She was a clarinet player.

She was freckled and her eyes were brown and soft. I recall her name because she said it to me when we first met, but we hardly spoke. The saxophones really didn’t talk with the clarinets much. She and I sometimes exchanged glances as we sat in separate practice rooms when one of us produced a particularly offensive squeak, the worn-down walls doing little to muffle the noise, but we didn’t have time to talk, or so I thought.

Sophomore year was rough. I was sick. Not the kind of sick that has you home for a couple days, the kind that has you in bed day after day, groaning each morning as you try to get up, clutching your stomach as you walk to class. Being in pain was my normal, and without a diagnosis, a lot of my friends couldn’t understand. I lost people. For a while, I lost myself. People I was never close to ignored me, and those I was close to awkwardly glanced the other way as I deteriorated.

Eventually, I got it together. I was diagnosed with celiac disease, which meant no gluten. It was earth-shattering. I got better, but people, things, feelings I’d lost didn’t come back. The people who really mattered had never really left, and I loved them, but I was surrounded by run-down practice rooms and creaking lockers and screeching violins and people I didn’t know or want to know.

I hadn’t spoken to her in months. Our lockers weren’t nearby; they were on opposite ends of the hallway. I’m not sure why she chose that day. I’m not sure how she knew about my diagnosis, and I’m not sure why she cared, and I’m not sure why she was also in the music building at three in the morning, except that she was probably as desperate for some last-minute practice as I was. “Hey,” she said, not really smiling but not scowling either. I closed my locker, waiting, assuming she needed something. “Rough day, huh?” she asked.

I stared back. I knew there were probably still tears on my face. There usually were.

“For you,” she said to my silence, not awkwardly, just simply, and she handed me a bag and walked away. They were gluten-free brownie bites. I still don’t know where she found them. They were delicious.

In 2006 I was diagnosed with cancer and had to undergo chemotherapy. My hair was the longest it's ever been in my entire life, and I knew I would lose it. I decided it would be best to just get it cut very short and then maybe shave it, once it started coming out. I went to a JC Penny’s hair salon in south Texas and requested a hair-cut. When the gentleman asked me what I would like, I had a picture to show him, but I knew that I wouldn’t really like it because I didn’t want to cut my hair. So, I told him that I probably wouldn’t like it and that I was only getting my hair cut because I would be starting chemotherapy and it would come out. He was so kind to me and said that he never took walk-in clients, but just decided to do so today and that he had a wig he would give me if I could come back tomorrow to get it. True to his word, he gave me a very nice red wig (I’ve always wanted red hair). I didn’t know it at the time, but after buying several other wigs myself, I realized he had given me a very expensive wig. The kindness of this total stranger still warms my heart when I think about it many years later.

to be a

dead ringer

for Truth

Dignity

and all the

Good

of our

voice

over

humanity.

Some time ago, I contemplated suicide for two weeks straight. I imagined slitting my wrists, slicing my throat open, stabbing myself right in the heart, hanging myself in my closet, electrocuting myself in the bathtub, throwing myself in front of a car - I even Googled a bunch of other ways I could kill myself.

I was still in college, alone in a sea of strangers. All of them seemed to be partying on the ship while I was barely managing to hang onto the life boat. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to hang on anymore.

I thought that I was doomed. I had depression. I had social anxiety. I didn’t have any work experience. I barely had any friends. How could I even dream of having a future in a world where being social was a requirement?

So I pondered all of the ways I could just end it all. After all of the weeks of isolation and numbness, I welcomed the rush that came with contemplating suicide. At the most, I tied a scarf around my neck in order to get a sense of what it felt like to choke.

I didn’t do anything more than that, but I did ponder over what would happen if I followed through on killing myself. I thought of how my parents would have to pay for my funeral. I thought of how they would have to bury me. I thought of how devastated they would be. They would blame themselves. They would ask themselves what they did wrong, what they could’ve done to prevent this. They would think, ‘I failed her’. By ending my life, I would ruin theirs. I didn’t want to do that to them. I didn’t want to do that to my best friend or my little brother, either. Since I didn’t have much of a will to live for myself, they became my reasons for living. They were the reasons why I continued to hold on. They were the ones who were there to support me, to love me, to believe in me when I didn’t have the slightest bit of belief in myself.

It wasn’t until recently that I was able to start liking and believing in myself. I managed to break through all of the selfhatred, isolation, and hopelessness I’ve felt for the majority of my life, thanks to all of the love, care, and help that I’ve received from my family (best friend, included - she’s like a sister to me) as well as my therapist. It took a long time to get to where I am now, and I couldn’t have possibly made it here without them. Sure, I still have my fair share of problems and obstacles to overcome, but I want to live. There are still so many more memories I want to make with them. There are still so many things I want to do. I don’t want to give up on any of that. It’s just the beginning of the rest of my life and I want to do what I can to grow. At my own pace. One step at a time.

Fireworks burst in the sky

and in my drunken haze

I reach for your hand, gently

holding it in mine

I know that I cannot go back

I know that I cannot change

what I've done

I see the reaction on your face

a mixture of pleasure and hesitation

and I know that I shouldn't

but I lean over and your lips collide with mine

and BANG! BANG! BANG!

I remember what it feels like to be loved by you

and the memories are flashing, bright white

before my clouded eyes

suddenly the world is quiet

the fireworks display is over and as

I gently disconnect

from you, I can feel the emptiness

creeping in, loneliness filling my heart

and I wish that I could go back

and light up the sky again

She grasps ribbons from air

and weaves them into life.

Spirit exhales nomadic echo

like a thousand birds on a wire

taking shameless flight at her will.

Wild gypsy woman whizzes past

unforeseen curves in the road,

speeding so fast, leaving only

remnants of her shadow.

Tucks sun in her bosom

to light life’s adventures,

sets the moon askance

on head as mock halo.

Quaffs freedom

in the cup of her hand,

running barefoot

untamed and wild.

Dances in savage abandon

in raindrops of passion

answering only to herself

as she rounds

the endless loops

of tomorrow,

feral and free.

Bright eyed and bushy-tailed, I came into this world.

My life went so fast it whirled.

Screaming, moving, and crying along.

Going to fast it seems the time is gone.

A lost childhood not to be recalled,

or one might find the saddest songs.

A loss of independence did good for me,

truely learning of both kindness and greed.

I learned and matured, slowly caught up.

Always trying to sing a new song.

Healing came with all due time,

by listening to lyrics that would bring my mind to rewind.

Struggling with the flooding in memories.

Losing more years to the same problems as before.

A year of distractions and distrust.

Hopefully I'll learn to sing a more happy song.