My counselor tells me to stop and breathe. That I need to calm down, to slow down. She's right, so I do. I breathe once, and again, and once more, trying to make each breath as calming as possible, because I need to get back to talking and I don't want to waste her time. I forget sometimes that I'm here to get help, not to provide justification for coming.

We talk about intermittent reinforcement, which is when a rat pushes a lever, and sometimes a food pellet comes down the slide, and sometimes it doesn't, but the pellet that sometimes comes down is what keeps the rat pushing the lever. She says that we're rats who want pellets, so we stay in bad relationships trying to get those pellets, when the days we don't get them hurt so much that it's not worth sacrificing so much just to get to the days when we do. She's right, so I resolve to stop pushing the lever.

I explain how my emotions sometimes feel like a school notebook that is full of papers that are out of order and falling out and just a stressful, horrible mess that I need to somehow organize and arrange neatly in the prongs.

We talk about the "drama triangle" of perpetrator, victim, and rescuer, and how the people in these positions tend to change places over the course of an extended argument, and being in the triangle never resolves the issue. She's right, so I decide to get out of those triangles.

We talk about the mantra: "I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it," and how it would be beneficial for me to incorporate that idea into the way I think about and treat my family. She's right, so I memorize it.

I remind myself to breathe periodically, so she won't have to remind me, because I only have an hour, and I can't waste this time.

I leave feeling lightened. Verbalizing feelings and receiving affirmation for them is important, I realize. I need to feel that my emotions are valid, that they don't have to have a reason, but that they are important simply because I feel them, and because emotions are flags for us to perhaps revise a situation. My counselor had asked me if I wanted to schedule another appointment before I left, and I said I wasn't sure, like I did last time. The emotion-notebook is a little neater for now.

     I think you're a lot like the Moon. Not in the spherical, grey, dusty way, but in the sense that somehow, when you're near me, I feel waves beating inside my chest. You have caused the rising and falling of a tide inside me. It's inconvenient at best, and infuriating at worst, but I have nothing else to do but to follow the ocean inside before it erodes my shores into nothingness and sends my soul is drifting off alone towards the unreachable horizon, where the sea finally kisses the night sky. 

     You are always there, or the Moon is at least, waiting and watching, and dare-I-say, loving to do so. The people must seem so tiny and busy from where you are, like trails of ants on their pathways to and from their hills of dirt. It's lucky that I am the ocean then, because that means I'm the most noticeable thing on the globe, being seventy-five percent of the thing. You always say that I'm the only one you see in a roomful of people. It's a sweet lie; I appreciate the sentiment.

     I guess you're wondering by now why I bothered to write this. It wasn't because the Moon was orange tonight (although that did remind me of the badly done spray tan you got last summer before your sister's wedding), or because I'm planning some romantic seaside trip. It's just to remind you that you make me feel things, mostly nice, and usually unfamiliar and strange and exciting, and I hope I make you feel like that sometimes. I want to make poetic things happen inside you, like being lost at sea and wanting to be an astronaut. I guess that's what love is, or maybe it's just movie love (which is hardly real), but then again, maybe I just really like outer space.

     Wesley meandered through the park, the plodding of his thick-soled boots muffled by the concrete. The world hung about him like a chiffon curtain that a particularly strong breeze could blow to tatters while he still stood in his black wool coat, unaffected by his circumstances as always. Mist formed droplets on his stubbly beard and dark hair to tactfully hint that both were in want of a trim. The sky was a dull, static grey that the sun made no effort to break through because it was too dim and sleepy to attempt such a thing. The fragile quiet was only broken by the persistent call of a songbird unaware that mating season had ended, and by car tires rolling damply through the shallow puddles forming on the pavement outside the rusted gate.

