The House on Birchwood
It doesn't happen much these days but in my childhood, on breezy afternoons in the spring, my grandma would open all the doors and windows and let the Carolina air flow throughout the house. I was free to go in and out at my leisure, so long as I stayed in the yard.
Most of the time, I would stand outside picking crab apples off the tree in the front yard. Some days, I'd just watch bugs crawl in and out of the rotting fruit that'd fallen to the earth. On one particular day, I grew bored of this and walked inside seeking entertainment. As I stepped in, I heard a woman's voice floating down from one of the bedrooms. I walked by the staircase and saw my grandparents' bedroom door wide open, sunlight pouring into the hallway. Music swelled behind the woman's voice as she sang longingly in a language I did not understand. Her vibrato bounced off of the walls and rode the breeze down into my ears. The notes she held were endless, and I stood and listened before going on my way.
My grandparents' love for opera and classical was nothing new. They cared very little for the noise of contemporary artists, and took great joy in easy listening or antiquated musicals. The two were deceptively intellectual and artistically-minded, qualtities I did not fully appreciate until adulthood.
The reason this sticks out is because it is the only moment I can recall in which I took the time to just....be. It was not a concious effort, simply a point in time in which there was no more than an operatic cry, a breeze on my skin and the crsip smell of spring in the air. Sometimes, I go back to this memory and am small child looking up into the hallway. Other times, I am an adult watching myself experience bliss for the very first time.
When asked about a happy place, this is where I go. I came across a passage in a Hermann Hesse novel in which hearing a symphony is described as a transcendent experience that quickly gives way to a dream-like state. When I read this, my brain shifted to that old memory, and I was forced to set the book down and revisit my early glimmers of transcendence.
Papa died five years ago. Grandma is still here. She doesn't hear so well anymore, and so their old records are in the basement collecting dust. She chills easily, and so the windows stay closed, even on temperate days.
I moved back into the house a year ago, and brought a record player of my own. I plugged it up next to Grandma's favorite chair and every once in a while, I put on something I think she'll like. Luckily, she tends to hear the music just fine. And every time she listens, I secretly hope to catch her looking up the stairs into the hallway and catch sunlight pouring from her room.
H.
Alex was the first true friend I made when I moved to Myrtle Beach. He opened me up to hip-hop, The Boondocks, and marijuana. His smile was big, his laugh infectious. We didn't talk as much once he left the neighborhood, but he would still take the time to check in here and there. The last two times we spoke on the phone, he was high out of his mind. I thought he'd just gotten caught up in life, but it turned out he'd gotten caught up with something stronger. I saw him once before he died, when he left for the Army. He was clean and had cut off his signature dreadlocks. The last time I saw his face was in an open coffin. His service was in a small funeral home just off the highway. I made sure all the former kids from the nieghborhood got an obituary if they couldn't make it. His mom was honest in her suspicion as to cause of death, but she refused the autopsy. Some things should be left alone, she felt. I am inclined to agree. She lost a son, I lost a brother. That was all that truly mattered. I got dreadlocks in his honor, and had them for three years. I cut them off six months ago. He'd cut his own so he could move on with his life. It was time for me to let go, too.
Mike was another friend from Myrtle Beach. The first person to really push me to create, we had some rowdy times as well as some pretty manic ones. Mike believed in my words and he encouraged my vision. He was a wreck, albeit an especially talented one but psychoactive substances care little for skill sets. I didn't make it to his funeral. I was poor, had no car, and lived six hours away. I wish he knew that he inspires me every day. I hope his mom's okay. He'd be proud to know his brother is happy. Sometimes I think I hear him in my dreams, making one dumb joke after another, but that's probably just wishful thinking.
I miss my homies.
Fuck heroin.
Magic: The Gathering
He told me more than once that he felt like he was settling. The laundry, the food, the sex, the free place to live, the care for the kitten that shredded my blinds and my furniture- it was never enough. A match made in hallucinogenic heaven turned into a bad trip in such a short time.
These things he would say, often unfair and cruel. I knew this all along, so why did I walk on eggshells? I was so afraid that something already broken would crack that I allowed the forced removal of my spine. As I flopped over his lap and begged for support, he told me I should be happy with how flexible I’d become. Oh, fair enough then, I thought. I guess I’ll just drink a bottle of wine and not think about those burger joint waitresses that text him late at night. I can only imagine what he told them. Probably the same thing he told the girl he knew from high school, the one I naively let into my home. Boundaries? Sorry, don’t know the meaning of the word.
