I was born; happily, I am here, still alive to write for you, fellow Readers.

I live in Ukraine. We struggle, and I must assure you, this is not going to stop. Fighting for freedom is too much in human nature, it seems, to stop in the middle of fighting.

Now a few more words about me. I write for challenges only, being too idle to challenge myself; that means I must thank fellows who post challeges for introducing my into the world of writing.

Thus, thank you, everybody!

This is the story of how I stopped being friends with a narcissist.

We became friends in 5th grade, and we were pretty close. As time went on, this boy became my best friend. He was Asian, Vietnamese to be specific. He was, and I hate to say this, a walking stereotype. Short, glasses, strict parents who own a nail salon, rich, straight A's, etc. I never really met his parents, since they were always working, but I did meet his grandpa, who, I may add, is the kindest human-being I have ever met. It was impossible to go over to my friends house without leaving with a bag of candy, whoever came to pick me up was immediately given a chair and a bottle of water, despite only staying long enough for me to get to the door, he even waited outside the school building every single time it rained, even if it was only a drizzle, with three umbrellas for the narcissist, our other friend, who was his cousin, and me. He showed signs of toxicity early in our relationship, up until 6th grade, he often hit me over the head with full water bottles, and he was always very possessive of me, especially when I got a male friend that he couldn't influence, and other stuff like that.

The only reason I stuck around was that he flipped between being nice and being a jerk, it was like a light switch. It went from 'I'm going to be a jerk to you because you tolerate it and I'm bored," to "Now you're mad so I'm going to poke you in the arm until you give in," right back to, "You've forgiven me, so back to being a jerk."

Freshman year of high school, however, this dynamic changed. He "got bored" with me, and was exclusively a jerk to me, provided he wasn't ignoring me. I tried to have a serious conversation with him, because I still cared about him at this point, and he laughed at me because my social anxiety clamped my throat shut. He told me he, "Wants new ideas for projects," and "Can't hear me talking to him."

At this point, I was done. I still have to see him at theatre to this day, and I still get bossed around by him, since he's the stage manager. But I don't have to deal with him most of the time, I'm exponentially happier, and have made way more friends. It may have been a challenging, and emotionally painful decision to make, but it was the correct one.

I had a beautiful Arabian mare, she was thirty years old and had seen many days of rodeos, play days and children's lessons. She had blue gray skin and fine white hair, and when the sun hit hers certain way like at dusk, she looked blue.

It was coming on winter that fall, she wasn’t putting on any weight and her winter coat wasn’t coming in very good. She was my lead mare, all the rest of my herd followed her.

I knew she wasn’t going to make it that winter and the kindest thing for her was to put her down so she wouldn’t suffer. I called my vet, took her up there and stayed with her until her last breath. It’s hard to say goodbye to such a sweet gentle soul. I still cry about it.

I write what I want. The knowledge, in my opinion, should come later.

Take, for example, my recent novel, which involves a long stay at a mental hospital. I have never been in a mental hospital (whether I should be in one or not is an entirely different argument). All I know about them is the dramatized versions in pop culture, and some scraps I found after a quick jaunt through the internet.

Is my writing accurate? Probably not. Definitely not. I am writing about something that I don't know.

But I wrote it anyway: proof that you can, technically, write what you don't know. I can write about mental hospitals.

The real question is, did I do it well?

The answer to that is, probably not. It's probably deeply flawed.

Here's the fun part: that's okay.

It doesn't matter if my view of mental hospitals is warped beyond recognition.

That's what editing is for.

Whatever glaring misconceptions exist in my first draft (or, in this case, my third draft) can be corrected in the fourth draft. Or the fifth. Or the sixth. Revision is a lengthy process. Editors exist to help you write what you don't know.

If you're writing something, and you don't know it, that's okay. Write it anyway. Then, find someone who does know it, and go from there.

You can write what you don't know. But if you want it to be good, don't be surprised if you have to learn after you write it.

I've sat idle in this h*ll for far too long. The chaos, the pain, the hate. It's all too much. I've told you my feelings you dismissed them.

I told you my troubles you screamed and yelled and threatened.

You hurt me.

Yet I forgive you. not for you but for me.

I forgive the pain, I forgive the bruises, I forgive the abuse.

but I won't stay. I'm not going to put up with this. I don't have to put up with your problems that you are too immature to fix yourself. I love you as a daughter does her mother. yet you don't love me as a mother does her child.

I wanted your love so badly I almost killed myself to get it. But i'm done.

Leaving is hard. It's scary it's a new world of true unconditional love from a family I wasn't born to. It's not worrying for my mental and physical safety everyday. It not feeling anxiety when things aren't hard and full of fury.

Moving away is hard the internal battle i'm facing is even harder. However I have to do what is right for me. I need to protect myself finally. I need to love myself first. I will miss you and I will miss them, the smiles, the laughs, the good times that seem to be far and few between but I wont miss it enough to stay.

goodbye.

Dread permeates every action, interaction, thought, feeling… the moment I look inwards to peek at the source through the cracks between my fingers (eyes covered by a child’s frightened hands), it floods my mind, fills every cobwebbed nook of my consciousness until self-preservation forces me to stem the flow however i can - don't look at it, just don't think about it, if you can't see it then it can’t see you. (Exhibit A: An ostrich. With its head. In the sand.)

