You could call it "The Battle of Las Cruces". At least that's what I'll remember most of our visit here.
Highway and I have been arguing, yelling and fighting for nearly 24 hours now. We slept a few hours, but during the night I was awakened 6 times screaming from nightmares. Some of them just bad dreams, some of them memories. Memories of the man, my mother's friend whom she pimped me to at the age of 15, raping me, pissing on me and then put his cigar out on my back. I still have the scar to remind me. . . Memories of emptiness and fear and loneliness.
Highway and I worked this morning, avoiding each other, but being friendly nonetheless. As soon as I spoke about the events of last night, the fighting began again. Your girl Sash was on her knees, begging Highway to just tell her what to say so the fighting would end. Highway was at a loss, as broken as I am, struggling with the scars of his own childhood of abuse.
Being on the road does something to people. For me, I have no home to go home to. I have family and friends that would take me in, but that's not MY home. Highway is my home, but when we fight, I have to face the realities of what would happen if we weren't together anymore. Having nothing but a backpack, a tailbag, a motorcycle and myself, I realize that my life is very small. I realize that I am a ghost, a whisper, a shadow that most people forget soon after I am gone. Having no roots means having no anchor, making me nothing but a small sailboat in a storm.
And this was a storm. The Battle of Las Cruces waged on inside as an unexpected rainstorm rolled into town as well. The thunder clouds opened up and the rain poured. I wanted to get on Katie Scarlet and ride, but the fear of riding wet roads for the first time kept me locked in the prison of the tiny motel room, fighting, crying, begging and sobbing. I don't remember what was said before I ran out; I only remember his voice behind me, blocks from our hotel, chasing me in the rain.
Soaking wet I looked him in the eyes and explained that I'm broken. It filled me with shame to admit that there are times that I'm not strong, but just a frail, fragile girl under all of the fanfare and grandiosity. I stood in the rain, barely able to weep any longer, explaining that Sash was dead and all that is left is this broken child. The child my mother beat and pimped out and neglected. Ride as many miles as I like, run as many years as I can, fight as many fights as I have, and I still can't escape the remnants of a broken child. Highway took my hand in the icy New Mexico thunderstorm.
"You're worth coming after. You make me a better man. I can feel myself, for the first time, when I'm with you. It hurts. It hurts so much, but with you I can feel the pain, the sorrow, the emptiness and loneliness. Before you, there was only loneliness. Now, because of you I can feel the real self underneath. And I can feel love. Because of you."
He gently led me back to the motel. After making a cup of tea for me and embracing me for awhile, he mounted up to ride to the pharmacy for me, picking up my prescriptions and getting something for dinner. I have hear when soldiers enter the military they are broken down before they are built up. I never knew what that was like until this moment. So there I stood in the cold Las Cruces rain, running nowhere, realizing I had nowhere to run, knowing that the heartbreak would always follow me. I'm as broken as I've ever been. I have no fight left in me.
But that's what I came to find on this trip; myself. What lies underneath the perpetual activities of everyday life. Ironically I ride my morotcycle to stop moving and listen to the sound inside my own helmet. Take everything I own away from me, work my body until it's so sore and bruised I can hardly move, take me away from everything and everyone I know, and see what's left. I found a broken child.
I can't say where it goes from here. It frightens the Hell out of me that I don't know. . . I guess we'll all find out together.
What Is That Screeching Sound?
1 day ago