And it was MY home, though it made him angry when I said so. Sorry buddy, but a name on a lease does not a partner make.
A couple hundred bucks on the first of the month, and the rest went to beer and trading card games. What’s that? You need money for a super rare card? For a deck you’re going to take apart and never use again? What happened to your check? Oh, it went to Sierra Nevada and magic mushrooms? Oh yeah sure, good thing I make enough to pay electric on my own...no, no, that’s okay, I’ll get the cat food, too. The fuck you mean, I can’t survive without you here? The iPad I got you “just because” says otherwise.
There was a time, for a couple months, I sent him back to his dad’s. I had parties, visitors, I came and went as I pleased. Had a friend stay with me, but she was more of a wreck than I could have ever fathomed. Familiarity can be blinding.
After Allie left my home in destruction, and the infestation took over, he was there. The night her pill-addicted boyfriend broke into my apartment window looking for her, my sorta-kinda-not-really-ex-boyfriend had convinced me to let him stay the night. But I was the one who sent the addict from my home as he slept, lulled into his dreams by weed and wine. For sake of ease, I told the cops he was my boyfriend, and our toxic cycle began once more.
My mom’s dad fell sick, and I was gone for weeks to help the family. He yelled, angry that I was not back yet, and mocked the hospice nurse’s predictions. Papa died the day after I returned home. My father’s mom passed less than two months later. In my grief, he considered only himself. How dare I inconvience him by wanting to stay at Grandma and Papa’s house on the night of the funeral? What was I thinking, making him turn off the Xbox to come pick me up from work after my Grandmommy left this earth? What a ridiculous notion, going to your partner in a time of need. After a much-needed vacation with some brutally honest friends, I sent him on his way. The hole he left in the closet door let me know he wasn’t going without a fight.
After he left, I drank merlot during the day and watched Star Trek marathons in my underwear. If I wanted company, I had some. If I wanted to be home alone and listen to music undisturbed, I was free to do so. I stayed out all night (sometimes) and spent time with the friends he never liked. Free? Definitely. Destructive? At times. I was willing to take anything that came with the promise of not being judged by someone who only loved me part-time.
My apartment became a sanctuary again. I was no longer afraid of what I would find when I walked through the door. Even still, there were too many memories in those walls and six months later, I left to get back to my roots.
He tried to stick around, under the guise of friendship. But shady characters never quit shady dealings and though I was no longer in love, he still found a way to get under my skin. A few lies and a twisted story later, I knew had to wash my hands clean. Our mutual friends could believe what they wanted. I knew they’d picked their sides long ago, despite their awareness of his patterns of behavior.
His relationships went the same way every time, they said. They were disappointed in him, they said. Yes, we heard the verbal abuse and yes, he said really awful things about you while you were together, and wow, I can’t believe he got physical with you, are you sure it wasn’t just playfighting? He’s still just such a good friend, ya know?
Familiarity is not only blinding, it is also comfortable.
Six years later, many of these events are still quite vivid. Thankfully, the situation no longer rules my waking thoughts. The person I became turns my stomach to think about. Toxic love can break even the strongest of wills and bring out the ugliest sides of the self. The old wounds that opened with every partner after just left more scars, some more visible than others. It never got as bad as it did with him, I’d never allow that to happen again. But old habits die hard, and the same things that I saw in him, I found in other partners time and time again. When you spend so much time trying to love someone else, sometimes you fail to realize that you’re not loving yourself. The hurt builds on itself and it can be a tough structure to knock down.
I would not wish toxic love on anyone. Even relationships that don’t last shouldn’t have to go down in flames. The concept of peaceful un-coupling seems so foreign to me given how many love affairs have blown up in my face.
I’m married now, with a baby on the way. But if it weren’t for all the muck I had to wade through, I don’t think I would be able to fully appreciate just how beautiful of a life I have now. My husband and I both came to the relationship with deep wounds, and even though unpacking our pain has been incredibly difficult, we have been able to heal immensely with the support and honesty given to us by the other person. Finding a partner who is willing to work with and not against you is not a hopeless endeavor. In many cases, it just takes time. Time to be with yourself, time to figure out what you need, want and deserve, and time to heal from the wounds. Self-love and appreciation is the goal, everything else will follow in its footsteps.
