as a punishment. Maybe I was a terrible person in another life and this was the world’s sick form of punishing me. I guess you could say I deserved it. At the ripe age of seventeen I didn’t have enough fingers on two hands to count the number of men I let touch more than just my hand. All of these men felt my tongue, my lips, my chest, my hips, but none of them ever saw my soul. They saw a wide-eyed brunette curved with winding roads and mountains and valleys buried in-between. A spectacular view that you might ogle at for a while, but all you are is a passerby, and soon, you will move on to the next town, the next view.  My mother was an alcoholic. She spent most of her days at the dive bar down on third drowning her sorrows and forgetting my dead beat of a father with a streamline of glasses of rum and Coke. I, on the other hand, was often chasing away my problems in the arms of a man. Some married, some not. Some you could only barely categorize as a man. Either way, finding myself underneath broad sets of shoulders and scruff necks seemed to lift the burden of insecurity and deep, dark depression off my shoulders. It did for a while, anyway. When I ended up in the psych ward at St. Mark’s hospital downtown New York was when I decided to put all of my stories, all of my triumphs and losses and experiences down on paper. Partly on my own accord, partly on the behalf of my bedside nurse, Lola, who had read some of my poems I had written that were sitting on the edge of my bed. She said I had a way with words, a way that resonated with people. I never really let anybody read my works, so I was slightly pissed to find out that she had read my poems without my consent. But I didn’t show my irritation, as I didn’t feel I was in much of a position to. Lola was an older woman, with graying hair that she always kept tied back in a crimson red scrunchie, her fine bangs skimming her dull blue eyes. Her skin was leathery and a shade the color of weathered leaves scattered on the sidewalk in the tail end of fall. I could tell she was once a very beautiful woman, but as they seem to do, the hands of age had taken their toll. She called me sweetheart and beautiful, and I liked that. It reminded me of the men I had affairs with, but when she said it it seemed to roll off her tongue with sweet, easy honesty. No intent, just genuine benevolence. It’s funny how you can find the most light in the darkest of nights. Those are the nights when the sky blankets the Earth with a cold, dark cover, and just when you think you’re being suffocated, the stars seem to poke holes in the sheath, giving you light and air to breathe again. 

Reviews

[ANTO]

I think this is probably the best 'story' I have read on here - but Im not much of a story reader so my appraisal isnt worth much probably.
But I loved how you made me want to keep reading - i was caught in your story's gravity and gravitas which I appreciated but didnt resent - I often hate stories that make me feel like Im just trudging through them to get to the other side like some kind of joke chicken.
The hope in the end was delievered like a salve. thanks for sharing