Obviously, not the best solution. The main source is stemmed, a shaky dam of avoidance built. (Exhibit B: A beaver. Buckteeth prominent in a mouth hanging vacantly open. Eyes watching the latest distraction^media.) Still, the structure isn’t sound. I’ve never been good at building anything that lasts. Empty aesthetics, that’s me. Functionality? What’s that? (Exhibit C: A peacock. Farcically trying to take flight.) The ceiling leaks in uncountable places, a number beyond my ability to index and deal with. The house is damp and cold. The air smells of mold. Frivolous decorations hang listlessly on the musty walls. The floor is consistently and constantly aqueous - every step taken splashes in the inch or so of the ever present water and mire.

I've bred an ecosystem. Lots of creatures thrive in this environment, y’know. There’s a reason most human settlements avoid swamps. I wish I could escape too, but I’ve grown roots and the mushrooms have overtaken me. The swamp isn’t all bad. It can be pretty in its own way, and it definitely has some interesting inhabitants. Fish, amphibians, reptiles. Crocodiles. Never really was my crowd, to be honest, but I’ll take what I can get.

I long for the days where sunshine breaks through between the clouds, warms the skin of my cheeks, brings a cleansing breeze to beget yet another of the infinite new beginnings in existence at every moment. Gives me some hope. Usually of the false sort. The house starts to dry out a bit. (Exhibit D: A lizard. Basking in the sun.)

Of course, the sun inevitably goes away. It gives me a taste of what could be, even lets me have it for a time. I start to forget what damp feels like. Then the clouds come back and the sun disappears and the mold starts encroaching and I think, it’s okay, it’s temporary, the sun will come back sooner or later, I can hold on, but time creeps inexorably forwards and with it the memory of sunshine slowly fades until I can barely remember what it felt like. I go into autopilot because that’s easiest, everything else takes too much energy and I barely have enough of that to keep dragging my feet along. (Exhibit E: Sloth.)

I don’t have an ending in mind, I’m not capable of it. The sun will come back, I know that on an intellectual level. I even believe it, sort of. Doesn’t really change anything at present, though, does it?

Is the sunshine worth the mire?

The music is playing in the car, everyone is quiet. Not because of anything bad happening, but because everyone is tired and drained. It’s the car ride home after vacation. The several months leading up to planning, saving money, and getting excited for the vacation has ended. Everything has already happened and played out how it was supposed to. We got to the hotel on time, we went everywhere we said we were going to go, and we ate all the food we said we were going to eat. All that's left from this is the pictures we took and the dent made in our bank accounts. I look to my right and see my sister asleep, and I look to the front seat where I see my mom in the passenger seat with her earbuds in while listening to her podcast, and I look to my dad and he is focused on driving. I then look at the g.p.s. where it says how much time we have left until we arrive home. 2 hours left. 2 hours left until I arrive back to reality. 2 hours left until I can no longer say I’m on vacation. 2 hours left until I have to return back to school, work, and all the responsibilities I have. For some reason I want these two hours to last forever. I want them to last forever because being on vacation is one of the best, freeing, and exciting feelings to ever have. When I arrive home I will put my suitcase on my bedroom floor and I will take two weeks until I actually clean it out. I will take all of my souvenirs and place it on my desk for display, and I will transfer all of the pictures I took on my phone and make them into polaroid pictures I can put on my wall. I can’t help but to think of what the next vacation will be or when the next time I'll be able to look forward to something will be. But until then, I will just relax and enjoy the last two hours of my vacation in the car ride home.

I'm pretty positive my uncle Don was a pedophile.

He made creepy, leering jokes at me from the time I was nine onward.

Dad always refused to allow me to be alone with him, despite Don's apparent love and favoritism for me. My brothers were terribly jealous, because, while there was definitely a dark, sick undertone to his love, he bought incredible gifts. Just for me.

His wife (a mail-order bride from some secret location in Asia) also "loved me dearly." I never knew her name. Everyone just referred to her as Mrs. Wong. Their attempts to groom me and gain my trust were impressive to say the least. Dad had a long list of faults, but protecting me from his brother wasn't one of them. It was one of the only right things he ever did.

How on earth does this relate to cars?

I'm getting there.

Uncle Don loved old things. He loved the challenge of them. He bought old houses and cars and bicycles and really any old thing he could get his hands on and restored them. He bought and sold more cars than I can count. He had no problem letting go.

One car, however, he could not part with. No one knew the make or model. No one else had ever owned a car like it. It was Don's own creation.

It was the first car he ever built...

and it was a masterpiece.

Supposedly, Uncle Don had worked in a shop when he was a young man, and he had slowly stolen parts until he had the makings of an engine. Then, he'd taken to sneaking onto properties late at night, stealing larger pieces of metal off of old cars to weld together into something new. He finally saved up enough to buy some classic car (origin unknown-- he wouldn't tell anyone) to use as the base for the project, and then had spent the next half decade piecing it together.