I’d like to pick up Magic: The Gathering again. I genuinely liked the game, and sometimes breakups have a way of ruining even the most trivial of things. The ex from six years, he took all the good cards with him. I didn’t fight him on it. I had no energy left. But I’m a big girl. I could build a new collection on my own if I so choose.
Although, I could just learn a new game altogether. I’ve spent enough time living in the past.
And besides- I did, after all, marry a huge Yu-Gi-Oh! fan. Wouldn't want to let that go to waste.
Strange Fruit
In hindsight, Mrs. Martin’s expression was a warning.
Stone-faced, she stepped solemnly toward her computer desk, clicked her speakers on, and pressed a button on her laptop. She told us that we could leave the room if we wanted. No repercussions. The room of barely-teens sat still in plastic seats. White light splashed across our faces. A husky voice began to pour from cheap desktop speakers. She pressed another button. One word scrolled across the screen.
LYNCHING.
The beginning of the PowerPoint was simple. Information most Americans are almost innately aware of. Slavery happened, and that was bad. The colored folks were free, but Jim Crow stepped in and tightened the restraints. Martin Luther King came along and sorted all that nonsense out. Now diversity is the norm and everyone is equal-- isn’t that great, kids? Now here’s a Xeroxed copy of the lyrics to Kumbaya.
Mrs. Martin’s presentation was less optimistic.
The slides--bold black letters against a stark white background-- began to show images. Crude sketches. Detailed artistic renderings. Black and white photos. An endless stream of crooked necks and heavy bodies hanging from ancient and unwilling trees. Billie’s vibrato narrated our slide show, slowly spinning horror stories that trailed through the years. Our barely pubescent faces were fixed to the projector screen, forced to acknowledge the lengthy history laid before us.
Strange fruit, indeed.
The last slide was in color. The man depicted was wearing what appeared to be a denim jacket and a pair of modern looking sneakers. This confused me. These accounts were truly horrible, I thought, but were from the far gone past. A description popped up on the screen. His name was Michael Donald. The picture was taken in 1981. A mob of angry racists went out looking for retribution. They crossed paths with Michael. He was 19.
Billie’s voice faded out.
Mrs. Martin shut off the projector and turned on the lights. Twenty-four eighth graders sat in silence. I don’t remember what happened during the rest of the class period. The next day, we returned to the state-approved lesson plan. Pull out your South Carolina History books. Turn to page 83, Chapter 6: The Civil Rights Movement.
Business as usual.
Mrs. Martin never spoke of the subject again. I don’t remember her getting any backlash for it. She was never pulled from the classroom, and her daughter, who was in the class with me, wasn’t removed either. Surprising, considering she probably showed the PowerPoint to every class she had that day. I often wonder if any of the other students told their parents what happened.
I never mentioned it to mine.
Mrs. Martin, a white woman, was brazen in her approach. I don't know that I will ever fully understand her motivations. My guess, based on what I remember of her, is that it was frustration at a watered-down retelling of history to a demographic that may not fully understand its implications.
History books love to talk about Dr. King. Most sugar-coat the part where he gets shot in the head.
I was born to a white mother and a black father, but was raised by my mother and her family. Her parents preached kindness and acceptance, and any misgivings with my father were never tied to the color of his skin. I knew my skin was a different color than theirs, but to me, it was no more than a difference in hair or eye color. School taught me about slavery, about civil rights, and about black history month. I knew racism existed, but it was an abstract concept-- a thing of the distant past that society collectively agreed to move on from decades before. The PowerPoint popped that bubble.
Ignorance is blissful, but defenseless. Discomfort is betrothed to truth.
I don't look for racism everywhere. I don't think that it's everywhere. There are kind people, and there are horrible people. There are honest mistakes, though malicious intent is alive and well. This is something I've come to reckon with as I move through history with a convoluted identity.
I am breathing in dualities, a sovereign child to the blended world.
I go back and forth in regards to how appropriate Mrs. Martin's decision was. We were children, most of us no older than thirteen, and this woman, based on her own beliefs, decided to show us a highly graphic and potentially (most likely) traumatic slideshow. I write this fifteen years later with the image of Michael Donald's sneakers burned into my memory.
I was just a kid. He was too.
Even now, I remember the chill that crept up the back of my neck as I heard a raspy, haunting voice moaning of bulging eyes and blood-soaked leaves. How it wailed of the crows coming to feed upon the strange and bitter crop hanging from the poplar trees. I was sickened but couldn't force myself away from her mournful poetry. Billie became one of my idols. Fifty years after her death, she still had a story to tell.
