I feel completely scattered and at the same time linear. Wearing nothing but what I wore yesterday, I come across my laptop, decide to find happiness in a sea of strangers.

My therapist had a deck of cards: archetypes. These are from Jung, personas we wear in public, on the flip side, shadows we keep secret from those who might judge us.

She shuffled them rather obviously and placed "addict" on the top.

She handed me the deck, asked me: "Do any of these cards resonate with you?"

Addict, definition courtesy of Oxford Languages: "a person who is addicted to a particular substance, typically an illegal drug." It's synonyms are "abuser" "user" and "junkie."

I wasn't sure whether to be offended, or if archetypes can be deeper.

How do I really appear to her?

I skipped that card entirely. I settled on the "Alchemist" card, because I told her: "It creates things, like a writer."

At first I thought, my therapist thinks I'm stupid. I don't articulate everything very linearly. I wear the same clothes as yesterday.

I gripe about my mental health to the sea of strangers on the internet, hoping that I don't come across as a shadow self, but as an authentic "junkie" - of my sanity.

I've never been particularly verbose

Or brilliant with wordplay,

But I'd like to try

And be honest.

When the stars fade in, as the sun falls

Do you think of me?

Does the dazzling light of Sirius remind you of me?

Or do I inspire thoughts of the extinguished stars,

Which have been dead for many years,

Yet still shine?

Am I the rug on which you step?

Or the rest on which you rest your arm?

Am I the disposable syringe? or am I

The most hated monstrosity.

I only want to write things if they’re true, but sometimes, I’m tempted to lie. I wonder if anyone really wants to hear the truth. Because what’s true to me is the cold bacon grease congealed in the pan on the stove. The constant whirr of the ceiling fan, and the fact that my grandparents are still alive. I don’t smoke or gamble or even know many people who do. My boyfriend always picks up the tab, no 50/50 here. And yes, I’m still working on my associate’s degree, 3 years later, sleeping in my childhood bedroom with the pink curtain hanging in the doorway. And I can’t think of much else to say that wouldn’t be lies, so I’ll keep on writing about the things I know. And whether or not it’s worth reading, I’ll leave that up to you.

Nick and Casssandra are parked along the river. The sky is clear and the sun’s light is brilliant, creating sparkling diamonds along the shoreline. Nick sips on a coffee with one hand and holds a greasy breakfast sandwich in the other. Cassandra is quiet, and so is Nick. The radio is on low and they’re here to patch things up, if they can.

She swirls then takes small sips of her iced coffee, then swirls the ice again. She sighs and stares out at an empty river. It’s late fall and the view is still magnificent, but the weather is becoming too cold for any boats, or swimmers to be out. The snow is coming soon and then days like this will seem impossible until late spring when the grass and water begin to reappear after being buried by snow and ice for several long cold months.

“I’m sorry,” Nick says quietly, looking at the water. Just those words are so hard to say and he doesn’t know why.

“Me too,” she responds, those words equally as hard for her.

The evening before had been their first alone without kids in years, and they had spent it clawing at each other’s throats. The topic of sex crossing the threshold from toxic to poisonous and deadly. The word and the act becoming sacrilege. Cassandra had screamed at the top of her lungs that she never wanted to have sex again. “This is bullshit,” she yelled. “You make me feel like I need to fuck you or you’ll throw a fit like a goddamn baby!”

And he had retorted, “Why don’t you want to fuck me in the first place? I stayed in good shape, I’m a good father, a good husband, and now we have a night alone for the first time in ages, and what? You’re not in the mood? Why? What do I have to do Cassandra? Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to get on my knees and beg like a dog? Is that what you’re looking for?”

“Of course, that isn’t what I want.” She said, “you just make me feel like a piece of meat that’s only good for sex.” Then she began to cry, and Nick should have stopped. He had a propensity to have out-of-body experiences in the heat of arguments, where he could feel himself floating above his body and telling himself to just stop talking. To stop digging that hole, or he was going to find himself approaching an unbearable heat.

But he couldn’t stop. He was hurt, and he was angry. And he was feeling a life of intimacy slipping away.

“You’re just a piece of meat? Do you think I’m a nympho or something? Christ, you act like I’m begging for it every day. All I want is sex on a semi-regular basis. That’s it. I married you Cassandra, I swore that I’d only ever have eyes for you for the rest of my life. And my best years are slipping away with me spending every evening alone in the spare room, while you sit in the living room. You think that’s right? Do you?”

“I can’t help if I don’t feel like it, Nick. Okay? If I don’t want to, I don’t have to.”

“Remember when we first got together?” Cassandra rolled her eyes at this, because it was speech that Nick had gone through more times than she could count. The same pointless blah-blah-blah fucking rant that she hated, but once he started talking, he didn’t stop, and every time she opened her mouth, he interrupted her before she could get a word in.

But when she rolled her eyes, Nick could feel an anger that made him want to drive his head through a wall. It made him feel sick, and unheard. Like nothing he said mattered. Like his life and this marriage didn’t matter.

“We were all over each other, Cass. Days spent in my room. What is it? Is it me?” He knew when he started whining like a little kid who didn’t get his way, he was only pushing her further away, but he needed to know.

“My girlfriends that I talk to are all in the same boat, Nick. It stops being new and exciting and it’s not the same as it was then.”

Nick hated that bullshit cop-out too. Cassandra loved to say it was the natural flow of things. That marriages HAD to be sexless at a certain point. And he hated the fact that the “girlfriends” she spoke of all had marriages that were closing in on divorce. Unhealthy marriages filled with relentless unhappiness bordering on depression, and these were the examples she used. Was that supposed to make him feel better? Because it sure as hell didn’t.

