I guess I’ll just talk about it. I started Benadryl super young. It was always the go-to for my allergies. I’m not allergic to too many things, but freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke will put me out. My eyes will swell and they’ll start burning profusely. Sometimes, it’ll get bad enough that I can’t even see anything, the world just becomes a blurry mess of tears and the stinging sensation overwhelms me. One time I rubbed my eyes so hard, I ended up with two black and blue sockets. When I have these allergy attacks, very few things are fast-acting enough to ease my allergic reactions. Benadryl was the only thing that worked when I was younger. I’m very proud of my body for not having an allergy attack in the last few years. I think it’s because I’m not around people who smoke cigarettes anymore. My family used to smoke them around me all the time. My mother was the only one to advocate on my behalf, warning others that they shouldn’t be smoking around me. No one ever really listened, they just did it behind her back anyway.

Since no one ever stopped smoking around me, Benadryl became a consistent companion. I would only take one and fall asleep shortly afterwards, drooling and dreaming my way past the allergic reaction. It was efficient. Interestingly enough, I didn’t like taking medication growing up. Whenever I had a fever, I’d spit out my Aspirins and Tylenols the moment my caretaker left the room. There were a lot of addicts in my family, so I tried to steer clear of anything and everything. I wish that were still true. I remember feeling so proud of myself whenever I told someone “I’ve never tried that before.” I can’t remember the last time I said that. I feel like I’ve tried everything I could get my hands on at this point, or at least everything that isn’t addictive.

The way I got wrapped up in my Benadryl lullabies is directly associated with my dreaded allergy attacks. Benadryl didn’t start out as a problem. It began as an efficient solution. Normally, when an attack would come, I’d ask a family member for some Benadryl and all would be over by the time I woke up. This particular time, the beginning of my dependency, I had done exactly the same. I began with my Aunt, she handed me the pink little pill and swallowed it with little hesitancy. One. Then, my father’s girlfriend noticed me scratching at my eyes and offered me another from her purse. Two. Then, my mother, upon seeing my bloodshot eyes and tears running down my face, ordered me “go to the drawer and get yourself a Benadryl!” Three. I hazily remember another family friend who was visiting handing me another. Four. It all happened so quickly. I was the kind of adolescent who just did what she was told. I didn’t think much of them handing me so many and none of them knew I had already had some. I was in pain and desperate. So, I just did what I thought would help.

Well, it helped, but I slept for two days straight. My family is the type to let you sleep as long as you want, so they didn’t bother me. I woke up hazy and confused, but it was also the first time I remember having a deep, relaxing sleep. While I woke up confused, I also woke up well rested. Growing up with my family, I was always on edge and was constantly woken up by screaming and fighting. But Benadryl made everything silent.

For the first time, I couldn’t hear a thing. I remember the sensation vividly. My body felt so tingly and I felt incredibly warm, like a house cat laying in the sunbeams coming through the window. Nothing could bother me in this state. It truly was a lullaby. For once I wasn’t worrying about tomorrow’s or responsibilities or shitty environments; my only concern was rest. For the first time, I realized the definition of peace.

It was a shame my family, with good intentions, kind of overdosed me, but I also admit I should have spoken up. It’s not really their fault. I just don’t think ahead, but that all changed when I fell in love, or rather in desperation, for that newfound peace. I was always thinking ahead to the next time I could head to Dollar General to pick up some more. From there I was doing Benadryl all the fucking time. Have a bad day? Pop a Benadryl to ease the stress. Finish your homework early? Pop a Benadryl as a reward. Excited for tomorrow’s events and want to get there faster? Pop a Benadryl to travel through time. Have a class you don’t want to sit through? Pop a Benadryl so you’ll sleep through it. Need to wait in the car in the hot sun with no air conditioning for hours while your father shoots up in a trap house? Pop a Benadryl and nap in the back seat. To put it simply: it made life a little bit easier. Just sleep through all of your problems? Yes, please.

I’ve never really spoken about Benadryl before. It was kind of this secret shame I carried around. The only one that has ever known about it was my abusive ex. Shouldn’t have told him shit in hindsight. Maybe the reason I stayed so long is because I slept through most of the relationship. Can’t hit me if I’m out cold, ya know? One time I got mad at him because I found out he was buying opiates from the downstairs neighbor in our apartment complex and he got pissed that I would even confront him about it because, “You do Benadryl and I don’t give you shit, bitch. Mind your damn business and go the fuck to sleep.” I took his advice. Although, I still stand by my opinion that opiates and Benadryl are a bit different. They’re also a hell of a lot cheaper and me buying it didn’t interfere with rent, but whatever, that’s a story for another day.

One time, Benadryl actually helped me out though. I think that’s why I was so willing to do it further in the future. I genuinely didn’t think it was bad and at one point it even saved my fucking life. Can’t say that about most drugs, huh?

It was in high school that Benadryl helped me out. It started when my guidance counselor called me in one day and asked where I was staying and who was taking care of me. I had become homeless over the Summer after my father got into an argument over drug money with his girlfriend and we got kicked out of her mothers trailer. Apparently, she was stealing thousands off him. My father had recently received a large worker’s comp. settlement, about 100k, that he had been fighting to receive for years. Most of the money went on drugs, but a lot of the money was also stolen for other drugs that my father didn’t know about by his girlfriend, my brother, and my aunt. It also involved a few family friends, but I genuinely can’t remember who the fuck they were. People were always in and out. Turns out, not only was his girlfriend stealing thousands, but she would end her days fucking her baby daddy who had previously raped her kids til their intestine’s came out. It was fucked all the way around. So my father left, as he should have, but now we had nowhere to go. I only found out I was homeless when my father picked me up after I attended an 8-residential writing program at Denison University. I thought I was going home, no one called me or anything, only for him to pick me up and say “we gotta go to your sisters house because we don’t live in the trailer no more.” I just nodded my head.

Of course, I wasn’t going to tell my counselor that. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what happened to kids in foster care and I also knew that the more I changed schools the less likely I was to graduate. My education has always been my primary concern. It’s better to be homeless with a degree, than homeless with nothing. I’m here to break cycles even if it kills me in the end. I’d rather die trying than with my hands in my pockets. I don’t even know how she knew to question me. I guess there were some red flags I didn’t know I was flying. I lied anyway. I told her my father was out of town and that my sister came in to watch me til he got back. She started questioning me like where’d he go and when he’d be back. I just shrugged and said I didn’t know. I wasn’t prepared for a line of questioning. I just wanted to get back to my school work.

She let me go with a hesitation, but I know her mind was turning. There ain’t no damn way she believed me, but my naïve, conceited little self was convinced I had gotten away with it. I cruised out the counselor’s office and confidently strode my way into my seventh period class, thinking I had gotten away with something. All that really happened is she realized she needed to keep a better eye on me, look for tangible evidence. She did.

It was about a week or so later, time is shady in my memories, when I would have another run in with the counselor. Typically I would spend my last period of the day asking around for a place to stay. I had a graduating class of 90 students, half of which weren’t even there because they were attending trade school, so we all knew each other. Many of the students knew my situation and were more than willing to help out. This particular day, I was in 8th period and had decided to take a Benadryl to get through it. My 8th period class was a mentorship program, which really meant I chose a teacher to help out with grading. It was my Senior year and I was in the 10th grade English classroom with Mrs. Schoonover. Mrs. Schoonover was actually the first person to encourage me to write. I wrote a story about two enemies playing chess and, I’ll never forget it, she told me, “You’re a really good writer!” From then on I made a point to impress my teachers with each new assignment. For someone who never received praise before in a school setting, I lapped it up.

This school, Westfall, wasn’t the first school I attended. I attended a school in Columbus ever since I was a little girl. It was called Hamilton. It was way bigger and the students were pretty affluent. I was always referred to as Reese rat because I lived in the low income neighborhood, Reese. Hamilton was fucking awful. I once told my guidance counselor there that I was molested and she told me that my grades were looking good enough that I should be okay to move forward and to let her know if my grades start slipping. Hamilton was a blue ribbon school, so they loved tests. They only cared if your grades weren’t up to par and if they weren’t they’d convince you into joining ecot or one of their “alternative academy’s.” This way they could push you out before your grades and scores started affecting their overall rating. Even when my house burned down, the Hamilton bus driver would drop me off at my burnt down house and leave me there. It wasn’t like the school didn’t know I was homeless. Hell, they even did a clothing drive! They knew exactly what was up and did nothing.

Because of shit ass Hamilton, I really wasn’t used to a school paying attention to me, nor did I consider they’d ever be concerned for my well being. In my experience, schools don’t care unless it starts to affect them. So, I was pretty good at keeping my tragedies to myself. Westfall was different. They were all so kind and when hearing my story offered loads of support and resources. Teachers even invited me to live with them. It was such a small community that everyone knew each other and the school saw no issue with me potentially living with teachers. Westfall was a saving grace and they are very well the reason I’m still here. I couldn’t have made it without them. Westfall was good at paying attention and they wanted to keep me not push me out. They valued me, something I had never experienced before.