     As Wesley meandered on, amethyst flowers on the nearby trees faintly perfumed the air, and he paused, brow furrowed. The aroma hinted at vague memories on the edge of recollection, but they came no closer. His fists clenched in his coat pockets, and he breathed deeply in an attempt to trace the familiarity, but the last wisp of the thought had gone, leaving the sense of an empty picture frame hanging on a wall behind it. He twisted a flower stem until it came loose, and touched the star-shaped bloom delicately, admiring its silk-soft petals before gently storing it in his pocket and moving on through the mist tendrils curling around his boot laces. This was the nature of all Novembers, as far as Wesley remembered them, at least: A time for the world to fall into deathlike slumber, while he seemed to wake and become acutely aware of the things around him that before, had blindly passed him by.

     He pondered this and other inconsequential mysteries, noting that Sunday mornings were the best times for being out, because this was when all usual disturbances were either sleeping away the memories of the previous night’s party, or sitting neatly in pews, somewhat like schools of fish, getting right with God. The only exception was a lone vendor slouching in an aluminum chair behind his cart, a Styrofoam cup of black coffee steaming his nose against the damp, chilled air. The rich, smoky scent of cooked sausages almost enticed Wesley, but his empty wallet grew heavier in the pocket of his slacks, and he tread on, avoiding the disappointed salesman’s eyes. Faded, empty wooden benches, once beautiful, sat like solitary monks in the grass, which had not yet been killed by winter’s genesis, although the taste of freezing rain on the move warned of its imminent demise.

     To Wesley’s surprise, when he rounded a sharp curve in the path, he saw a girl seated alone on a bench, where before he could only see the curtain of birch trees around her. Her short red hair neatly framed her fair-skinned face, which had the tendency to make one wonder about the existence of fairies. Her dew-dropped, pale pink coat profiled her brightly against their surroundings, as if a colored picture had been unexpectedly inserted into a shadow theatre performance. Wesley felt his hands grow clammy at the sight of the petite figure reading her small book, and he was grateful that she hadn’t noticed him yet. His heart quickening uncomfortably until a horse race was thundering through his chest, Wesley approached the strange girl.

     “Hello,” he stammered slightly, almost smiling at the half-eaten pastry next to her, its raspberry filling staining the thin paper bag it rested on. “What are you reading?”

     She first looked up at him with a politely curious expression, and his breath caught at the sight of her vibrant, honey-colored eyes, which immediately roved to the worn, yellowed book in her hands.

     “I’m not entirely sure. The covers and the title page were torn off when I found it, but it’s filled with poems.” Her musical voice seemed to skip through the air for a moment after she stopped speaking, and Wesley’s eyes followed it delightedly.

     “Is the title not at the top of the pages?”

     She shook her head, a ginger curl bouncing onto her forehead. “Only the poem titles and page numbers. Odd, isn’t it?”

     As he nodded, Wesley noted that she didn’t seem to mind the conversation, spurring him to dare a bit more. “May I read with you?” He ventured.

     A smile like springtime danced on her lips. “Only if we get tea while we’re at it.”

     Astonished at the fortuitous turn of events, Wesley could hardly speak as he and the strange girl, who introduced herself as Emelia and had a rather weak handshake, left the park together. The street was slightly busier now, with pedestrians and dog-walkers striding along their typical routes, walking around the waltz-like pace of the acquaintances, sending glanced grumbles as they passed. Emelia stepped slightly in front of Wesley to indicate their next turn, and it occurred to him that her perfume smelled like the flowered tree he had pondered for so long, dusky lavender mingling with sugary honeysuckle to create the intriguing aroma.

     Their destination was a little aqua café with maps pinned to the walls and kaleidoscopic tapestries sagging from the ceiling, and they soon found themselves seated at a table tucked in a corner. Emelia’s nibbled pastry now had a napkin to rest upon next to her ceramic mug of chai tea, whose clove and nutmeg steam mingled with the ginger and orange of Wesley’s in the air above their table. Her white skirt rustling, she crossed her legs the opposite way and propped her elbow on the table, holding the book at a somewhat farsighted distance. She turned to a new page, smiled at its title, and began to read in her enchantingly sonorous voice. Wesley stared at the back of the bound pages as she painted pictures of oceans and ships and birds and lost loves, until his eyes came into focus and he realized that on the very last page, there was a note from the author, which, in the second paragraph, mentioned the title of the book Emelia held. He hid his smile behind his mug, lifting it to his mouth and letting the steam cloud his eyes as he watched the girl across the table brush her bangs back and begin the next stanza, her flowery lips shaping each word with care.