I couldn’t help but listen.
Robbin’ for the Hood
The bill at Dollar Tree was $37. $85 at Food Lion, even with the coupons and store sales. I could picture her grimace and premptively formed a list of reasons to justify the expenses- to her and myself. I bring in the bags of non-perishables and drop them with a thud onto the hardwood. Ian is coming soon. We won't get demolished like the islands always do, but we'll get wind and rain, and the trees tend to fall with a gentle breeze in this part of the state. I set the bags down and hand her the receipt. My daughter greets me with tears in her eyes. I tell grandma I can claim her on food stamps, hoping it'll soften the hundred-dollar blow.
An mental image stirs, one where I'm tip-toeing in tights outside of a pharmaceutical company. A large cloth bag of insulin vials and epi-pens is thrown over my shoulder and bouncing along my back. I'm a more limber, slightly medieval version of Santa Claus. A spotlight captures me as I close onto the outer perimeter.
"SNACK TIME, MUMMA!"
My fantasy is broken by a bowl of store-brand cheese snacks (Cheddar Flavored Whales- with 100% REAL cheese!) being shoved into my face. My grandmother is still going through her long list of co-pays, which she punctuates with a rant about a $300 ambulance ride to the hospital half a mile away. I struggle to remember where I was that day, why I hadn't been called sooner. I'm small but sturdy and learned to lift with my legs years ago. Surely I could have carried feet or arms, or backed the van into the yard.
I'm back in tights, back in the spotlight, trying to haul ass before the summer heat spoils my spoils. The light lingers, moves, then fades. I scurry off, scampering down the highway, to the neighborhoods just past the house-- the ones where the pre-schoolers cuss too much and the old folks sit on the porch dutifully watching decline and decay-- and drop orange bottles and glass vials into chimneys and mailboxes, knocking on doors then jumping into bushes to see joy and relief wash over tired faces.
I ditch my bag and walk up the hill back home, placing small boxes in the fridge under the veil of midnight and avoiding questions as to where I've been.
Welcome To The World, Baby Girl
When all of this is over, and the tubes have been taken from your nose and the needles from your arm, we will take you into the world so that you may explore its wonder. You will go where we go, a passenger on every trip, no matter how small it may be. We must make up for lost time. We will visit every park and every zoo, and capture images of your wonder. Our little family will be sure to explore all we can of what lies around us, waiting to be discovered. I see the curiosity that gleams within your big brown eyes; I know it because it glows in mine.
Once we take you from that sixth floor ward, you’ll know what it’s like to feel the touch of Mommy’s skin, to feel my fingertips run smoothly across your dark mess of hair, unhindered by the latex that tends to tug at the strands you and I worked so hard to grow. You will know my kiss upon your cheek, and will have a chance to study the whole of my face- the slope of my nose, the fullness of my lips, the roundness of my chin- instead of settling for the glimpses caught during those moments in which I am feeling bold enough to pull down my mask and sneak a whiff of your scent.
Your Nanas and Papas will come to know your face through more than video feeds and smartphone screens. Their smiles will fill your memories, and replace any recollection you may have of the masked strangers that tended to your every need. Kind as they have been, their gentle hand is no match for the love that exudes from a mother’s touch. You will rarely leave your father’s arms as he makes up for all the nights he could not hold you. I will be by his side, watching the two of you learn each other, as my belief in miracles begins to solidify.
I wish to hold you in my arms and listen to your every tiny breath. But the times insist I wait- the test results have not come back and though I miss you dearly, I cannot risk your health in order to pacify my sadness. You’ve already fought so hard.
Some day soon, I will show you the warmth of the sun and the stillness of the moon; your father will find the shape in every cloud, and I will help you trace every constellation in the sky. But for now, I can only write NICU love letters from afar as you sleep blissfully, innocent and unaware of the chaos of your birth or the state of a world that you have yet to know. I sit in a quiet and lonely room, watching you develop a love-hate relationship with your pacifier through the camera that hangs above your crib.
Society’s comforts are fractured and collapsing, but we are sure to rebuild and begin again. Life will become almost as new to us as it is to you, and we will learn to navigate it together. What came before matters little; you are all that fills my vision of the future.
Slither
What I remember most are his eyes. They were narrow, deep-set, and when matched with his bronzed skin and high cheekbones, he reminded me of a snake. At first, I found this intriguing, though not particularly attractive. Now, his features linger, forever a part of the tepid nostalgia of youth.