Anyways, there I was in my mentorship program, when I decided to step away to go to the bathroom where I popped 5 Benadryl tablets. I can’t even remember why I did it. I was just bored. Maybe, deep down, I wanted someone to notice and help me. I had nothing to grade, so I sat at my desk with my head down until my body got those tingles and shut down for the remainder of the period. Like I said before, this was usually the time I’d start asking around, or I’d even wander the halls before the buses came to ask around for a place to sleep. However, the busses left at 2:35PM and my darling, polite teacher had let me sleep till 3:00PM. I remember waking up to her slightly moving my shoulder.

I headed out to the halls and realized I was only one still there. I ran back to the classroom unsure of what to do. She said I could stay there til someone picked me up, but I genuinely had no one I could call. I ended up texting a friend and she said I could stay there if I could find a ride. I thought about potentially calling my father, but I had already told him I had found somewhere to live to keep him from worrying and possibly pulling me out of the school to live in whatever new trap house he found. I guess you could say I was homeless by choice. He thought I was living with a girl he met named Cheyenne, so I couldn’t have him drop me off somewhere new or he’d get suspicious.

I sat silently in her classroom in a dazed panic. Benadryl was still in my system, so not only was I having an internal panic attack, but I was incredibly out of it. Even when I walked to the halls, I was stumbling and dragging my feet looking for someone, anyone to be left. After sitting and pretending to be finding a ride, I finally peaked up from my phone with slurred words and asked my teacher for a ride to my friends house. She agreed but she needed to ask the counselor for permission first. If the Benadryl wasn’t in me, I probably would have ran away when she left.

I was starting to nod off when her and the counselor entered the room. The counselor started her line of questioning again and this time the Benadryl didn’t let me lie.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

No.

“Do you have anyone taking care of you?”

No.

“How long has this been going on?”

I don’t know.

“Do you need somewhere to stay?”

Yes.

I told her with slow blinks and slurred words that I could potentially stay with a friend, but that I needed a ride to get there. I don’t even know how she could understand me. She arranged for a bus to take me there. She said if I ever needed a ride again to let her know and they’d do it no questions asked.

What was so remarkable about this was that they fought tooth and nail to avoid getting children services involved. I genuinely thought they were going to ship me away and make me someone else’s problem. They made it a point to tell me that they wanted to keep me here and that they valued my talent for writing. They provided me with some employment in the building and even gave me a variety of resources for homeless students. They arranged for a bus to take me wherever I needed to go and were able to find a loophole that prevented them from having to get Children Protective services involved. Apparently, if your parents know where you are and you’re in a safe environment, CPS doesn’t need to take you away. I ended up staying with that friend for a couple of months, so I was able to tell my father exactly where I was and avoided the dreaded foster care. None of this was possible without Westfall, and somehow, none of it was possible without Benadryl.

I was saved, not so much physically, but emotionally. I didn’t have to worry about rides or my school finding out. I didn’t have to worry about foster care or being sent away. I didn’t have to worry about losing the education I valued above all else. When I applied to university I didn’t have a transcript, but my counselor wrote a letter on my behalf and the only school I applied to, Wittenberg, welcomed me with open arms. It felt like my life was headed in the right direction for a change, I wish I hadn’t ruined my momentum by moving when my abusive ex, but even with all the support I still couldn’t afford room and board. Gotta do what you gotta do. Like I said, I’m here to break cycles even if it kills me.

Yet, even with a death wish, the thought of Westfall keeps me alive. Gives me something to strive for, gives me someone to not let down. I’m one of those people that liked high school. It’s the one place I felt safe and loved and okay. It was my escape and it was a better lullaby than Benadryl ever could be. While I still did Benadryl for years to come after this event, I can still confidently say this experience turned my life around. When my high school identified me as a homeless youth, the FAFSA gave me immensely more money and it’s what made university a reality for me. Without this, without Benadryl, without Westfall, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. I’m crying just writing this and thinking about the security Westfall gave me. They even knew I was on something and said nothing because my safety and education was their primarily concern. I had good grades, I was in extracurriculars, I won them writing competitions, I gave all the faculty and staff in the school goody bags for teacher’s appreciation week, I always showed up with a smile, and they noticed. They really fucking noticed. I can’t tell you what they saw in me. I can’t tell you why they decided I was worth investing in. In my eyes, Westfall is where my family is. It’s where my heart is. It’s where all my hopes and aspirations lie.

As of now, my Benadryl lullaby’s have ended. Instead, my heart sings me to sleep with the memory of those who gave me a future. When I walk across the stage this May, my heart will sing for the ones who brought me here.

Westfall,

thank you for waking me up.

Tags: #mentalhealth #recovery #highschool #creativenonfiction #truestory #memoir #creativewriting #memory #addiction #substanceabuse #benadryl #mentaldependency #dependency #addict #trauma

i look at the black canvas they call a night sky with my dilated eyes and i try to find the thousands of stars that promise they’ll take me home. No one answers the call. i am stuck in a body that won’t stop sitting and a mind that won’t stop running. So many trains of thought, but not a single one offering me a ride, just a continuous animation of all the ideas and dictations that leave me behind. i feel the grass twinkling its dewy mess in between my fingers and for the first time, i think i feel god, or maybe it’s just the acid soaked nerves that build up this feigned sense of spirituality.

There’s a single tingle down my spine that lifts me up with a giggle and i begin to remember bible camps and Sunday schools, hula hoop contests where the prizes are mini bibles and cotton candy. i think of the coolness of that dewy mess in between my fingers and it brings me back to the same coolness i felt when i snuck away with a friend to eat all of the snacks in the preschool room that was meant for the children who were too young and distracted to sit through a Sunday service.

It was a three day fasting activity, i still can’t quite tell you what it was for, but they sure made it sound important. i hate missing out, and being the poor kid, extracurriculars aren’t something i could usually indulge in. All i had was the church to encourage my budding social development. So, when they planned a three day fasting event for Sunday School students aged 11–13, i couldn’t help myself. A church sleepover had it all, uninterested, yet flirty little boys i could throw myself at, a chance to show off my short little pajamas, and an opportunity to talk to real, fleshed out human beings in the middle of the night. It had it all.

i showed up, ate the big breakfast generously provided for all of the eager fasting followers, and then snuck away at the prime of 3:00AM to dine on the fine extravagance of goldfish crackers and Swedish fish. i wasn’t alone in my decision, it was definitely a group sin, but that didn’t make them taste any less magnificent. i can only imagine the Sunday panic that ensued when one of the young children arrived in the room to indulge their distracted minds only to be left with empty bellies and empty promises of snack time. i wonder now, if that coolness ever brought me as close to god as i am now, or rather, feel now.

i liked the church. i cried when they sang and i cried whenever they’d pray for me. Looking back, i didn’t realize how much they pitied me, i always enjoyed the special treatment. It made me feel like i could walk on water, eating goldfish crackers and never looking down. Maybe, i really did have a god complex, that’s what my sister always said. How else is a child supposed to feel when showered with charity and praise for the simplest progressions and accomplishments merely because someone of her status isn’t meant to succeed?

They called me a miracle, a blessing, a diamond waiting to emerge under all the pressure of life’s greatest miseries. They did it again when i was homeless. They did it again when my mother died. They did it again when i passed out in the classroom after taking too much benadryl in the high school bathroom. They did it again when i wrote a mediocre poem during my stay at the mental hospital.

Funnily enough, while i was at the mental hospital, the other patients would always save up their goldfish crackers for me because they knew how much i loved them and they knew i’d never eat the food the hospital provided. i’d hide them in my pillow and munch on them throughout the night. Sometimes i’d feel god again knocking on that one way, bulletproof window. Maybe, i should put a little goldfish cracker on my grave, then god and i could laugh at my sins, instead of reflecting on them. Gotta do something to distract the man, he’s too watchful sometimes. i’d like to think that if i can convince him to look away long enough, maybe i’ll have a chance.

But, i digress, they were always doing it, praising me, i mean. They always glorified me for doing the bare minimum of surviving, while my classmates and peers flustered under stricter deadlines and missed assignments that wouldn’t be marked off just because there was too much tobacco on the kitchen table to do homework. It’s no wonder i fell so hard when i finally looked in the mirror and saw those funny little sins all looking back at me like a thousand stars that refused to die out.

i remember the last time i saw the people of the church. They were there when my house burned down. They watched it with me with a strange politeness, a comfort in their company. The news of the fire spread so quickly over social media, that everyone came to watch it with us. The house that burned me now burned a thousand shades of red that refused to die out. My childhood home burst with that same strange politeness, comfort in its destruction. Would you believe me if i said it was Easter Sunday? Sometimes i think my life is full of too many coincidences, too many goldfish crackers. There’s a news article floating around somewhere about it.