     Wesley found a new kind of month blossoming before his eyes, one in which brightness was scattered through everything, and so were kind secrets and sudden meetings, and the year no longer seemed to drag in its own monotony. It was less of a dozing death than it was an awakening at dawn to brush gold dust from one’s eyes, and see that the world was transformed overnight into something new and strangely beautiful. Wesley heard a distant rumble of thunder and looked out at the world beyond the curtained window pane, then watched the raindrop rivers race each other down the glass as the old world was washed away, and a new November was stormed into existence.

The baby's breath blooms drying on my windowsill have been there for months. I imagine that if I picked them up and squeezed one, it would crush and crumble between my fingers, making a dust of sorts. I could put it on my tongue, and it might dissolve, and then I could see more stars than other people, although I could never test the theory. Or I might just end up with a bad taste in my mouth, sweet and stale and papery. But they might bloom inside me if I swallowed them. Wouldn't that be lovely?

I could have flowers growing through my organs, and you could see the faint outlines of them in my arms, all the way up to my fingertips. That would be very pretty. If I happened to die, they could take my heart out to look at it, and it would be filled with little white flowers coming out of the aorta, or maybe there would be roots. I don't know if the roots would be in my heart, brain, or stomach. Any of those would make sense to me. But before I died, I could have a garden inside me. And if someone asked, "Why does it look like there are flowers inside your skin?", I alone of all people would have the privilege of answering, "Because there are."

I would be so lucky.

But I guess it would get tiresome, like all things eventually do. The flowers inside me would have to die, just like the dried flowers that I put on my tongue and swallowed to birth them in the beginning. They would wither away until you couldn't see them under my skin, and you wouldn't see them coming out of my heart, only fine white dust like an addict, which I am.

Which we all are. To beauty, and to nice things, and to feeling special.

Oh, how we love that. I would have my fix for awhile, but then I would itch for more.

Maybe then I would dry lavender flowers on my windowsill.

Here I am again. It's like my brain is an empty alleyway, littered with garbage bins and broken glass bottles. This is supposed to be something I'm good at. I Write. That's my thing, isn't it? It's certainly the only one of my talents that I have a vague chance of making a living with. Singing, mediocre piano skills, poor ukulele playing, and baking (provided that the result doesn't have to be visually appealing) are hardly moneymakers. And writing won't be if I can't get something onto this stupid screen. 

There is nothing more discouraging and intimidating than a blank canvas. Some call it freeing, and maybe they're right, but it doesn't matter that the cell door is open if you'll still be penniless outside the jail. That's all my brain is right now: penniless, an empty pocket. The same tricks of phrasing and word choice don't work more than once, maybe twice if you tweak it right in the rerun version, so I can't just do what I did before to be "good". I feel like one of those songs that was Good Stuff in 2014, on the Top 40 list, everyone knew it, everyone liked it, everyone sang along to it, and then it was suddenly old and tired and stupid, and now when it's played at parties, people groan internally because the DJ doesn't have a clue. 

Maybe if I went back to an old story, that would help. 

Oh dear. No no, that won't work. That one's horribly written. That one is badly disguised satire that I didn't even understand at the time. That one is filled with unnecessary, obnoxious angst. That one is...not bad, actually. This is pretty good. I like these characters, and the plot. And I've written hardly anything for it, so there's nothing to hate yet. Maybe I'll just start writing it.

But where do I start?

In the middle of a scene? A flashback? Foreshadowing? Should I drop in suddenly on some action or start at the Very Beginning? What is the beginning? Is this story too complex for me to write well? Will I waste all my time questioning my abilities instead of actually working? Oh boy, you guessed it!

