Philip James Conley
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"The Clouds That Follow," is the memoir of a young boy growing up into
adulthood in
Maine. As the title suggests, this young boy has his share of problems:
an abusive, cheating, alcoholic father, a mother who enabled the
abuser, and actually engaged in bloody conflict with that man.
The little boy suffered loss of self-esteem and confidence
brought on by his tyrannical father until he couldn't take it
anymore.Unable to function in
school, being called lazy by abusive teachers brought this little 12 year old boy
to
the end of his proverbial rope and ultimately led him to perform
despicible acts of self-mutilation in order to get get a day or two of
peace. If only things got better from there, but that was not the case.
A pervert took advantage of my abuse and abused me. I made it through
high school , met a girl and married. Things were looking better until
I nearly bled to death from colitis at the age of 26 and had to
have"That Operation." The rest of my memoir, which concludes when I am
49 years old is equally incredible. The book is full of wry humor and
much nostalgia. An easy read, yes, and a very, very powerful story.
The author, Philip James Conley, has lived and worked in Maine his
whole life.He lives with his 2 cats, "Vinnie" and "The
Baby."
After a couple more weeks of attending school I essentially
became desperate. One morning I decided to do what a mental health worker would
probably describe as a scream for help. My mother was still home and everyone
else had gone to school. I was dressed for school and acted like that was where
I would be heading. However, before I left the apartment I made a quick visit
to the bathroom and grabbed a razorblade. I once again placed a razorblade
inside my shirt pocket. I didn’t have much time to waste, as I wanted to do the
deed before my mother left for her sister’s house. I quickly walked down the
stairs into the back yard. I walked by the house next to ours. A narrow,
four-foot alley separated the houses. I noticed a door hinge was unscrewed on
the back door of the house, creating an instant explanation for me. I ditched
into that alley as quickly as I could and pulled the razorblade out of my
pocket. There wasn’t any time to contemplate what I was about to do, as I had
to work quickly. I placed the blade in my left hand, ready to take care of
business. I turned my right arm inward, exposing the inside of my wrist. I then
sliced my wrist in two spots, each cut being about two inches long. The cuts
were so close they were practically touching. I dug the razorblade deeper into
my skin than the previous time as I was more determined to make sure I couldn’t
attend school. The cuts were so deep the scars resulting from that heinous
morning 40 years ago are still visible on my wrist to this day.
A person’s brain telling them to physically hurt themselves
is a very unique feeling. Part of your brain knows inflicting harm on yourself
is wrong, but the emotional pain your brain is trying to rid itself of easily
overrides that feeling. The physical pain of hurting yourself is irrelevant to
the whole process. It does not even merit consideration. For a person to be in
such condition that hurting themselves is a requirement and not an option is a
terrifying experience, especially when being recalled decades later.
My wrist was bleeding profusely, with which I was very
pleased. I tossed the razorblade into the alley and covered my bleeding wrist
with my left hand. I held my hand against the wounded wrist as I ran upstairs
to tell my mother. Into the apartment I charged, excitingly telling my mother
that I was hurt. I explained to her that I was running to school when I accidentally
brushed my arm against an unscrewed hinge on a door, which cut my wrist. She
wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but the bleeding was quite obvious.
She hurriedly went into the bathroom and retrieved a facecloth, which she
placed over the wounds on my wrist. A car pulled up to the front of the house
honking its horn, meaning it was time for my mother to go to her sister’s house
for the day. She asked me if I was going to be ok and I answered “yes.” Down
the stairs she headed along with a basket of laundry, and I was happy.
I was now quite content. I stopped the bleeding on my
wrist and wrapped the wound in gauze bandaging. Did the wounds hurt? Yes, but
that was hardly an issue. I was home alone, without those damn teachers or my
father to humiliate me. I received two school-free days from this second act of
self-mutilation. It would be the last time that I would cut myself, but those
razorblades actually saved my pitiful life. I was 12 years old without any
other options to stay alive. The cutting actually stopped “the over inflated
tire from exploding.” I do not apologize for doing this to myself, for I am
thankful that I found a remedy to survive.