He was introduced as Shane. Shane was tall and lanky, and dressed himself in clothes that drowned his bony frame. He was the boyfriend of a friend’s relative, and therefore invited to our small party. The others vouched for him, and I took them at their word. After a few hours, the group parted ways. My friend’s relative stayed at their house, and the remaining four of us decided to go out and keep the night going. Shane had a prescription for Xanax, and as we would later discover, only offered it to my female friend and me. I had never taken pills before, but in my angst and recklessness, I was willing to try anything.
Not realizing how long it takes for these things to kick in, I declared that I was not feeling anything and insisted on taking one more. Shane stared at me a moment, asked if I was sure, reached into the bright orange bottle. By the time we made it to my house, my body felt crushed beneath its weight. But my mind was convinced I could accomplish anything. Despite protests from the others, I stepped out of the car and stumbled toward my door with a braided gait, each foot landing lazily in front of the other as if my shoes were caked with cement. I “walked” into my home, attempted conversation with my mother, and haphazardly stomped my way back to the car. I swung the door open and fell into the seat next to Shane. The next hour or so is completely black, though I have been told that in that time we stopped to get beer, and were dropped off at the Red Hill Motel-- a seedy spot on the outskirts of downtown Conway. Apparently the motel clerk saw Shane, my female friend, and I come in but questioned nothing. It’s not a surprise-- that’s how things go in that part of town.
I woke up to a fog billowing around my face. I found that I was lying in a cheap motel room on an even cheaper mattress, surrounded by walls stained by age and nicotine. To my right, my best friend was in a deep sleep. To my left, Shane leaned up against the headboard. Smoke from a freshly lit joint curled out of his mouth. My head was only marginally clearer than it had been earlier in the night, but the heaviness in my limbs remained, unaffected by the little bit of sleep that I’d managed to obtain. His dry thin lips met mine and, in my haze, all I could think of was his girlfriend.
“What about Nikki?”
Shane shushed me, sat me up, and coaxed me off the bed. He helped lift me to my feet, placed a gentle hand on the small of my back and led me toward an open patch of floor at the foot of the bed. He laid me down onto the musty carpet, face hollowed by the cold blue streetlight peeking through a gap in the dusty curtains. As he tugged at my favorite pair of jeans, I asked again.
“What about Nikki?”
He hissed at me. The gentleness with which he’d guided me off the bed was rapidly fading. He ran his hand between my legs, testing the reaction of my body. Satisfied, he placed himself inside of me. He thrusted once, twice, and a third time, his force growing weaker with each push. He stopped, pulled himself out, and looked off to the side, visibly frustrated. He chastised me for bringing up Nikki, and after a few moments of grumbling, he stood to his feet, pulled his baggy pants up to his bony hips and shuffled into the bathroom. I heard droplets of rushing water crash into the tub and knew that he was done with me. My weighted limbs struggled to redress me, and they fought even harder to drag my body across the thin carpeting. Sloppily, I climbed back onto the bed and saw my friend was still asleep and unaware.
The shower knobs squeaked from behind the bathroom door. Droplets slowed, then stopped, and after a bit of rustling, Shane walked out of the bathroom, got into the bed, back turned toward me. Nauseated but grateful to finally be left alone, I fell asleep quickly.
The morning after, my friend and I found ourselves on the side of Highway 501, walking with Shane back to his house. Our friend planned to pick us up from there, but until that friend arrived, we spent an awkward hour or two sitting in Shane’s living room watching reruns of MTV Cribs and Pimp My Ride. The three of us spoke only when necessary. We met his father, who did not seem to question why his nineteen-year-old son was with two young looking girls so early in the morning. In the days following, I confided in my friends about what happened. I apologized to Nikki, feeling shame for my promiscuity, and lamenting over the notion that I had “accidentally” let her boyfriend have sex with me.
Nikki promptly broke up with Shane and told me that she had a feeling that he was going to attempt to pursue me that night. We didn’t see much of the shifty eyed boy after that, save for one afternoon a couple of years later when we saw him walking around his neighborhood with a girl who looked to be as young as I was the night l met him.
I pushed the incident further into my mind. The topic would come up on occasion, but it usually ended as quickly as it began. I got a job with a commute that passed the motel twice a day, six days a week until I quit. Some days, I couldn’t help but look at the motel as I drove by. Other days, I made it a point not to. I had friends that lived in the same neighborhood as Shane, though I could never remember which street his house sat on.