So the page is still empty, I've spent the last hour trying to find the right ambient music to get me in a Writing Mood, I can't figure out where to start on the old story so I scrapped that idea entirely, and now I need a new, fresh idea when there is none to be had. Oh, and don't forget the tabs of social media and Google searches I have open, all for the sake of "inspiration". I will never have a moneymaker, a painted canvas, or fulfillment of any sort.

But I must continue to tell my friends and family how great it is to write.

My parents are screaming more than usual tonight.

They're pissed again. Who knows what it's about, but I know that whatever it is doesn't matter. They just like to hate each other.

It's the tragic story of two people who should have divorced thirty years ago, because after the first six months of marriage, the veil was ripped away and both of them realized that this was not what should have been, what they deserved, etc. But, five children later, here I am. The last one. The different one. Who knows how I happened, but I know that however I happened, it's not significant enough to write a memoir about. I just like to think I'm that special.

If each child did write a memoir, they would give very different accounts of the situation we all found ourselves growing up in.

One would claim early abuse from the father and PTSD.

One would claim abuse from both parents, and depression.

One would claim a mistreated Cinderella-esque upbringing.

One would claim suicidal thoughts and anger management issues.

I don't know exactly what I would claim, but I would probably have threads of their stories, plus a certain amount of anxiety and self-awareness they seem to lack. Also, counselling. I went to counselling.

Somehow we all share DNA, and that's uncomfortable. I don't want to be linked to them. I don't want to think I share anything with them. Families aren't supposed to be like this. Obviously a lot of them are, so this isn't uncommon and this doesn't make me different from the hundreds, probably thousands of people dealing with similar things. 

But it still really sucks.

Because you don't want to tell people what the most probable root of all your mental issues is; you don't want to admit that you have mental issues. You don't want to seem less capable or less able because of them, but then you end up having to provide the disclaimer because you're in a situation that requires that of you. So now you have those sticky labels (complete with footnotes) on your forehead:

HI, MY NAME IS 

-ANXIOUS* 

*sometimes

-LOW SELF-ESTEEM* 

*sometimes

-DEPRESSED* 

*previously/presently (?)

-SUICIDAL* 

*not so much anymore (?)

-EMOTIONALLY DRAINED* 

*often

 and you don't want to explain where they came from. Lots of people have them because of chemicals in their brains. They're the lucky ones; they have a ready explanation if they need one. But as for me, I can't really pin down a specific direct cause. Lack of affirmation from my parents? The fact that they constantly fight? (I dunno how that affects my mental state personally, but it is horrible to live with.) Maybe it was that one time I found out that a girl didn't like me because I talked too fast and she found that annoying, and I had never known of anyone actively disliking me before, so I was plunged into a hellish state of mind that I later identified as depression, which was a lot for a twelve-year-old to go through even though it doesn't sound so big now. Maybe it was the inferiority complex, but that's more of a separate issue with another unidentifiable cause. Maybe I don't have a healthy enough diet, or listen to enough ukulele music.

Either way, I'm just really bloody tired of constantly wishing for freedom from the home that is nothing but the result of other people's crappy mistakes. But I can't forget that I was one of the results of those people's crappy mistakes. I don't think I was a mistake, and I wouldn't have happened if not for them. I don't like that, either. It's much easier to blame and blame and not think of any positive things. But somehow here I am, towards the end of this unsolicited, rambling, pointless life story/rant, realizing that I am a positive thing. I like a lot of things in the world, and I'm even in love with a lot of things. I may not be in love with my situation, but I have been brought into plenty situations that are so much better. 

I don't like the mantra that everything happens for a reason, because no matter how true it may be, it never comes off as anything but an excuse to invalidate pain. So I will not end this with "everything happens for a reason". I will end, instead, with:

My parents have stopped yelling, my bedroom smells nice, and there are two kinds of ice cream in the freezer.

Go where you wanna go

And do what you wanna do.

It's not about them, no it's not about them

But you, about you, about you

Don't let others keep hold of your life

Take back the reigns because they have their own.

Those who lead their lives, as history's shown,

Those are the game-changers, ground-shakers, dream-makers.

