July 4th: the sky explodes into color as fireworks burst in every direction. Independence Day? Sure, we’ll go with that, but all I knew was that there was a party somewhere and I needed to make my entrance. I still have a doll from that day. It may be stained and dusty but it is still here as I am. A tiny doll made of hardened plastic all around except its central chest; perhaps I see a resemblance. It has no hair but will always be Goldilocks to me. I cannot for the life of me remember how I came to name her, but I wonder if my sense of humor stretched back to infantry.

I was a vivacious child. As the only girl from both sides, being raised among 10 male cousins truly set the stage for the rough and tumble I was soon to face. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast, but even sometimes a blast gets too loud. However, outwardly, the silence was all too loud. As chaotic as I could be when I’m having fun, if ever an adult was around, I would transform into a rabid rule-follower.

From creepy hallucinations to playing with just about everyone just about everywhere, my childhood was easily a trippy adventure. Any sport, any activity, I’m down. Bike in the woods? Yes. Roller skate down a steep hill? Definitely. Jump off a cliff? You betcha. All that and I still hadn’t had 2 digits in my age.

Social activities too, I crushed them. I would never leave a room without having made someone laugh. Jokes were my identity. I was known for it. My pranks were legendary, we still laugh about them to this day. Life was good.

One fateful morning, my now teenage skater cousins from Brazil were in town. They were the epitome of cool. From rocking backward caps to graffiti, these guys were living the life. Anything they do I had to. There was just no other option. This time, we’re rappelling down a mountain. I’m all fired up and ready to go when the safety instructor looks at me in amazement, “wow you are so brave to be doing this at your age, epic!” All of a sudden like a tidal wave, I was introduced to doubt. Why wouldn’t it be expected? Why am I considered brave? And just when I earned my fearless title, I gave it up on the spot. It was the first time I had walked away from anything, and what a walk that was. As my childhood idols streamed down the flat mountain, their body perpendicular to the wall and caps dripping with even more legendary juice, I walked the whole way down to meet them, ashamed and disappointed.

What was a new feeling for me slowly grew to be my reality as more fear set in in the following years, crippling my identity and eventually almost costing me my life. I became more cautious, more studious, more preoccupied. My jokes became more calculated, more restricted. I had my entire life planned out to the second but that just wasn’t enough. I grew accustomed to that wondrous satisfaction after going through every possible scenario in my head and finding the right solution. I was safe. My life was secure, of course until one day, in the blink of an eye, I was staring death in the face.

I had actually gone through near death experiences, almost drowning in a pond at one point, getting run over by a bike and falling from a front flip straight on my neck. But nothing was nearly as terrifying as that moment. The cruel irony was that in that moment, I had nothing to fear.

OCD. A term used loosely to describe minor organizational ticks and hygiene repetitions, consumed my entire existence to the point where I would spend all the hours of the day battling the thoughts in my head both figuratively and literally, winding up a few minutes later (in my perspective) with black eyes, a bruised face and bloody knuckles when I wasted another day and should have long been asleep. Hours blended into weeks and weeks turned into months and months into years. I remember being given a drug so powerful that it would knock me out before I could even reach my bed. What a joke, right? I kind of wish I could still get that drug prescription today. It would just be a desperately needed rest. I ran all out of laughter.

From chasing dangerous scenarios in real life to running away from non-existent ones in my head, my life turned upside down… and not in the fun way. I lost everything. My friends, my family, my career, and my mind. I lost myself. Everything I had worked so hard to perfect I could see crumbling in my hands as I tried to hold on to the remaining pieces, when what I actually needed was to let go.

I had to lose everything to realize their invaluable value. Their absolute worthless worth. Everything I held sacred in reality ate me up inside. But I soon realized I was the one doing all the eating. I’d like to think I’m strong-willed but that turned out to be my greatest weakness. A fight between me and me would irrevocably see me win. But which me?

I now think back and laugh. Not necessarily because I feel it was a joke life played and is still playing on me, but perhaps at the idea that I might have never escaped it. What helped me heal was realizing that nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Now I’m called reckless, crazy at times, but I’m finally living up to my younger energy. I might have found myself again, but I probably shouldn’t dwell on it. Nothing really matters. Decisions, property, thoughts, pain, existence, life… it is all a joke. It just took me a few punches to find the punchline.

“I know you’ve caused me so much pain. I know if I hold on to this I will feel so much more. Would it be fair to forgive you? Would it be fair not to? Fine, let’s just say I do. We good?”

I look at my fist now overcome by a throbbing yet numbing pain and watch as the blood drips on the shattered mirror.

I think. I think of where I am. I look around and see red flags, messy clothes piled on chairs, white walls turning grey, a spotless marble floor, and my hand placed flat on my side. As I lift my hand, I feel cold. I think of the blanket buried underneath the clothes and I get up, but I do not move. I see myself sitting cross-legged on the floor, the mirror I am staring into piercing into my consciousness. I think of how I look. I think of how I look. I think through thoughts past, tormenting memories, joyful moments and unfathomable futures. For a split second, I am caught in the present, suddenly disconnected from my body but without a feeling of disconnect. Far from it. I feel a connection to something greater, something deeper, something linking me to everything. I watch as my thoughts drift past me, like a turbulent stream tamed by an uninterrupted rush. My eyes fling open and I see my reflection. As sudden as the moment came, it is now lost. I think of whether it happened at all. I think that I should not think.