Five years later, at twenty-one, something clicked and the yellow-tinged walls of the Red Hill Motel pushed their way into my musings. For the first time, I was looking at the situation through a perspective I failed to grasp in my adolescence. Reality came crashing in and I felt both enlightened and broken. I relayed my revelation to the friend who had dropped us off at the motel and picked us up at Shane’s the next day-- only for him to take on a bewildered expression and ask what I thought had taken place. His reaction made me think back to other times I talked to people about that what happened with Shane, all those moments in which they’d tried to get me to realize the memory for what it was, every occasion that I refused to look at it as anything other than a consequence for my lack of virtue. In the same breath, he divulged that Shane had died in a car crash a few years after that night in the motel. I’d only begun to sort through years of denial just a handful of hours before our conversation and was unsure of how to process this unforeseen chapter. I told anyone that would listen about my discovery, but peace was elusive.
I heard the same things about Shane’s death: “Good riddance”, “He won’t hurt anyone else”, “Karma’s a bitch”. For me, glee nor despair seemed to fit but apathy was not a fair descriptor either. Reflections on that night shifted through my mind and after an exhausting couple of days, I picked up a bottle of cheap wine and scoured the internet for the Final Tale of the Snake-Faced Boy. I came across a short article about a head-on collision on a deserted country road in the dark, early hours of the day. According to the news piece, the other driver swerved into the wrong lane, hit Shane, and died on impact. Shane was rushed to the hospital and died from his injuries a few hours later. The page listed Shane’s full name, which I used to hunt down his obituary. I choked down the bitter wine and clicked the link. Shane’s picture sat solemnly at the top of the page, and it was the first time I had seen him --really seen him-- since the day I left his house. His eyes carried the same vacant gaze. His face, unsmiling, stared back at me from the other side like it knew who I was, as if it remembered the taste of my stiffened lips and the feel of my skin underneath fingertips unwelcome, a face that still looked annoyed with me for asking “What about Nikki?”.
Most of the comments were left by his father, mourning the loss of his “sweet baby boy”. There were a few from a girl declaring her love for him, and more that described him as a polite young man, a gentleman full of respect. Their memory of him would be nothing more than a vibrant young life ended too soon, their “baby boy” who died a tragic death on a long and lonely highway. But for me, his death was the end of a string of reckless decisions, a situation of his own making, an event that threatened to knock me from my path to closure. I read over the obituary again and considered leaving a comment of my own, one that would challenge all those tender recollections. I decided instead to let the dead be dead. My quarrels were with him, not those who loved him.
I chugged the rest of my bottle of wine and stepped off to the bathroom. I undressed, somewhat reluctantly, turned the knob, and gingerly set foot into the tub. The droplets that bounced off the surface beneath my feet echoed the droplets I heard from the other side of the motel room’s bathroom door but I refused to take myself from beneath the water. These roaring bullets were not the same as the ones from that night, and I would not, could not, let Shane and the coldness of his face take any more than what had already been devoured. I let the hot water run the soap from my body, dried off, and went to bed, drained and numb.
I awoke in a fit of tears and anger. The weight of five years came rushing down during my rest, and I was consumed by grief and guilt. Why, I wondered, had it been so hard for me to accept? My mind tricked itself to spare my heart from breaking, only for it to shatter on its own precious timeline. In my desperation, I tried to call the crisis hotline for the county I lived in only to find that the number was disconnected. It was nearing time for me to go to work, so I did what I’d been doing all these years: pulled it in, pushed it down, and kept it moving. Life demanded my attention, so I set my pain aside for a rainy day.
The shape of Shane litters every part of this piece. The crook of his nose is in every sweeping letter, the angles of his face in every long stroke, and the narrowness of his eyes lives in every line that begins to run out of room. Experiences are eager specters, demons in a space where misfortune runs abound. These ghouls stalk the corridors of our hearts and are likely to remain a part of who are. Even when we cast them into the dungeon, they remain inside the castle.
I’ve spent a long time dismantling the memory of Shane. Shame lingers too, floating through the slivers of empty space it can find in my chainmail-- though I feel its blade dull further with every swipe it takes. Memory is a fickle mistress with a stare both seductive and destructive, but the more we dance, the easier it is for me to spin her in pleasing ways. Even in those moments when she brings me no peace, my voice remain intact.