It was the fault of my nephew, but i use fault sparingly. He was three at the time. My brother and aunt had taught him how to light their cigarettes and how to heat up the bottom of their spoons when they were too high off heroin to do it themselves. i was playing Monopoly in the living room, while my aunt, sister, and cousin left to go visit the grave of my aunt’s son, he died of SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, before he ever reached a year old. My mother, or rather my grandmother but she behaved as my motherly figure, was sent to the nut house, my beloved mental hospital, because she believed she killed him. i wonder if they gave her goldfish crackers too. My mother was caring for him for three sleepless days while my aunt had disappeared again to god knows where. In her exhaustion she tripped over the dog while carrying the little baby and fell on him. She begged my aunt to take him to the hospital, but my aunt said he was fine. He cried a really long time, days even. The autopsy revealed he had a broken rib and that it may have been the reason he died, but ultimately they decided to go with SIDS. Or, maybe, that was just a lie my aunt told us to make my mother feel like less of a sin. My mother put the dog down as soon as i was away long enough, i don’t think she could bear to look at the dog that tripped her.

i remember when my mother first threatened to put her down, the dog, i mean. i held onto her tightly, my little hands squeezing the fur clumped together at the nape of her neck. “Let go of that mutt dumbass!” My mother beat me with a branch as i held onto the dog i grew up with, trying to get me to let go, but i just held on tighter, my wails buried in her fur. i think i saw god then, too, but he looked a little different.

My dog’s name was Jesse. The name Jesse is still a password to a lot of my personal things, but forget you read that part. The stick she beat me with hurt, but it didn’t hurt as much as when i discovered what they did to my dog and how they abandoned her at the shelter to be put to sleep. You don’t need the details, some things you have to keep to yourself. i didn’t sleep well after that, especially because my mother and i were forced to share a bed due to the size of the house. It’s hard to sleep next to someone after they do something like that. She was always doing something like that. i don’t think it was Jesse’s fault the baby died, but i think all of life is just finding someone else you can project your sins onto as a way to convince yourself that maybe heaven really will want you.

i suppose i should bring my derailed train back to the fire. i only mention it because it was the first time i saw something actually rise on an Easter Sunday. i was so used to things just going down and never coming back up. My nephew, after i had refused to let him play Monopoly with me, had caught the bottom of the bed on fire. He has Oppositional Defiant Disorder, meaning, if you do something he doesn’t like, he quickly acts out compulsively. i was the first to notice the fire, i called for my father to put it out and left the house immediately terrified of what was to come. i didn’t grab a single thing, nor did i help my crippled mother out of the house. It seems i’ve always looked out for myself, even in the beginning. i remember the fire licking the bullet holes on the back door where my brother almost shot a family friend for making fun of his weight.

“Be reborn!” the shattered windows shouted at me across the street as the devil flaunted in the flames. My sister and her followers finally returned from the grave site only to be greeted by firetrucks and crowds of people watching the house like it was a phoenix. i ran to her, arms opened wide, i remember the electrical lines sparking and making noises only god could understand above us. It really was a pretty bad fire, even though i keep glossing over it and getting distracted. Maybe, they should have put me in the preschool room too. At least i’d be able to look forward to the goldfish crackers.

My nephew was always getting in trouble. i remember the stares we would get in Mcdonald’s when he would pull the straw from his Large Coke and pretend to snort imagined pills from the dirty tables. He was only three at the time, he said he wanted to grow up to be like his daddy. He was only ever mimicking what went on around him. i don’t know if i blame him for the fire or not. On one hand, he was the one holding the lighter, on the other hard he didn’t teach himself how to use it. Maybe, instead of blame, i should thank him. i don’t think i would have gotten out of there otherwise.

Oh, goldfish crackers, i can still taste the saltiness and i remember the dewy mess on my fingers that would be left after i sucked the salt off of each sinful digit. That dewy mess, that messy sin, that dewy god. Oh, where’s the balance? i wonder if my mother ever made it up there, i know she might seem awful, but when the awful is normal, the goodness in someone shines so much brighter than the sins they left behind. i really do think he’d let her in. She said she’d become a preacher if she ever got better, i really do think she meant it. i think some people just don’t know better.

The reason it isn’t easy for me to completely condemn my mother, even in all the misery she perpetuated is because i know better. My mother wasn’t perfect, but no one really is. We tend to hide our ugliness, cover it up under scarred thighs and deleted tweets. She just wore hers on her sleeve. If anything, it just makes her more honest than most. Or, maybe, that’s just what i tell myself to get by. i said my mother is actually my grandmother. My birth mother left me and moved to Texas. My mother was always the one who told the story of how my father got custody of me, so i’m not sure how true it is. No one else seems to want to talk about it, so i’ll just tell you what she said.

She said she went to pick me up from my biological mother’s house and she could count on two hands the roaches that crawled over picture frames and scurried on yellow-stained walls. She said i had an inch of dirt caked onto my feet and cigarette burns on my back like i was a little ashtray left outside too long. She said she scooped me up out of the broken screen door window and no one even noticed that i was gone. She said she took me to the doctor and the doctor called children services. She said from there, my father was able to get custody and i was with her ever since.

My mother always liked me most because i looked like her. i was small and blonde. i remember she would point out heavier people in the middle of the thrift store and tell me, “you ever look like that, i’ll slap the shit out of you.” i still really don’t like eating. i think the whole process is disgusting and too mortal. i wonder if what she said has anything to do with that. My therapist thinks so. i’ve been gaining weight recently. i finally weigh more than 100 lbs. i wonder if that’s why i’ve been having dreams about her; she’s trying to find a way to slap the shit out of me from beyond the grave. i hope god wasn’t watching that day.

Her negative view on weight was taken out on my sister. She got hit with ball bats and one time she threw a can at her head. My sister was bleeding everywhere and my mother called my father in a panic telling him he needed to come home from work right away. She apologized to my sister, but they didn’t take her to a doctor or anything. She was just weeping saying, “I didn’t mean to. i don’t know why i’m like this. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. Please, stop bleeding.” Honestly, i think they were just hoping the blood stopped long enough to keep the abuse a secret. i just watched. i wasn’t any older than five. All a child can really do is watch. My sister had brown hair and my mother said she was fat. i don’t think she was. She looked like she weighed 140 at most. My sister looked most like her birth mother, her birth mother was someone different from mine. Her birth mother had a thick Kentucky accent and had a habit of moving every couple of years. i never met her until i was 16, maybe 17. Her birth mother called herself a gypsy when my sister asked why she left her. “Nothing can tie me down. i’m a gypsy. i’m always running, it’s how i survive, that’s just who i am.” My sister said, “I feel that.”

My sister was my primary caretaker for my cousin and me, when my mother was away and navigating new marriages. She bathed me and clothed me during her childhood. She gave up school and extracurriculars and hanging out with friends because she was forced to watch us. If she ever refused, it would be met with extreme violence and abuse. i know i’m supposed to show not tell, but some things you just don’t speak about. We weren’t good kids to watch either. We were hell. Sometimes my sister would get so overwhelmed i remember her shaking in a corner, fetal position and all, sobbing and banging her head against the wall until she couldn’t hear us any more. i really wish i was a better kid to watch. Maybe, she would have had a chance if i was just easier. My sister is still alive. Sometimes, i write in such a way that makes my readers think the people in my life have died. Some have, true, but she hasn’t. i don’t know why i do that, but i think everyone dies a few times before they ever reach the grave. She lives in a trailer with her fiancé and two kids. They struggle to eat, but she’s okay because she says, “i’ve always wanted to be a mother, to have children to watch that were finally mine and no one else’s. So i’m living the dream, regardless.”

i don’t know why my mother did that to her. She said it’s because my sister looked too much like her birth mother and she absolutely hated her birth mother. i don’t think that’s a good enough reason, but i guess we’re all triggered by something.

i have a brother, too. My mother was always really nice to him, but he has bipolar disorder and some other stuff going on, so sometimes he would blackout and they would get in screaming matches and throw ash trays at each other. My sister, even though i think she may have hated me when i was younger, always protected me. She never let anyone hurt me. One time my brother came in telling us that we needed to be careful because he owed someone money, or drugs, or something, and they might try to kill us. We all laughed and i made fun of him by imitating Paul Revere galloping on a horse, while chanting, “The junkies are coming, the junkies are coming.” i was 7 at the time. He was 17. He punched me in the forehead with all his weight and tried to drag me off the couch. i screamed, i knew what his violence could do. My sister, sitting next to me and quickly recovering from her laughter, grabbed me and wouldn’t let him get me. i was safe, for now.

My sister moved out eventually, thank god, or thank her for having the strength to get out. i moved in with her for the summer after my house burned down. My mother and father moved in with her too. She’ll help anyone, no matter what they’ve done. i think that’s just how we were conditioned. By this point my mother was bedridden. After her heart attack following the death of my baby cousin, the doctor had shot her up with too much dye, or something, and her kidneys were failing. Eventually we bought a trailer and i took care of her.

My sister and i have OCD. My sister would get really upset because sometimes my mother would get blood and shit on the walls from having to prop herself up to get off the toilet. She was always bleeding and shitting.

i love my mother. i know that’s probably not what you were expecting, or even wanting to hear. i just can’t help myself. i don’t talk about her a lot, but i’ve been trying to talk about her a little bit more. i don’t want her to be just a stack of marriage licenses and death certificates. When i tried to find out more about her on Ancestry.com and newspaper archives, that’s all i could find. That was the only evidence that she ever existed. The trauma in my family is generational. Misery breeds misery and the parents of my parents past, their ancestors and family friends, perpetuated a cycle that unfortunately doesn’t end with me, but seeps its way into the fading laughter lines of nieces and nephews, someone to continue on the family tradition of trauma responses and pill-popping early mornings. My mother was a victim, too. That doesn’t make it right, nothing makes anything right. It just is what it is. i have to tell the whole truth or i might as well say nothing at all.