The evening went on like that until they went to bed. Their first chance at a quiet, peaceful evening blew up in their faces in a matter of seconds. And as Nick lay in the darkness of his room, as Cassandra snored softly beside him, he felt sick and trapped in his own skin. The late night hours alone in the dark, inside his head made Nick think thoughts that he would never think of in the morning. He remembered Stephen King calling them the suicide hours, and while he wasn’t quite at that point, he felt it would no longer be a surprise if the dreaded S word popped into his skull.

Now parked at the water in the morning, life seems different. Still not great, but better with the possibility of mending what seemed unfixable the evening before. Eventually, Nick places his hand on her left leg, and she places a soft hand on top and begins to rub it gently. Her face begins to calm and he can see traces of a woman who isn’t filled with rage, regret, and questions, and he hopes his face is showing signs of the same thing.

The sunlight and the calm sparkling, rippling water makes the world feel like a different place, then the darkness in a lonely bed.

“I love you, Cas. I’m sorry I ruined the night. I’m sorry I care so much about sex. I just don’t want it to continue the way it’s going. I remember Cody telling me at work that he’s down to once every six months or so. And even when they do it, he says she’s just laying in silence waiting for it to be over, and I can’t do that. Massages, candlelit dinners, romantic movies, whatever we have to do, I want to do. I still want you as much as I did when we first met, Cas. I swear I do. I’ll watch Dirty Dancing with you every night and I’ll watch every episode of Grey’s Anatomy too.”

She laughs at this, and he breathes a sigh of relief, then laughs with her.

They finish their coffee, and back out and head to the east side to pick up the kids. Nothing resolved, and the same argument will find its way back into their homes, but for now, Cas rubs his hand, and Nick tells her he’ll stop bringing it up. That he’ll let her come to him. It’s a lie, but in the early morning sunshine, it feels true.

I am not a person who complains a lot. Generally, I am a happy person, at least, inwardly, not a bubbly extrovert, but, happy.

There is one thing that annoys me, however: the amount of competitiveness that there is in the world. I do not blame the internet for it. That existed long before the internet. It is just an ugly trait of human nature.

Some people are chatty, others are quiet. There is nothing wrong with either. Some need to work in a factory of three hundred people, others prefer to work alone. Again there is nothing wrong with either.

I have always been a quiet person. Every school report mentions that I kept myself to myself. Most days, I went to (secondary) school alone. There were times when some girls used to ask me to accompany them on the journey to school and, of course, I accepted; it would have been churlish to refuse, but, rather than indulge in conversation with them, I preferred to listen in silence.

When I reached the age of eighteen, most of the visitors who came to our house, started talking about marriage. At that age, I was little more than a child myself and had never thought of marriage. I had to sit in silence and endure endless insinuations that it was time that I got married and had children. It was very annoying and went on for a number of years.

I never imagined that people chose to make my life so miserable. My family, well-meaningly, told me never to divulge my age after I reached twenty, but what if the people who asked me were somewhat related to me, e.g. their grandmother and my grandmother were first cousins? Before you ask me how come that those people who asked me my age did not know it, I can honestly say that I have relatives on the other side of the family, whose children and even some grandchildren I have met and I am sure that their parents, who knew me from child onwards, would tell them my age anyway, so what is the point of trying to conceal my age when there are people who know me for too long to know that I am not a teenager anymore and that they would tell their children how old I am anyway? In other words, people would find out how old I am anyway, whether I hide it from them or not.

Being single and childless at sixty-three is somewhat unusual, but why should I have married and had children "just in order to fit in with the world?" I have no maternal instincts, so I am not sure how good I would be to that child, so it is good that I chose to remain single and childless.

I tread lightly, but give my all to conform to your embrace:

thrashed to the winds, no regards for the merciless tides.

asking myself in silence: is this surplus of pain worth your miniscule calm waters?

my feet are blistered and scarred

my hands wrinkled and worn

my eyes red and weary

my heart….just tired

yet I cling to your crashes and sways, no regard for the obstacles and dangers

as with that pain and sorrow was momentary peace and serenity

now, waking on the barren shores, my body is healing

my heart, slowly, and in time, will.

yet, I often long for your embrace, throbbing scars as the final reminiscence

Before I fell in love, I knew who I was. I knew that I was headstrong and loved. I was far from wishful and I was determined in everything that I did. I was able to define myself and know who I was. I knew that love was powerful and it meant a lot to me. I knew that one day, someone would fall in love with me and I with them. I knew we would have a fairytale where we were both perfect and had everything we needed to make eachother happy. We had eachother. That would be enough.

After I fell in love, I lost myself, but to me it did not matter. I was now weak and wishful. I was dependent on someone who did not appreciate me for who I was. Therefore, I altered all of the pieces of me he did not like. I did this for love, because I fell in love with him and I did not want to lose him. One part of me regrets my decision. I think back to the girl who believed that soulmates were real, and she would meet one at the perfect time and fall in love with them until she parted from this earthly city. The other part of me is satisfied with my decision. I have grown to feel that I will never be loved by anyone, not even myself, so if I could change to believe I was loved and worthy by that one man that it would feel like enough. I hope it is enough.

Those people who have their family AGM in the middle of the main thoroughfare of the shopping mall on Christmas Eve. Please stand aside. The rest of us are trying to go places and do things. Surely there is somewhere better to have a convocation, or are you trying to be a nuisance to society?