Words of others aren't poison in your veins-

The antidote's your spirit; the vaccine is your brain.

Societal lies will leave you to die-

Let your conscience speak up; let the real truth guide,

Because you are not words and you are not stats

Like skin is not clear and stomachs aren't flat,

So if you dare believe that you are less than enough,

I will shout reality; reality is tough.

You are watched by God and you are made from stars,

The universe is here for you; the sky holds no bars,

Do not stop breathing and beating and beating,

For you seas are churning! 

For you worlds are turning!

So don't waste your monumental soul when it's yearning

To fight for its right to walk in the light!

For clouds are not there for you to sit in and stare,

But for you to wake out of, break out of, take out of

Every hardship a new kind of truth,

For this is the point of, the point of your youth!

Not the point of your youth but the point of your life:

To make every day better than the one dead at night.

When you're in the ground with a headstone above,

Your birthdate and deathdate will not bear your love.

The dash in between is what matters alone,

With sights you admired and kindnesses shown.

So what will it be? Will you waste your days?

By then you'll be free from the cultural gaze.

You can die with the tide or find freedom to ride

And find favor in the future of history's eyes.

Or at the very least, you'll enjoy that dash,

And hear every second of life's clamorous clash.

     "I promise, Susan, the void was better yesterday!"

     "Kathy, what it was like yesterday doesn't matter if it's swallowed three volunteers and a janitor today! Get that black hole out of the teacher's lounge or you're no longer secretary."

     Susan (you know, the president of the Parent Teacher Association?) bustled out of the lounge carrying a box full of t-shirts that would be on sale in front of the school within the hour. Kathy, the newly elected secretary, stared into the nothingness where the vending machine that only sold Coke usually was with something between apprehension and desire. 

     "If I walk into it, I won't have to deal with Susan's crap anymore. But then Andrew won't be able to go on the end-of-year field trip. Damned conditional scholarship; whose idea was that in the first place?"

     Kathy began by putting up caution tape between the wall and the counter, careful to not fall into the black space, which was now emitting a sinister whispering. Or maybe it was just white noise; she couldn't quite tell over the screaming of the principal down the hall. It was a third Friday, which was Presentation Day (as everyone knew), and giving a PowerPoint displaying the school's monthly progress to the county superintendent was every administrator's worst nightmare. The secretary then printed a sign in large Comic Sans font, displaying "CAUTION: VOID HERE - DO NOT ENTER", though she knew it was practically useless since everyone thought they were the exception to the rule. If they wanted to have their person absorbed by the pulsating shadow for the sake of an ice-cold Coke, so be it.

     Kathy left for five minutes to put the sign-up sheets for the next bake sale on the front table, where two visor-wearing mothers were exchanging money for tickets as they gossiped about Sharon ("She just remarried!" "So soon after her divorce? Very suspicious." "I know! And he's an accountant!" "Oh, this won't last."). The two lines of parents waiting to enter stretched down the steps, but Kathy knew that asking the women to hurry it up would only make her less popular, so she headed back through the office past the secretary, who was feeding the odd new fish, to the lounge.

     The void had spread, and now it was gnawing away at the edge of the pushpin-punctured announcement board. Kathy put up a new strand of caution tape and sat to ponder a solution in one of the red leather armchairs, where the attached sensors read her heart rate, her body temperature, her current emotions, and her opinion on the state of the decreasing whale population before sending the information to a satellite, which sent it to the county office to be read by someone in the Statistics Department and filed away, never to be seen by anyone else ever again. Kathy was comforted by the fact that there was someone out there paying attention to her feelings. 

     The darkness began to whisper- definitely whisper, not just emit vague noise. It was a little loud to be considered a whisper, but it wasn't normal volume talking and Kathy couldn't think of a better descriptive word. She listened to it, and moved perhaps closer than she should have in order to hear its message better. There were no distinctive words, although it had plenty to say, and she knew that it wanted something. This void, like all people and most living, self-aware organisms, wanted something.

     Susan came back.