My mother was born 1953 in the depths of Kentucky. The part of Kentucky they make memes about. Her mother grew up in the great depression and my mother suffered the consequences of the era. My mothers aunt would lock her in a cellar as a child and refuse to give her food and water. She called her a whore and starved her. She would throw stones at her and make her walk miles barefoot as punishment for existing. My mother’s mother would pull her hair and beat her. My mother had a bald spot in the back of her head where they would pull her out of chairs by her hair and kick her until she bled when she fell to the ground. It wasn’t just abuse in my eyes, it was actual torture. When my mother abused us it was more reactionary. We triggered something in her that made her lash out, but the abuse she experienced didn’t have much of a source. It was just there, looming over her like the Cheshire cat i see on ceilings when i get a little too high. She didn’t say anything wrong, or make any mistakes, or look like anyone else. She was just alive, and that was enough.

My mother never told me this stuff, i had to learn it on my own by interviewing friends and other family members. i’m really glad we don’t have family reunions anymore, i don’t think i could ever look any of them in the eye again after knowing what i know. My mother found her way out through marrying up. That’s what women did to escape back then. There weren’t a lot of options. i think that’s why my mother was so dead set on appearances. Pretty skinny girls got out. Pretty skinny girls survived another day. The man she first married ended up being abusive too and even threw her through a glass door. She left after that and married many more men. Some nice, some not so nice. It was kind of a hit or miss. She stayed with one guy a really long time, but she left him when he kicked her dog. She was much quicker to leave when a man was mean to her dog, compared to when he was mean to her.

My mother had two children, my father and my aunt. She loved my father, probably a little too much. i think she just liked having a man around that really loved her. Sometimes when we have children, we realize no one else ever loved us the way they do. My mother had issues with loneliness. She was never alone too long. That probably stems from her time in the cellar. Every time my father would get a girlfriend, she would find some reason to cuss them out and chase them out of the house with metal baseball bats. She made all his decisions for him and after marriages fell through over and over again, she moved in with him for the rest of her days. i think she was happiest when home with him. My mother was the only one to ever take me to the doctor and when no one else had money to buy food, she’d do whatever she could to make sure i was fed. She was also the only one besides my sister to keep me safe and kept other relatives from hitting on me and calling me a whore. She was a protector. i told you my mother always liked me most because i looked like her. i think that’s why she wanted to protect me so badly. My therapist said it’s something about wanting to protect her inner child and being unable to, or something like that. “If i ever die, promise me, you’ll get out of here as fast as you can.”

i did, mommy, i did.

When my brother and sister had left home to live on their own, i was the only one that lived with my father, his sister, my mother, and his new girlfriend. We lived in a trailer after the house burned down. After struggling with homelessness my father became a heroin addict. i remember watching various people, some i knew, some i didn’t, od’ing while watching cartoons or doing my homework. It was just so normal. i remember when my mother and i watched my aunt od. She was in my arms when her heart stopped. i dabbed her forehead with a warm washcloth until the ambulance arrived. My mother looked at me with tired eyes and said, “You shouldn’t be here for this. i’m so sorry.” i didn’t cry about it til she said that. i didn’t know i wasn’t supposed to be there, but that’s when i first realized the things i were witnessing weren’t normal for the other kids. She taught me that normal was far away from here and i’m happy she taught me how to leave. They were able to bring my aunt back to life with some narcan and a couple paddle shocks. i remember holding her shoes for her while they did it. i hope god was watching me then.

My mother died July 6, 2014. She was the center of my world, as odd as that sounds to outsiders. i even have a shrine to her in my closet; her driver’s license and letters in her handwriting dancing in the shadows of a closed door. Now, she exists somewhere in the shed of my sister’s trailer in the box the crematorium gave us. The night before she died she held my little fingers with her left hand and caressed my cheek with the other. “You’re my little princess.” i wonder if god will ever see what she saw in me. i don’t even know if i could look in her eyes today. Princesses don’t look like this, they don’t take medications and sleep with random men.

Wanna know something fucked up? After all this writing and lamenting about religion and faith, i don’t even believe in god. The drugs make me spiritual, but not like that. Yet, if he’s real, i hope god was looking away from my family, i hope they flew under his radar. We’re all just projecting trauma and eating goldfish crackers of sins waiting for someone to love us enough to make it all go away. i hope he was distracted, but more than that, please, if there’s a heaven, tell me, he let her in.

i let my dilated eyes focus on something else, i can’t focus on that stuff too long. i really liked the church, i really liked that god they told me about, i really liked Jesse, i really liked my mother, i really liked goldfish crackers. i really liked me. i like all kinds of things i’m not supposed to. But the mirror isn’t as kind as it used to be and being traumatized as a child is much more thrilling compared to being traumatized as an adult. It loses its luster. No one accepts the bare minimum anymore, not even yourself. All you’re left with is your sins and this aching feeling that you’re not diamonds, you’re just coal. One day you’re just munching on your goldfish crackers and eventually you‘re too sick to your stomach to eat another bite. i wonder if that’s what god really feels like. Not some dewy grass while tripping in a public park, but that feeling of fullness while everything inside of you is screaming that you’re empty.

i wonder if those stars will die out before i do, i just wanna know that they’ll be there to welcome me home when i do. i won’t be able to stand it if they leave me behind too.

Tags: #trauma #god #religion #psychadelics #creativenonfiction #nonficition #memoir #memory #creativewriting #childhood #truestory #reflection #recovery

When I wrote this I died.

- Oh, do not be too worried

For when I say died

What I really mean is my elementary school teacher

Never taught me the proper use of hyperbole

When I wrote this I fell apart

- But do not waste your sorrow on me

For when I say I’m falling apart

What I really mean is the pencil shavings of my heart

Fell into stanzas, placing my punctuation in the weirdest of places

Fucking up my basic understanding of American Grammar

For instance

When I write my name

A question mark appears

As if I do not know; who I am

As if I am calling out to some Greater darkness

Looking for some lost child who wandered off the path

At some mediocre, cringe-worthy school field trip

Where girls were felt up for the first time

And guys were making fart noises! into the palms of their hand

- Scratch that, I mean where girls were making fart noises! into the palms of their

hands, but it was this huge secret that no one wanted to talk about.

For instance

When I write the word life.

This half-hearted period appears

As if something is supposed to end

But the huge secret is that my heart is too cowardly

To fill in the entire period

So rather than end, the word Life. kind of just fumbles

Into the middle of a sentence; with no real emphasis

Not stopping, but still stalling:

- Scratch that, my heart is not so much cowardly as it is lazy and surprisingly enough,

living is so much easier than dying.

When I wrote this my stomach disappeared

- Oh, but I am not hungry, so please do not offer me a sandwhich

For when I say my stomach disappeared

What I really mean is my stomach turned into a giant pebble

And some jank ass! bird named anxiety took it in its mouth

And flew off with it to never never land! to reside with my fleeting childhood

When I wrote this I let my hair down

- But please do not analyze that as a liberation. of the American woman

For when I say I let my hair down

What I really mean is this girl - from my fleeting childhood - told me it looked pretty

Then took advantage of my young heart and innocent desire for a friend

Even if that “friend” only wanted me for a game of “doctor”

For instance

When I wear my hair up for too long

I start to cry and yell my (questionable identity) into the warm side of the pillow

Because when my hair is up

The only thing I can feel is a - warm touch -

And the word pretty! flicking against my skull

Like a hair tie made of adamantium

- Scratch that, I think it’s just that overwhelming feeling you get when the trauma

comes back and tries to kill you again because the first time wasn’t enough fun.

For instance

When I coughed up those 37 aspirins

My brain got a little funky!

And my language fell apart

So my depression and I could not laugh properly

Therefore the only real solution is to attempt it again and again

Until my depression can muster a hearty laugh without vomiting into the bathroom drain

Because that would make the clean up easier for everyone and we all love a good laugh

- Scratch that, laughter is not always the best medicine, for when involved with

depression it kind of crosses that line and becomes more of a poison.

When I wrote this I smiled

- But don’t worry I’m not shredding you with sarcasm this time

For when I say I smiled

What I really mean is I !actually! smiled

Because sometimes my cynical nature can be a bit funny

And I like to poke fun at my shitty life

Because it makes it kind of bearable

When I wrote this I lived

- Oh, you can clap now, or snap because this is a poem and I’m trying to pretend

you’re not incredibly uncultured

For when I say I lived

What I really mean is I deserve a snap-apalooza

Because I jumped off a cliff - called insanity - and into a stanza

Falling into a place where my mind finally had some sense of breathing again

A place where my melancholy heart didn’t make it through the cataclysm of aliveness

Because

when I wrote this

I died.

28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, 12 seconds.

That is when the world will end

Absolution, denial

Each rickety crackle of a single second

Echoing into that sticky red cement flowing from the heart

Time is a’ticking

Do you hear that tilted pop

That alarm of existence

14 days, 3 hours, 21 minutes, 6 seconds.