He was left with something resembling an old fashioned bat-mobile. The car was the color of midnight, with smooth, rounded lines, velvet seats, and a shining chrome hood ornament. The car was legendary. He had never lost a show in which it had been entered. The car was famous in every town it frequented.

They say that Don never had any children. They're wrong.

He did. It was that beautiful black monstrosity of a vehicle.

He lovingly draped it in blankets each night after spending hours of the day tinkering on it, perfecting it, waxing its paint.

That car was his child: his creation.

No one was allowed inside--Not even Mrs. Wong.

Until.

We met Uncle Don at some car show in a small town. It was mid-summer and the sun had just set. The atmosphere was perfect for cruising. I was twelve. I was brave.

And Uncle Don invited me on a ride in his car.

Even dad couldn't say no to that. He'd been dying to sit in the thing for years.

Don treated me like the queen of the whole wide world. He read the warning look my father gave, nodded his head at the murder threatening in his eyes, and held open the door of his most precious possession for me to slip inside.

(He did-- behave, that is. Don never did lay an inappropriate finger on me. I know you were worried, but this isn't that kind of story.)

The velvet of the seats was even softer than it looked. It felt like floating on a cloud- it felt like luxury. The blending of leather and metal and wood on the inside of that car was artistry itself.

Don slipped into the driver seat and smirked, "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes." I'd scarcely whispered, torn as I was between awe and fear.

His smile widened and he turned the key. The engine rumbled and screamed and purred. I could feel it in my soul.

He accelerated and the engine roared, and we sped off down the road, and I forgot time had any meaning at all as the wind whipped my long hair and my skin melted into velvet and my heart pulsed with every nudge of the gas pedal.

When it was over, I could scarcely bring myself to slide out of the soft seat. Uncle Don waited with the door held for a long minute, a knowing glint in his eye. As I stepped onto the pavement, he whispered in my ear, "Now you'll never be able to say no to a guy with a fast car again..."

And he was right.

It filled the room.

Gradually flowing and forming into what looked like a massive cloud coming from the vents. She knew to hold her breath, and not breathe it in.

Her eyes scanned the room. She could not see him. As she tried to continue searching for him in the room, she ended up banging her head near a giant lamp that for some odd reason appeared out of thin air.

‘‘Not so fast!’’

She rubbed her head, and felt like she just got hit with a baseball bat. Then turned to stare at the enormous lamp that now cleared its throat.

The lamp flickered it’s light in her face. When she reached for the light switch, a long cord slapped her face. She screamed, and asked, ‘‘What was that for?’’

No it seemed like the lamp had won. It flickered once more right before it turned it’s light off.

The gas…it was still circulating around the room! She panicked. How could she have forgotten about it? Her eyelids began to feel heavy.

‘‘Lights out…hope you have a nice, long cat nap!’’

She felt lightheaded.

Her chest was on fire.

She thought of drawing water out of thin air. But she had not been taught that hand sign at school.

Her body fell onto the floor. The floor opened up, and swallowed her body whole.

‘‘Sayonara!’’ the lamp exclaimed.

#Sayonara ©️

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_14cb1xCY-4

Saturday 02—25~2023-

I am the Head of Household for two homes.

My parents’ house and mine.

I make the hard decisions and I make sense of sticky situations.

I have a “salesman” type of communication.

I tell you what I need and it gets done. I can convince you of anything.

For as long as I could remember, everything I have ever wanted, I have been able to get it with the choice of words I decide to use.

This is not including childhood, I just mean, as an adult.

With my witty personality, and great “she’s so nice” look, it has been very easy to relate to others. I analyze every situation and possibility and I come out on top, 99% of the time. The missing 1% is for the parenting part. That shit is hard and my babies “wants” will always be on top of mine, therefore, 1% is everything revolving my babies.

Having these abilities, no one would ever know that I have major anxiety and depression.

My alarm goes off at 04:55 a.m. every morning.

I wake up.

I lay there.

I should be getting ready for work; my work day starts at 6:30 a.m.

But I linger.

“What do I wear? Do I want to be comfortable, professional or …. naked”

Sweater and jeans it is.

I arrive at work at 6:34 a.m. every morning.

Could I have made it on time? Sure. If I would have saved myself those 35 minutes and self-doubt and tears while I wait for the “5:30 a.m. get your ass up” alarm to go off.

I am suppose to take medication for the depression and anxiety but it slows me down. I got shit to do.

While at work, I smile so much it hurts my face. I have an infectious laugh that some would even consider magical because I can make anyone smile. It drains me so much.

I can not stay seated in my chair for more than 20 minutes at a time without randomly getting up and walking around the plant.

I have a desk job that requires me to get up maaaybbeee four times a day. Usually no times a day. My job is at my computer.

I counted the times I got up yesterday.

32 times.

Unnecessary walking and roaming around the office.

When I get out of work, I make one stop to get my kids from daycare and parents’ house.

It’s back to business.

What bills need to be paid? What doctor appointments does dad need? Why did his life insurance premium go up?

45 minutes and everything and anything is answered and handled.

I wish I could just breathe.

The call me “Sergeant” there.

I just want to sleep.