     "Kathy! What are you doing?! It's still here! Do you want to lose your position? The fair is filling up and teachers and volunteers are going to be flooding in here for a break from their booths! Do you realize how much work goes into the snack stands? Or the educational presentations where we teach students and their parents to adhere to the status quo and accept the knowledge approved and censored by our county office and benevolent state government? Or the games, like Pin the Sacrifice to the Superintendent on the Altar, and Vote For the Right Candidates? Do you?"

     "I..." Kathy paused. She did know how much work went into the booths, and felt shamed for a moment before remembering that she helped set up the fair earlier that afternoon, and submitted most of the booth ideas at the committee meetings. She had done more work than, perhaps, even Susan had. 

     The void whispered. Kathy listened. 

     The void whispered to Kathy personally. Kathy listened, personally, to the void. 

     Kathy knew what it wanted. 

     She did something, whatever the pulsating blackness wanted, and Susan screamed some, and then she was gone and so was the void and what Kathy did never happened, and neither had Susan or the void.

     Tricia (you know, the president of the Parent Teacher Association?) entered to see Kathy taking down the caution tape from in front of the vending machine. 

     "Kathy? What are you doing!? You have to go man the costume stand! Everyone is vying for it to open; they all want their fake mustaches and personalities!"

     "I know, Tricia; I was just about to go. This caution tape was here for some reason and I thought I'd clean it up." Tricia bustled out in the privileged way that only rich soccer moms can.

     Kathy paused to put two dollars in the slot of the vending machine that only sold Coke, and considered her choices briefly before deciding and pressing the button for a Dr. Pepper. The little screen above the slot went black for a moment, reminding Kathy of something significant, also black, but she couldn't remember what she was reminded of. The screen flashed "$0.25 CHANGE" in neon green lettering, breaking her unremembered recollection, and a can of rootbeer tumbled down. Her change went somewhere else, but Kathy wasn't allowed the knowledge of where.

Where should I begin?

No one wants a world tour where you see all the ugly parts

So this won't be much of a tour.

But let's pretend that in this world -

Me -

There is no ugly.

We will just call it all beauty instead.

So Look.

Look at me.

I am afraid, I will not lie.

I fear being fully seen.

I am constantly reeling

And feeling

And stealing from my wells of confidence

And pouring out the water

Until they are all run dry

And then I wonder why

I cannot look others in the eye

Without thinking "wow I

am so much less than they are."

But this is a lie.

I will not eat the tainted food I give myself

Because I am more

I am more

I am more

Than the roses left on the stage after the show

And the breath of air before a scream

And the glass shards from a broken figurine.

So it's time

for me

to begin.

Where shall I start?

I will start with the reflection in the mirror

With her little nose and soulful eyes

With her perfect hips and perfect thighs

And stomach that should not be labelled as fat

Because remember, I'm a woman, and we are made like that.

My hands are made for creating

For elating and relating.

My lips are made for loving

and telling and welling

with words of truth

And this is why

I will not lie

About me to myself.

My surface has scratches and scars -

the results of a natural disaster.

Every world has those, right?

Those matter but

they are not everything.

Just as clouds are not the sky -

Stars are.

I am painted with stars

And oceans in my veins

Roots of life grow through my brain.

A wise man once said:

"I don't know who I am but I know who I'm not."

And I'd say I have to agree.

I am not clean-cut perfection

but I know that I am me

And that is a different sort of perfect

Less clean

Less clear

Less cosmetology

My etymology is derived from

The way the wind feels filling your lungs

And the sound of songbirds

And the breathy hum of a record player

And the woodsmoke smell in hair

I am all these things

Constant perfection

Fear of rejection

Continuous projection of

Evidence of living and trying and breathing and needing

Because that is what it is to be me.

I am beautiful; this is true.

I think I look an awful lot like you.

There is the constant cacophony of talking and yelling and laughing and a thousand differently pitched voices all rising and falling at their individual intervals. But I move among them, and listen, and I am silent, because I have nothing to say or do or think aside from the fact that they are so loud

but

they do not say anything.