That is when the world will end

She shaved off her ears with the paddle

That was meant to row her to safety

The sound is still there

Time is a’ticking

Her trail of blood

Makes her easier to find

7 days, 1 hours, 10 minutes, 3 seconds.

That is when the world will end

Father time plucks at her strings

But she fails to make a sound

Cuckoo, cuckoo

Time is a’ticking

But there is nothing

Only silence.

She stands on the edge of a yellow meadow

Her hands are coated with anxiety

Each breeze stinging her finger tips

Her tongue is a brick

Building walls around the thoughts

That want nothing more than to be spoken

She gazes faultlessly at her demons

As they walk the fishing line in front of her

They say “fight your demons”

They lick their lips

Ravenous, with claws sharp enough to shred through confidence

One more thought, one more step, one less hope

She balls her fists ready for a duel

But then she remembers

They also say “keep your enemies closer”

They crave the warmth

From that sticky red cement flowing from her heart

“I’d eat you for dessert, if I didn’t need your body for survival”

They can be such hypocritical contradictions

The demons want to wreak havoc on the entrails of her mind

And she wants to explore

But perhaps she should just stay in the meadow.

He can be a Carolina Reaper

The sting clinging on the corners of my tongue 

He can be a concentrated heat

That sweltering passion turning belt loops into an easy ash 

He can be the fire in my throat

A temptation to surrender morality on a silver platter

For a single rose of hydration

He can be an ice cube

A solid mold of liquified pseudo-strength

He can be a cold flame licking the palm of a hand

An after-effect of holding his fragility just a little too tight 

He can be a puddle of yearning

It doesn't matter how welcoming the warmth is

For he will always return to the freezer

He can be a peach

A smile radiating ripe hues that beg to be devoured 

He can be a watercolor sunset on soft skin

His hands leaving childish chalk marks on a white canvas 

He can be a yellow-fleshed sweetness

Leaving a subtle tang behind the kindest of words

For he will always be the best of good

He can be a fig

A potential nesting place for wasps of trickery 

He can be the sap sticking to the exterior 

His words of spite irritating the skin 

He can be a bloodied mess of reds and violets 

His darkness tainting the pleasure

For he contains a sliver of bad blood

He can be the sunlight through the trees 

His words offering solace in its warmth 

He can be the shimmer on the leaves

A source of beauty for the confidence he builds in others 

He can be the reflection on the dew

Creating a glimmering path

For he can be a guide of light

He can be the shadow at my feet

Taunting the light to drown in its abyss

He can be a black figure painted on the concrete 

His humanity blinded by the lack of color 

He can be a darkened shade

Ignoring the light and igniting furious tendencies 

For sometimes the darkness can win

He can

Drink fire

Squeeze ice cubes 

Taste the sweet 

Feel the sting 

Dance in the sun

Tango with the demons

For he can be everything

Throw me to the Neanderthals

I’ll stand on a staircase of evolution

You can deny me, batter me, preach to the world with a clutched picket sign

voicing the words that I am non-existent and irrelevant to your set of beliefs

but you cannot avoid the harsh reality of scientific evidence tapping on the window

Tapping on that 1940 historical mindset, preserved for its value and tradition

Tapping on that festering guilt that resides in half hearted apologies

Tapping on that late-night temporary love existing in the darkest of places

And I might be repetitive

but at least my screams are dignified

Loud and obnoxious

but my megaphone filters out the rickety nonsense

and only allows for grace and excellence to pass through its stream of sound

I’m not a ball player, big league chew stuck to my cavities

But I can catch, hit, run for home

Run for the mountains, beyond the hills

and you wouldn’t think of seeing me again

until you get a little bit lonely

with only your left hand and a sock

You know what’s great about words?

I can drop that good girl, two shoed, wide eyed, blonde haired persona

and rip ears apart with a single syllable

Your dancer is collapsing under the spell of her own heartbeat

But my mind won’t break in the turbulence

My mind is a cataclysm of lost time and mistakes

I hear the pounding again

and I’m begging it is the milkman at the door

and not my melancholy heart

because milk strengthens my teeth

Making them all the better to bite you with, my dear

I assure you that’s no typo for the word smile

The world is telling me to fight my demons

but with tired arms and a blue eyed twinkle

I’d much rather keep my enemies closer

I’d much rather my enemies hold me at night

like a reunited love connection that I first found in the third grade

When Billy Roe decided to share a box of crayons

Oh boy, those colors were an act of genius

A personified heaven amongst the grey conformity of standardized testing

And if you’re offended by my lack of empathy

You should be, I deserve it

I stole those crayons before he even considered a first kiss

I’m no blind-eye to the bitter resentment of discarded holiday cards

But a cheap pair of sunglasses can fool anyone too careless to investigate

You love me and I love you too

but this is a game of habits

My procedural memory moving chess pieces on the checkerboard of your heart

So you can throw me

And you can hit me again

Strike one, strike two

but I invite you to hit me once more

While I pray to your God and thank him

for giving me such obstacles to overcome

Then scoff at myself for being such an artist of sarcasm

Pathetic is not my middle name

it is a label

hovering over my lonesome heart

As the blade sinks just below the skin

Just enough to bleed and just enough to let me breathe

Plot twist: I wasn’t the one holding the knife

My mind clutched that blade like a child lost in the coat rack at the dollar store

But my soul told him no, even if it was a pointless rendering

My soul still tries its best

My soul might be dim, but it is still larger than the bulge in your pants

You see my mind and soul are two separate beings

My soul is a hummingbird, too fast to understand

but frail enough that no one would “intentionally” harm it

But my mind?

Whew, let me tell you about my mind

My mind is a sweltering tar expelling from the soul I hold hostage

locked behind a feeble rib cage.

My mind screams vociferous tones

that escape through the air like stardust and evaporated thoughts.

My mind is a gaudy stench whispering through the pit of my being

As my hummingbird soul withers in its cage

My mind tells me to settle down

because someone might hear my cries and come for help

And we wouldn’t want that now would we?

We resonate in affairs of invested time

And to wipe away our sorrow with the simplicity of a bullet

Would be disrespectful to the pile of horrendous memories

We so carefully packed away

So my mind might be a critical failure

But you better roll that die again

because my soul is a possibility

And even if no one can hear her

My soul will always scream

but you’re not worth the effort

So she will merely whisper;

Fuck you.

- End Rant -

A poem written for William Staten, a dear friend.

With help from MDhealth.com

“The human brain is ultimately responsible for all thought and movement that the body produces”

“Each part has a unique function that allows humans to observe and interact with their environment effectively”

“If the brain is not functioning properly, the ability to move, generate accurate sensory information or speak and understand language can be damaged as well”

-MDhealth.com

The brain

Thinking

feeling

remembering

reasoning

how do we love

how do we think in abstract

how do we build upon curiosity

how do we exist

But the question here

is how does he

William

Dear William

No, not Shakespeare

for once, it's finally not Shakespeare

details resonate as intransitive

as they cling to his conscience

like a kindergarten sticker

if the brain is a doorway

then his is a path through the forest of enchantment.

The danger lingers there in the neurons

but stand tall as an opportunity

for the heroes of valiance.

A bearing beyond a travelers routine

where strange chattels break into existence

where strange people shimmer in origin

the home of monsters, nightmares

the home of witches, cruelties

the home of fairies, hopes

However, just like every other brain

if his is not functioning properly

these abilities can quickly diminish

leaving behind only remnants of evaporated thoughts

His mind is far from flawed,

and if any one believes him to be this

generalized prescription "crazy"

then they can gladly

forcibly insert the lifeline exercise card into their anus

and bow away with a smile

“The brain makes us who were are”

“It boils over in madness scaring those who we let inside”

“The brain gives us existence, gives us life”

“The brain already knows everything, the data is all there”

“The brain is a functioning game of adaptation”

Good point wildcats,

Let’s Begin:

Sensory Cortex- The sensory cortex, located in the front portion of the parietal lobe, receives information relayed from the spinal cord regarding the position of various body parts and how they are moving. This middle area of the brain can also be used to relay information from the sense of touch, including pain or pressure which is affecting different portions of the body

Negativity swarming the entrails

A pestering vulture

Pressure building on the outskirts of something once phenomenal

But it is no bother

For it slides right off like a winter glove

Leaving the fingers helpless and exposed

But adapting to the frigid atmospheric pressure around fragile digits

Making them stronger

Durable

And lasting.

Pain hurts like hell

he lays there crying

Clenching his neck and legs

desperately

searching for the calm

He scratched

he dug

he peeled

the skin coming off at the ends of his nails

like that of a serpent's cast

The bleeding poured

like the lies of stability

he fed his outside world

The bleeding

wouldn’t

couldn’t

refused to

stop

Pain hurts like hell

Motor Cortex- This helps the brain monitor and control movement throughout the body. It is located in the top, middle portion of the brain.

Despite the hype

Action hurts just as much as words

Bullying isn’t the only thing to cause a bruise

And just because

Movement is monitored

Doesn’t mean it is controlled.

Take a bottle of that swine

That faultless summertime wine

while the boy cries

right before your bloodshot eyes

your ears are clogged

your morals all wronged

Take a step back

maybe listen just a crack?

