stage 1: numb

I’ve been laying here for nine weeks, staring up at the ceiling. It’s kind of strange because I haven’t been eating, and I don’t feel hungry. My brain feels like mush, and I get to thinking that I’m not real again. This feels so strange, but it’s so familiar.

I close my eyes, and I breath out through my mouth. I sit up and look at my phone, trying to remember the last time I talked to someone. I can’t even remember the last time I spoke. I cup my hand over the lower left side of my chest, but it feels empty. I don’t wait long enough to hear it beating. I look around my small apartment, and it feels unoccupied.

stage 2: anger

Why isn’t anyone messaging me? I grab my phone, my eyes and fingers searching hastily through the different applications. I feel like I’m tweaking. I can barely breath, and a sharp pain in the middle of my chest halts my progress for an instant. Breathe out. My thumb continues its good work.

Wait—what is that? I scrutinize a post from a girl that I barely know. All the friends I thought I made in this town are together, having fun, playing games. This was a few hours ago. My grip on the phone tightens briefly, and my thoughts move to self-loathing and confusion. WHY does this keep happening?! Don’t these idiots get it? I need people, too, and they’re all I have here. WHY WHY WHY. I want to scream and throw my phone. I want to reach into my chest, find my heart, and claw it out.

stage 3: reassurance

In the back of my mind, I realize that I’m probably overreacting. They didn’t think to invite me, sure. But they barely know me, even though I’ve been here for 7 months. How long does it take to matter enough to people? Breathe out. No, it’s okay. They probably just forgot, and then it was too late. Sure, they probably know I’ve got nothing else going on but to sit at home and stare at the ceiling . . . but they probably didn’t think I’d want to go. To a game night. To spend real time with people for the first time in nine weeks. To laugh and be seen. Yeah, it doesn’t matter. I’m letting my insecurities get in the way of my judgment. Again. I’m just overreacting.

stage 4: cling

Despite my best efforts, I peer at my phone screen again. Unlocking it deftly, I send a quick message to three people. There. You can’t say I didn’t try. I wait four seconds and unlock the screen again. The messages were all delivered but none read. Okay, fine. I find three more people whom I somewhat like, and I send out more messages. I drop the phone to my side and wait.

Four more seconds. My angst and insecurities rise to the surface and overflow. On my phone again, I scroll through my contacts. I find my friend who I’ve known for nine years. My one friendship that has endured. I press call and wait. The line rings but no one picks up.

stage 5: death

I stand up slowly. The world feels different—muted and unmoving. Undisturbed. I breathe out and I can’t help but wonder where the air is coming from. I take a step forward and I can’t feel the threadbare carpet beneath my dry feet.

I feel abandoned to myself.

I place my hand over my heart again. Covered in the dull light from the window, I stand and wait for the beating. I can’t see the sky between the blinds. Caught suddenly by fear, I thump my fist against my chest and wait again.

Grandma fell asleep again,

making those loud noises like a volcano

I walk up to her chair and pull on her hair,

but she won’t wake up

I breathe out loudly through my mouth,

And my eyes catch onto the open screen door

I shuffle towards it,

push my shoulder against one end,

And make the space wider

Standing on the deck,

I look at the shimmering pool

And pull my shirt over my head

My feet are already bare and dirty

Like my naked legs, my thoughts are running

I want to try and breathe water

So I can move to the ocean

And swim with the fishes

I want to float or fly,

Like I’m way up in the sky,

So I can look down at all the people

I’m still running

And then my legs touch air,

And then my toes touch liquid,

And then I’m under,

Flying through the water

I’m drowning

And Grandma’s still sleeping.

Ellie lived inside a cardboard box for most of her life. Her parents gave her the box as a gift when she was born. They crafted it from homemade material, designing it specially so it would grow with her. Her parents made the gift seem special, like something she needed and something she would love.

When Ellie turned two, she blew bubbles that popped against the serrated cardboard edges. She played quietly. She made up songs inside her head. She talked to the cardboard walls and drew all over them with crayons. She never stayed inside the lines. She threw tantrums and beat her fists against those weak paper walls, but they never tore.

When Ellie turned six, she spoke loudly in order to be heard. Her voice echoed mostly back at her, and rapped against her eardrums. She stuffed her face with sweets that came in their own cardboard boxes. She grew a fear of the dark. There were no stars inside her cardboard box.

When Ellie turned ten, her mother called her ugly. She called out for her father, but he was never close enough to hear. Her brothers created their own universe in the room they shared, while she laid awake next door. In school, her teachers ignored her. Her classmates made fun of her, the odd girl with the weird box on her head.

When Ellie turned fourteen, she poked holes in her cardboard box so that she could see and speak to people. So that she could hold hands and give hugs. She learned how to do these things. She spoke quieter and she could hear better. She listened more and watched all of the people around her living without boxes. She tried to imitate them. She failed. She tried again.

When Ellie turned eighteen, she learned something new. She could get out of the box. She ripped it apart with her hands, punching through the old holes, clawing at the faded childish drawings. She walked out of her house and she made her way down the street. She got on the bus without looking back.

In college, Ellie tried to live like everybody else. She pretended well enough that she almost became one of them. She spent years pretending and studying and working. Sometimes, she yearned for the cardboard box that her parents had given her when she was born. She knew the inside of that box better than the back of her hand. Outside of the box, she was forced to see her shortcomings—small pauses in conversations, confused looks, awkward laughter. Her unreasonable anger, stupid passive-aggressiveness, dumb insecurities. When she had ripped open those secure cardboard walls, she had ripped open herself as well.

When Ellie turned twenty, she was found out for the imposter she was. The people she pretended with left one by one, until the ones that couldn't leave were the only ones left. They overlooked her as though she were a cardboard box left discarded in the corner. So she started making herself a new box, one that she wouldn't be able to tear apart. She made this box out of bricks and cement and spent a long time on it. She continued studying and working and pretending while she laid each brick down, one by one. Kids played around her, dancing on the outside edges of her big red box. She made conversation with them and sometimes played card games, but she never left the square ring of solid red bricks. Some kids she played with more than others. Then there were these two kids. She called them the light (of her life). She spent as much time as she could with them, and every moment made her forget her broken cardboard box and the failed experiment that was her life after. She kept her guard down with them. She trusted them.

One day, Ellie was singing quietly to herself when she heard a noise. She turned just as the light clambered over the low red brick wall behind her. They stood there, smiling expectantly. She froze. It was very easy to see the amount of trust in their expressions, the amount of care and love. Ellie had never seen that before, and she didn't know how to react. She didn't get upset that they were in her box. She greeted them and they sat down. They talked for hours. Soon they left, but the next day they came back. Climbing over the wall again without hesitation, they met her and showed her the same feelings every time. They became like the stars inside her box. Even when they left, the glow they often left behind would be there for days. Then one day, they didn't come back. When Ellie realized that they never would, she felt the darkness that followed after them. It'd always been there before the light, so she had never really noticed. Now it bothered her. She finished her red brick box and felt herself trapped with it. She piled mounds of dirt and tried to fashion them into the light. But light doesn't come from dirt.