This is a teaser. It is the first page, of the first chapter, of my book. You Only Thought You Were God, due out early 2015. A fictitious story filled with twists, and turns.
You Only Thought You Were God is the story of a woman in her late 50s, who falls head over heels in lust, and love. The story deals with relationships, and decisions, she thought she would never have to make. She finds her own marriage falling apart, and is not sure what to do about it. An amazing man comes into her life. She thinks of him as a God, and a movie-star, all wrapped into one. He is able to take complete control of her once independent nature. She loses her ability to think on her own anymore, and gives her new lover total power over her thoughts, and actions. She recognizes some red flags in the relationship, but is star struck. She is determined not to let anything interfere in her new perception of reality.
What is wrong with her?
She is alive
The nurse took my bra away as I checked into the mental hospital. “You could hang yourself with it,” she told me.
I could visualize the headlines, Death by a 38C black lace bra.
I was in my late fifties, old enough to know better, but I was dealing from a point of emotions, not sanity. I was suffering from a broken heart, and decided I had nothing to live for. I thought everything that was important to me was gone, and now nothing was important to me, including my life. I was a broken damaged soul, hoping that God would let me die. I sat in that hospital ward, the pain in my heart, too much to bear.
I was 18 when I married Arnold. We met at the hospital where we both worked. He was in college, and I was in high school. A college boy liked me! I was ecstatic, and bragged to my girlfriends that I didn’t have to deal with high school boys anymore. He was tall, handsome, but a bit on the skinny side. I remember putting my arms around his waist, and it was smaller than mine. I took note, and went on a new starvation diet immediately. I was a nurse’s aide. He was an orderly, however, he convinced me; he was an intern, and he was studying to be a doctor. I believed him. In fact, I believed everything he said. Believing people turned out to be one of my faults that would cost me dearly over, and over in life.
One of the patients on the hall we worked was close to our age. He was a big black man with a magnetic personality; admitted for a knee surgery. He was polite, well-spoken, and attractive. His name was Dante, and he was a seminary student at the local college. While Dante was in the hospital, he developed venereal warts. Arnold’s job was to dab the medicine prescribed for him, with a Q-tip, directly on the warts. That worked fine while Arnold was on duty, but when he wasn’t, the nurses didn’t like to do it, so they had Dante do it himself. That turned into a big mistake. When left on his own to apply the medicine, he thought if a little is good, a lot had to be better. The medicine did not work that way, and his skin fell off of the areas where he applied the medicine. This left him very raw in certain places. Dante was to be in the hospital for a week, and during that time, Arnold, Dante, and I became friends.
I was young, and full of dreams, and hopes. My wish was to be a famous writer, and poet. At that time, my writing consisted mostly of poems about the Vietnam War. One evening during my shift things were slow; I got up my courage, and asked Dante if he wanted to hear my poems. In a timid voice, I read to him. I saw the tears streaming down his face. He told me how beautiful, raw, and touching my poetry was. I was ecstatic when he said he loved my work.