Hit him again

strike one

strike two

strike three and I’ll throw you out myself

No disciplinary intentions

just the smell of vodka

in his piercing words

Hold his throat

his head pushed against the wall

his cheek impregnated with the plaster

"Learn your values"

you scream into his ear

all the while

you’re the one impaired with blurry eyes

Temporal Lobe- The temporal lobe controls visual and auditory memories. It includes areas that help manage some speech and hearing capabilities, behavioral elements, and language. It is located in the cerebral hemisphere.

unhealthy

Inactive

No appreciation

Listen, listen, listen

He’s not as “cray”

As you make him out to be

He is an advanced biologist for crying out loud

Exploration can be mighty fine

Complain

Like you have no ears

Death come quickly

Romeo and Juliet

What kind of writer would I be

Without a little Shakespeare

He is trying to help

Listen please

He would enjoy the smile on your face

As you greet a grandchild with open arms

But I guess if your temporal lobe is damaged

You have another excuse to yell

Hippocampus- This portion of the brain is used for learning memory, specifically converting temporary memories into permanent memories which can be stored within the brain. The hippocampus also helps people analyze and remember spatial relationships, allowing for accurate movements. This portion of the brain is located in the cerebral hemisphere.

Define spatial relationships:

Orientation in space.

Explain:

He can locate an object

In a 3D fabrication of our external world

Love

Hate

Friendship

Are they anything more but objects?

He’s a sponge.

He is tactical.

Trying to make a spatial analysis

Isn’t so hard when your windows have observed so much

Severity.

Revise:

He sought for location

Observing every detail

Every occurrence

Every phenomenon

Like some hollow of a person

Would pinch it away from him

Prone to it

He can locate an object before the next hunter blinks

In this external world

Of 3D fabrications

Built on facades and politics

He can locate any object in space.

Love for his encounters

Hatred for those who chop him down

No, not hatred

Never hatred

Friendships lasting for miles

He has enough gas to keep it going

Are these any more but objects?

Depends on your definition of object

Webster doesn’t know everything

Considering “swag” was word of the year

Irony.

Absorption lingers amongst his many talents

Tactical is another

Severity limps outside his windows

Some call them eyes

Eventually spatial analysis becomes easy

Isn’t that a joy?

Final Grade:

98.6 A

Comments:

Averagely perfect

Too many facts hurt

They scorch a little

But just enough

Just enough.

Just

Enough.

Not enough?

Insanity at best.

Amygdala- The amygdala helps the body responds to emotions, memories and fear. It is a large portion of the telencephalon, located within the temporal lobe which can be seen from the surface of the brain. This visible bulge is known as the uncus.

Hatred = Fear

Emotions can = apology, pain, neutrality, EVERYTHING

Memories = a story

His mother felt responsible

Sorry, sorry, sorry

Why, why, why

William, William, William

"I hate my father"

He spoke only truth

only a valiant truth

Bleeding like Cinderella’s missing slipper

his mother aided the cuts with guilt

his father sat there

quietly

barely blinking an eye

didn’t help

didn’t speak

didn’t look

"how could I love someone like that"

he tells me

but I know he’s not the kind of person to leave

Well. That’s it.

I guess all our brains are crazy

Madness

Insanity

But lovely

Wonderful

Glorious.

Thank you for showing me I’m crazy as well

It’s perfect

"I love myself"

he says to me

I finally understand

The sillage waited for her dainty being to reveal herself, as the iron-coated scent of a fresh wound seeped into the frivolous leaves hanging feebly on the forest branches. Upon appearing, the girl graced the mutilated feline lying limp in the arms of the forest ground with a bare, brittle oak branch, or staff as she often wished it to be. Sometimes animals landed in this world and without reasoning would fall limp in a couple hours. It was enough to hurt anyone who wished for companionship in a land of solitude. She whispered into the dead, hollow eyes of the forgotten ocelot with a hasty enthusiasm, “I dub thee, Knight of Kristwood.” The tip of the branch prodded the matted orange fur, as she released a pleasant sigh for the animal so far away from home. “Oh, Christina, don’t be a knight. You’ve come so far.” She spoke with a sense of inspiration as the sound of her own name trailed off her tongue. She looked onward into the abyss of a forest that called upon her with a solemn song.

Bidding the newly-pronounced knight farewell, Christina continued into the forest in search of something noteworthy. With arms light and a head in the sky, a game of pretend exists only as the best of ordinary. The trees looked down on her, as they often do, and gently swayed to the music emanating from her footsteps. The roots prodded from the ground, gripping her ankles in a pathetic plea for attention. “Now, now… I cannot play today. Can you not see my mind is in the sky? Perhaps, tomorrow my aims will be on the ground…” The relentless roots mocked her fragility above their earthly graves. Christina shrugged at their persistent cries. She had no need to bother with something as stubborn as they. Their bark thickened under rejection and the leaves leaped to the floor in an aching silence. “The poor fools, they are far too dependent.” Christina let out a sigh remembering the smell of musk she felt in yesterday’s dream. Is that what I’m looking for? The thought quivered her confidence and blocked her previous focus.

A dream. How long had it been since she experienced one of those? How long had it been since a “yesterday” occurred so vividly? How long had it been since she could relive a memory of her choice? The questions scorched her curiosity, thoughts now turning to ash and emotions bursting into a fervid flame.

Her monologue halted at the start of a marathon. Running into nowhere, with no thoughts, and pleading trees. It is the best of ordinary. Ordinary, the thought of something so disgusting irritated her skin. How could she exist as ordinary? She scoffed at the repulsive feeling of a normal mind. Christina’s legs weakened at the perspective of her own being. Her agility finally unmatched with her mind, Christina crashed to the forest ground with a pathetic thud. The soil caressed the side of her cheek as Christina blinked away the surprise of a tumble. “Stupid roots, I told you I am busy.”

Christina rested her hands on the loose soil, the smell of nurturing decay overwhelming her sense of empathy for the rejected roots. Lifting her upper body from the grasp of fallen leaves, Christina turned her head to the sky in exasperation. She stared at the trees, endless in all their weakened beauty. How vivid could something be to appear so dead and drained? Perhaps years of involuntary service had finally pinched away their raw energy of a natural life. Guarding the forest like an unborn prophecy, their duties strayed from facile. Pity tickled the goosebumps rising from porcelain skin, as the steady green seas above her wallowed in an act of defiance and vulnerability. What protected them? Years and years of saving creatures and foolish wanderers from the pitter patter of a merciless downpour, sheltering the animals among them before they fell limp in arms of packed soil, giving a young girl a dwelling for the most ordinary of pretend. All of this and no one to give them a second thought, even though the first was hardly noteworthy at all. She beamed at the thoughts she surrendered to the almost deserving trees. “All you had to do was give me time to think. Love from me will come, just don’t trip me again, please?” She let out a staggering breath following her request, the trees swaying in agreement.

The trees finally loosened their enchantment on Christina, relief flooding their branches as she finally began to understand. Attaining the proper mindset to stand, she willed herself into a vertical position. With her ankle failing to hold her weight, she collapsed again in a pit of frustration. “Dammit.” Stretching out her legs into a more comfortable position, She looked onward West to see what lied ahead. She began to scoot herself across the forest floor, thorns and branches pricking her lower body in an attempt to stop her from wandering too far. Yet, stopping exists as ordinary and ordinary is repulsive.

As she pulled the weight of her body towards the end of the forest line, a field began to emerge from behind branches of warning. The sun shimmered on the dew still lingering behind on the blades of grass from a glorified morning. Her body eased into the grass, her light skin, slightly transparent, but still vulnerable to touch, dampened from the moist dew caressing each thread. As she began to fuel her fascination, she gazed at the destination before her. A small house had began to appear, as Christina pulled her body with eager frustration. Her curiousity growing, she eased herself through the thick grass in a frantic anticipation. Never had she seen something so ordinarily repulsive, something so quaint that it peaked her curiosity in a fit of rage. How could anyone live under such ordinary conditions? Surely, they would want to acquire more than minimalistic decor? Although the house carried a demeanor of unique solitude, the burdening image of bland structure irritated the eyes and scratched at her throat. She must know their intentions, must know their mindset, must know their rationality behind such an earnestly horrid decision. As if anyone could be more ordinary than she already existed as. She resonated as nothing more than a budding flower. Her cheeks flushed in anger at her own posterior. Condemning herself once again, her arms became heavy as she surrendered her insecurities to the green blades that had wrapped themselves around her being. Christina leaned her head back into the swan of green, as the grass prodded through hazelnut hair and desperate flyaways.