She lies awake, staring at the ceiling. Her motionless figure can be easily mistaken for a corpse. A sudden spasm jolts her body into the nearby cabinet and clothes cascade into her tightly clenched hands. She does not move, but her mind is traveling light years. Delivering a forceful blow to her face, her fists relax but can’t quite open. She tries to slap her hands flat but to no avail; her muscles recoil to tense hooks on tenterhooks. She keels over, face flat on the floor and captures a pill with her darting tongue. She gets up to write.

It is during these guaranteed times of uncertainty,

when tensions rise and are filled with anxiety,

that we are forced down a fork in our path.

The pervasive fork that always remains,

to nurture our growth or stab our wounds,

to savor our joy or test our wrath.

Choose wisely… or don’t,

for no matter the bet in this gambling den,

the pervasive fork will come up again.

Brian was a boy who grew up sad and repressed, without the care and nurture a mother provides. According to his father, who was a stern man, his mother suffered a harrowing addiction to drugs and had been locked up in prison shortly after her son was born. Yet, Brian still matured into a very successful and well-known businessman.

  One day, Brian felt a clenching pain in his chest and fainted in his office. After being rushed into the emergency room, the doctor informed him that he was suffering from severe heart complications, and there was a high probability that he would die if not provided with a donor. The problem was that Brian had a very rare blood type and so it would be difficult to find a donor in such short notice. Meanwhile at his office, talk was brewing that the cause of Brian’s heart failure resulted from many years of heartache due to lack of love and attention.

  Faced with the peril of his ultimate demise, Brian slept with his head clouded with worry and fear. He was awoken with a shrill beeping sound, which indicated a donor had been found. All of a sudden nurses filled his room and he was rushed into surgery. The following day, he woke up feeling fresh and energetic and realized that the surgery had been carried out successfully, and so he wondered who the mystery donor was.

   Brian turned on the television in his room and the news was about an old woman, who had been found dead after breaking out of prison and had a gaping hole in her chest, her hands drenched in blood and her heart missing. The report went on and on about how her blood type was extremely rare and stated that a letter had been found on her corpse. At that point, Brian sat upright and raised the volume. The letter plainly stated: "My dear son, happy birthday, take care of your gift and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” Within an instant all sound drowned from the surrounding as Brian felt as if he was being sucked into the earth’s core. All that was going through his head was the repeating voice of the newswoman “rare blood type…rare blood type...” It all came to him in a blast as he said to himself, “it’s my birthday today.”

  Brian was so confused and asked himself constantly, “Why would she care...Why now?” As he later found out, after confronting his father, his mother was wrongly convicted of drug possession, and the drugs were actually his father’s. He also recalled one time when his mother tried to reach him and he scolded her and hoped she would die. Brian was filled with excruciating guilt and remembered saying how horrible and cold-blooded his mother was when anyone asked him about her. Now he knows it was the complete opposite. He never figured out how his mother found out about his heart problem; perhaps it was a mother’s instinct, but it only shows what a mother would do to save her son. From then on, however, Brian became a little conceited, for he would always brag about having the biggest heart in the world.

He wakes up shaken and dripped in sweat. Not again! He stays up until dawn bombarded by a continuous pounding in his chest, his heart is racing and he could just feel the blood rush through his veins uncontrollably into the void that has now become his routine life. He looks at his phone just to make sure he's not dreaming. It's Monday. How is he going to head off to work in this state? He looks down at his trembling hands with an unplaceable ache. How can his coworkers see him like this? Especially when one in particular broke up with him over the weekend. Begrudgingly, he drags himself to the office.

With his messy hair and disheveled look, he attracts the glares and murmurs of his office-mates. Lurking behind the water cooler is his now ex-girlfriend along with a couple of her friends. His hands start sweating again, and the pounding from his chest is re-directed into a throbbing pain in his left hand. The glaring stares turn into pitiful glances throughout the day, as one after the other, his colleagues come to offer their comfort while he assures them that he is not upset or broken-hearted. Even the boss insists he take the rest of the day off.

He rushes out of the building desperate for a gasp of fresh air. He lifts up his left fist, tightly clenched and shivering intensely, and moments before it hits the wall, he screams out in agony. People across the street are mortified as some of his coworkers look at him from the windows while some others hurry out to provide support, including his ex-girlfriend. She is dumbfounded upon seeing his fist against the wall and insists he go to the nearest hospital. He looks up at her in disdain, out-of-breath and still tormented by increasingly agonizing pain. She doesn't look the same to him anymore, in fact, she becomes blurrier and darker until his whole world fades to black.

He wakes up in the hospital ER, to the sound of his beeping heart beat and a nurse who had just walked in.

"A couple more days with that broken wrist of yours and you might have needed surgery. You're lucky, and a lefty too it seems."

She leans in closer and whispers, "A piece of medical advice, next time somebody breaks up with you, try not to punch a wall."

It might have been all the painkillers they've given him but he can't help but chuckle to himself: "They cared more about a broken heart and didn't even notice a broken wrist."