The grass could do no more than offer comfort to her forsaken heart. The silence prevailed as the green danced in her irises. A strong wind blowing her silence in all directions, the way silence is meant to be dispersed. Her eyes looked into the sky hovering above her, an atmospheric pleasure taking hold of her spirit like the melody of a past experience. The clouds lingered in the seaweed-like hues covering the surface of this beloved land. They wisped across the sky in a vulnerable and hardly audible state. If they were to be any more delicate, they may as well have never existed. The most simple of birds could whisk them away with a soar through the air, if birds lasted enough to do so. “You are quite beautifully dangerous.” Christina teased the clouds in their honorary movement, as they floated across the sky aimlessly. “As are you.” A male voice interrupted the silence she had become acquainted with. Christina waved goodbye to her beloved friend as the silence disappeared with the oncoming of conversation. “And who might you be?” Christina fluttered her eyes, as she lifted herself to catch a glimpse of the courageous man with just enough courage to frighten away something as fervid as the silence had been. His hair flicked into flames, the sun frolicking on the red and orange tints running through his follicles. He had the most absurd of ears, with one lacking a lobe. His eyes did not strike her as young, nor were they old. Perhaps, it was the fleck of knowledge and prosperity that shimmered in the corner of grey eyes that had her stumbling on age identification. Or, perhaps it was merely her lack of social interaction that allowed her to forget the basics of human observation. “Ah, you’re quick to question. However, I don’t surrender myself to anyone less than worthy. A name is more than a position of letters.” She furrowed her brow in confusion.

She? Anything less than worthy? Curious perhaps, but never worthy. Worthiness was the same idea those frustrating creatures always spoke of. Even if she were not to be ashamed of her current being, never would she associate herself with the “worthiness” of a creature. That is merely absurd. “Then, what do you suppose I call a name?” He stared at her in awe, as if she was asking all the right questions. Yet, he treated her as if she proposed each one incorrectly. “A window.”

“A window?” Finally a right proposition, as told by the slim smile that creeped onto a face covered in the slightest of freckles. “Is it anything less?” She quivered under his glare of questions. His intimidation seeped into her fury, as she boiled in curiosity. “You are quite odd.” He beamed at her accusation, relishing in the words that escaped her mouth in a hasty humor. “Isn’t that the best way to be? May I ask, why would one choose to lie in damp grass when there are so many questions to be asked?” She pointed to her ankle in annoyance. “Are you hurt?” Christina scoffed at his accusation. Her hurt? The most absurd concern for anyone to feel is that of her pain.

Pain, in what memories did pain still exist? In what extremity? Christina contemplated the concept, for she had no recollection of the former sensory experience. “No, I’m in no sort of pain. I simply cannot walk.” He scoffed at her contradictory remark. “Perhaps, you can not walk because you lack shoes.” He pointed at her dirt covered feet. Christina hardly noticed the sense of bare feet anymore. Hell, she could hardly remember when the last time she wore shoes. It was an acquired norm that existed as an after-effect of the past. The past seems endless, too hard to remember vividly. Memories are always so complex here, almost never existing in true form. She only remembers the actions that condemned her to such a place. Perhaps, good memories are merely too malleable to be verified. “I do not believe so. It has been too long without shoes to have any significance on my current dilemma.” Her confidence failed to falter, as she spoke to him in clever tongue and crisp dialect. “Too long?”

“Yes, I lost my shoes in a memory once. It would be unjust to abandon my original pair and put on new ones. I fear they must miss me, the fading creature took them before I could mutter farewell.” He took more than shoes. He stripped her entirely of her previous attire. Christina often viewed it as a punishment in itself, but after so many days here, she had grown accustomed to shame. His expression changed to worry, as she looked up at him through long lashes. “Vincent.” His name left his mouth in angst, as if he was begging to move on. “Pardon?” He caught her eyes with his, a moment of mamihlapinatapai that would never be acted upon. “My name. You asked my name prior to my pestering questions. My name is Vincent.” She smiled at the new worth he had given her, yet, this would also mean he branded her as worthy. What an awful thing to be. To be associated with the same level as a creature settled as dishonorable. She held no qualifying characteristics to be deemed as such absurdity. This man, whoever he may be, wherever he may have come, is not in any condition to determine one’s worthiness. One as ordinary as she knows enough to keep herself out of trouble. Creatures are creatures and that is how it will remain. The only way anyone could become something so horrific is for the body to die and some other second thing that no one has told her. Although, arguably speaking, she’s already halfway there.

She shrugged his name to the side, his queries were far too infuriating to have her focus on windows. “Who lives in that house? I demand to know, I must know. I am awfully curious.”

“Oh, that is just a place of residence for those who don’t think too much. You’re not quite ready for your admittance.”

“My admittance? I’ve been here longer than most, what must you do to live in such a place as that?”

“I already told you, you mustn’t think so much.”

Cristina was tired of unanswered questions. She looked onward, far beyond the tall grass, only to see creatures wandering in frustration. “What entitles them to wander in such a way? Surely acts were that of malice, why must their post-life existence differ from mine? Why can’t I speak to them, surely they are equally alone?” Vincent lingered on her questions before speaking again. “They can’t see you, they exist in another world. They exist in a material realm, you on an ethereal. You can see them, but you do not have the ability to enter their world and interact. You judge those creatures when you know nothing of their interior. It is what holds you back the most, along with your guilt. You carry such innocence with you, but when faced with the simplest of task of forgetting, you refuse to let go. It isn’t hard, you know?” Christina stood up again, as the numbing of her ankle ceased. “Will you get me there?”

“Do you remember your past life?”

“Only the details I wish to forget.”

“Then, they won’t let you in. If you truly wished to forget, what you remember would have already been forgotten.”

“Why is remembering so torturous? Why are the memories that burn not of my choice? I wish to remember the happy moments of my physical body, but instead, moments of agony and bitterness cloud my thoughts. I feel no pain, yet, I feel something distasteful.”

He spoke of a hell where the individuals were simply thinking too much. Christina could barely keep up with his explanations, as she drifted again into her thoughts. “If you constantly try to remember your happy times, then the worst memories are inevitable. How do you expect to exist without the worst of times? Of what value would happiness hold if there was nothing to compare it to?”

“Why would thinking be such a thing to be condemned?”

“It’s how you think that determines your outcome. Your thoughts mock you and taunt your past. You mustn’t dwell on these memories, especially if you wish to condemn those creatures.”

Christina looked towards a creature in particular, distaste foaming inside of her. A being of such intent could not possibly live in a realm of thoughtful freedom. She gestured toward the manifestation, hoping for enlightenment on the being before her. “The creature you see committed malicious actions, but he was accepting of his actions. You avoid the things you remember and are pained by their existence. You feel your actions are to be overlooked, yet, you look at these creatures and believe them to be constructs of hell, when the reality is that they are living the good and honorable life you so eagerly desire. The man you see stole profusely and was drugged thoughtless through the majority of his physical being. Yet, if you look at his interior you will see a being worthy of redemption. A man who suffered more profusely than the items that were stolen. A man who desperately tried to provide for his family, but was left helpless by the law and regulations by the land before this one. A man who began good, but was manipulated by desperation, one of the great evils to dawn upon humanity.”

Christina looked at the being again., this time without the cloud of disgust. Upon deeper observation, the creature looked similar to her. Another soul, yet, a more brighter hue emanated from his core. Perhaps, she could listen to Vincent’s advise. In retrospect, her memories were seemingly just as bitter and disgusting as that of the creature. Could she rightfully judge this creature based purely on his exterior when she was fully aware of the complexity and intricate workings of the human mind? The threads of her being was hammered by the guilt of her previous actions, as she fell again into the grass, hoping for some comfort from this realm. Vincent landed beside her, waiting for more questions to come. “I want to be at peace, my thoughts are always running rampant. I am not as ordinary as I previously thought. I suppose we are all much more complex than our exterior likes to show. Tell me, how is it that I leave?”

“You just need to let go. Your thoughts determine your outcome. Your version of hell is within your thoughts, constantly thinking, doubting, and questioning everything ahead of you. The unanswered questions mock and taunt your mind with frustration. Your guilt, judgement, and malicious memories consume you and hold you back from the bliss of forgetting, accepting, and ultimately understanding. The greatest evil seems to be judgement before knowledge. It works the same as a plague, slowly eating away at your thoughts and infecting you with weakness. You are worthy of redemption, but until you forget and can understand and accept your circumstances, there is no hope of moving from this realm. The fading creature is worthy enough to avoid condemnation. However, your thoughts condemn you. Whether it be through guilt or through the inability to forgive, when you condemn yourself to this land with your thoughts, you are doing the same as condemning the fading creature. Condemning his children is the same as condemning him as he makes no mistakes. You cannot make adequate judgement unless you are entirely pure, wholesome, and embody perfection. The beauty in humanity is imperfection and complexity in mind, only the fading creature can be purely perfect. When you accept this and you understand the very thread of human nature, you can leave.”

“Where will I go if I leave?”

“Somewhere better than here, you’ll exist with the creatures. Although, they prefer to be called the worthy. We must understand each other and take in consideration the details of their life in order to be at peace and live a life of worthy. You will be going, as best as I can describe it, a place of a peaceful mind. A place where you will be gifted with the knowledge to educate and spread the thought of understanding. A place that grants you the ability to move on and be at peace within yourself. You will have freedom from worry and strife. You must free yourself from the reigns of judgement, guilt, and ill-intended thoughts. When you do so and direct your focus to understanding, the body will emerge into a life better than what reigns here.”

“Would you be coming with me?”

He glanced away and directed his eyes and thoughts to sky. He could leave, he could abandon the life here and instead, move on with the others who are worthy. Vincent sighed, slicking his hair back in an exasperated pity for the world he chose to leave behind. If he were to leave who would help others understand? “Well?” She pestered on, breaking him from his thoughts.

“I don’t think so, I still have so much to paint. Hurry along.”

To dream a dream of such brilliance in beauty, only to have the figment pinched away from the dauntless crevices of my mediocre mind was almost too much for my fragile state of being to endure. For how could the life of reality hold any significance when compared to the details of such a stunningly beautiful dream? Perhaps, I am simply over thinking myself once again. Clearly, a dream does not hold the power to manipulate the entire course and mental processes of my current life. Rationally speaking, one should not base their newly defined thought process merely on the premises of a dream. Yet, it is correctly stated that at times I am fully capable of submitting to various irrationalities, so much, in fact, that I often place my faith in many ludicrous ideas. It is undoubtedly a flaw in my cherished mind that, although seemingly harmless, could hold as a potential threat to the lines of my very existence. So, why, considering I know the dangers of irrationalities, do I suddenly feel the need to alter the entire pedestal my life stands on merely for the sake of an unconscious reality? For what does this dream have over me? The more I ponder the complexity of my situation I can only concur that the very hook the dream has me reeled in on is the desire of love and the absence it carries in my life. It is no lie that I do feel the ghost of loneliness hovering my soul several times during the achingly long endeavors of each day. It seems that lately my days have grown long and tiresome, nearly exhausting. I hopelessly agree with the current standing definition of insanity, for I live this mocking definition every day. I can say that I in no way live a terrible life. Indeed, my job may not be the most well‐paid but I do not struggle to pay any of my bills. Being a cashier may not place me as successful, but the sight of new faces and repetitive small talk is comforting to my constant loneliness. I guess it is only normal that I dream of finding a love all my own. You see, this dream has me thinking that I am living in the wrong direction. This unconscious rendering is leading me to believe my once comfortable life holds a deep void that I desire to be filled. I have never truly sought for love, I have always supposed that if the phenomenon happens then it happens and if it don't, well I need not think so dreadfully. I still have my doubts on the basis of this dream, for the character, whose story I was following, could not have been my own. Never have I been so dreamy eyed and star lit. This man could not have been me. Indeed, his features were mine, as was his mannerisms and stances, but I fail to imagine that I could ever be so wonder filled and mind adrift. I have always kept my mind sharp and keen, it is an aspect of mine that I truly admire, but here I am as a child would be. I would not be surprised if this strange character were to begin frolicking among the tulips. Yet, at the same time I can't help but hope that maybe if I were to fall in love, then I would surely become this dimwitted individual. In truth, I wouldn't mind being oblivious to the negatives that build pressure against my temple. I would be very comforted to know that life is going rather smoothly. However, my pessimistic mind set doesn't allow me to travel such fairytale idealistic paths, instead my thoughts roam on the night time alley of a grungy lower‐class city neighborhood. It is odd, moments ago I was comfortable in my repetitive life, yet, the deeper I delve into the analysis of such a dream, the more I realize how much my life is missing. The most peculiar thing to me is the way I can distinctly remember the dream. It was strangely surreal, truly vivid. It is as if I am watching the dream happen at this very moment in some sort of hallmark movie. The entire plot is cemented into my brain and I can't bring myself to wander away from the fragments of the dream I still have left. The dream began gloomy as rain was pouring from the hot, sterling sky causing an unnatural darkness, for what seemed like afternoon. I had been glancing at her for a steady five minutes, she was a young girl seemingly to be in her late teens. There she stood dancing in the rain, eyes closed and face stretched out to the sky above inviting every raindrop to kiss her cheeks. I admit I should have just left her alone, but seeing her twirling in the rain? It was beautiful, enchanting even. I wanted to get a better look, I wanted to say hello and ask what in the world she was doing. It being springtime the rain was quite often, once a week or so. Even with the many rain showers this month I had never seen this girl until now, but here she was in the middle of the street, mistreated from the rain, twirling and dancing. She looked like she was in another world, uncaring of her surroundings. All she seemed to care for in that moment was the feeling of the rain against her skin. Her hair was long and blonde, reaching just above the tip of her breast. She was in a white dress just above her knees, vines tracing the scalloped hem and a dark denim jacket to cover up her wings. I hoisted my khaki dreary-day trench coat from the coat tree and proceeded to walk outside, hesitating at the porch steps my brain and body reluctant to go into the harsh rain. My curiosity getting the best of me, I went into a half run into the glistening street. You could hear the pattering of the rain hitting the pavement with slight force. The rain was gentle sounding, as if several tiny guinea pigs were running the streets of Reese. I could hear a faint sound of thunder, it was distant and far. I trampled through newly formed puddles feeling the water begin to soak through the bottom of my jeans. I stopped just 5 feet within her distance. I could feel the words bubbling up from inside me, but to no avail, for no sound dared to leave my lips. It was as if by the time the words had reached the tip of my tongue they had evaporated into mere thoughts. "Don't you just love the rain?" She asked in a delighted, exasperated tone. I guess she noticed me, then again how could she not? I was only a short distance away, but I guess watching her get lost, I, too, had lost the path in which my own mind was once travelling. I was baffled, stuttering on my thoughts before attempting to answer her simple yet complex question. Did I like the rain? It's alright, gives me a break from the day's errands, it's peaceful and serene. More than that I like how easily it is to fall asleep to. The gentle sound of the rain hammering the roof begging to come inside makes me feel cozy and puts my mind at ease. It's creates the stage of a perfect, blissful slumber. "What's your name?" I requested, shrugging off her previous inquiry. She allowed her gaze to turn away from the rumbling sky above and opened her eyes glaring at me. Her eyes, they got me even more lost than before and they were even more enchanting than the frail raindrops against her silhouette. They were deceivably striking and I once again found myself stumbling on words. Her eyes had blue hues that were like that of the pale blue Hydrangea macrophylla. They were electrifying in a way almost unimaginable and it felt as if I could swim right on through them with the greatest of ease. I felt that if I looked close enough I would find wispy clouds floating through them, each cloud holding onto a dream. "Sophia." She spoke softly interrupting my thoughts. She gave me a quick grin and looked as if right then she would have walked away. My words caught on my tongue, I was unsure of what to say. Here before me is what some may call an impossibility, an enchanting miracle from somewhere far from earth. "Sophia." I let her name trail off my tongue, it tasted blissful as it was leaving my mouth dry and empty. I could say it a million times and never could it lose its bliss. "I don't know if you noticed, but it's sort of raining, maybe you should come inside. You could get sick standing out here like this, Sophia." I was almost yelling over the rain. I approached her almost unknowingly, her essence had complete control over me and all I wanted to do was get her out of the rain. Sophia looked like she belonged in the rain, like it was her home and I was kidnapping her. She took a few steps back with a smile and did a small twirl before standing still again. She took a deep inhale and let it all go. It was in that moment she had breathed the entire earth. "I just absolutely love the rain! Have you ever stood in the rain, walked in it? It feels like it's just washing you of everything. You feel almost water proof even though you are soaking wet. Then you go back inside and the minute you are out of the rain you feel trapped and you can't help but go back to your ill defying muse. When the cool breeze sweeps over my face and the first few drops of rain touches my cheeks.... oh! It's almost a heavenly feeling. A shiver runs down my body, giving me goose bumps and the sweet smell of wet mud brings back old memories that thrash and burn. The tender plants & flowers look so refreshing on getting wet in the rain. Rain, it washes the tears away. I can cry and pretend it's just raindrops from the beautiful sky. I love the power of rain to prove you wrong. You dash into the rain in a fit of pique hoping for absolution, denial, something earth-shattering, and life altering. Instead, you get really wet, you blink your eyes a lot, and all the silly movie inspired needs you thought to take from the rain become background noise. The rain takes control, it commands your attention. Soon there is nothing but the rain. You sit your butt down in the wet grass, no longer caring if the neighbors see you or what they may be thinking. You just sit there in the rain, thunder and lightning creating the backdrop to the white noise echoing in your skull. It's like shock therapy and meditation in one neat package. I love the tiny pitter pattering sounds that make everything seem so huge, so endless. I just love it." She was rambling, but it was beautiful. Her words were poetry, words that if you caught in a jar could be worth millions. I didn't understand what she meant, but I wanted to. I wanted to listen and feel the words, know every meaning they possessed. Sophia looked at me again, she knew what I was thinking and continued with her endless array of words. "Sometimes it's just nice to feel like everything else is meaningless for a few moments, you know? It's almost like a fantasy. As if you cannot feel it with your skin, but actually feel it, if that makes any sense. It’s a beautiful feeling having every doubt finally pushed away. Every tear following the rain into the sewage drain." She ended her lecture there and walked up to me grabbing me by the arm. "Do you have any tea?" I laughed at her pleasantness. Her question was so off-guard, so unforeseen. I nodded and led her to my small, petite home. Sophia sat down on the cheerless, worn couch and I took a place down beside her. "You never told me your name, you know?" She spoke as she smiled her fantasy smile again. I felt myself melt a little. The alarm started buzzing loud and clear, snapping me back into my conscious reality. It was so sudden I could barely reminisce in my last few moments with her as I opened my saddened eyes, leaving her behind to wander my unconsciousness never to be dreamt of again.

It's a funny thing with dreams:

They can feel so real.