Fourth Floor
I struggle to find the words to describe the smell of a hospital. Sterile, chemical, the absence of earth, soot, and flesh. The air is still, suffocating at times, especially in the smaller rooms.
It's a different place than last time. This hospital is smaller, further out of the way. We don't really have the gas for the trip, but my husband's parents live nearby and they're the go-to sitters for our toddler when the time comes, which we believe that it has. The muscles of my lower abdomen tighten viciously and one of the security guards asks if I want a wheelchair. I say no, my husband follows with "She's a tough one", and the other guard quickly escorts us to the elevator. I hold my belly and my eyes scan the room as we rush to the lift. The lobby is different. But everything smells the same.
The guard presses a button beside the number four. At the other place, Triage, L&D and the NICU were all in the same wing of the hospital, also four stories up. I took a similar route for two months straight- in a wheelchair for a bit- but mostly on two feet with increasingly labored steps. In the past, the elevator doors open and I turn to the left. In the present, we do the same.
We're buzzed in and after a few questions, a nurse takes us back to an exam room. Her bedside manner is that of an old friend. I refer to her as spunky, and my husband rolls his eyes. I think back to 2020- to sitting in a different room of a different branch, trying to process the implications of an overreaction, implications that could have taken lives were intuition and fate not on the clock. The nurse asks me about the events of that day, and her furrowed brow deepens further with each response. I give her fractured pieces of the story- I've told it too many times over the last few years, especially within the past nine months.
Sensors are placed on my belly for a while. The nurse comes back in and says everything is fine. A few moments later, she slips a latex adorned hand between my legs and pushes into tender tissues. The glove is removed, lands heavy against the plastic of a waste bin and the spunky nurse tells me that it's not time. I'm not ready.
I am stunned, confused, but she is gentle and leaves me to get dressed. My husband makes a joke to break the tension. My confusion is pushed out by the weight of broken expectation and I lean forward in the exam chair and release unwelcome and unyielding tears. Embarrassment rears its head, looming near the overpacked floral print bag sitting beneath my husband's chair. While it encourages my fits, it insists that it's not the source of the wellspring. My spouse makes his best efforts to soothe but the floodgates are unresponsive to his attempts.
I slip out of the hospital gown and into my clothes, tears unrelenting. After a few moments, I manage to slow the flood long enough to leave the room. The nurse gives us a sympathetic look as she says goodbye, but I cannot match her eyes for more than a few seconds. Intuitively, I slam my hand onto the exit button for the entry doors. I know how these places are built- I've gone in and out of wards like this more times than I can count, though I've tried not to focus on those days. The doors open and the smell of hospital fills my nostrils and strikes me with pained nostalgia. Away from the eyes of the nurses, I begin to cry again.
My husband stops me in front of the elevator and pries, asking what this is is really about. I tell him I don't know but truly, I felt too shaken to describe the layers I was beginning to unravel. My present self cried for my past self, for a naïve first time mother sent home from emergency only to later face the threat of the loss of her and her baby's lives. My past self cried for my present self, for a woman experienced but obsessive, rendered jaded and overprotective by the consequences of the bad decisions made by others. Though fully grown, I cried for my inner child, for a little girl so easily shaped by the fear and anxiety created by life's naturally fickle breeze that she could only take so much in stride. There are some wounds that seem to ripen instead of heal. In that moment, their stench permeated the controlled, sterile air that surrounded all versions of myself.
The elevator doors opened. My husband stepped back to allow me to enter and his fingers lingered from the four to the one. I continued to cry as we descended, and as we walked through the opulent lobby, I stifled tears and hid my face from the guards who'd shown so much concern upon our arrival. My better half did the talking ("They said she's not ready- we'll probably see y'all tomorrow!") and continued to do so as we headed into the chilled Carolina evening. He called his mother to rescind our excitement and said we'd be by to pick up our two and a half year old in the next little while.
As our black Town and Country pulled out into the street, Hayden suggested that we hit a drive-thru. He asks where I want to go and I give him one of the few straight answers I'd been able to muster within the past half hour. He chuckles, unsurprised by my decision, and tells me he'll take me anywhere I want to go. Though I still feel raw, foolish, and exposed, my eyes finally begin to dry. The universe likes to speak in patterns, but there are few constants that bring the same kind of simple comfort as a beefy five layer burrito.
Kintsugi
My immediate urge upon seeing this prompt is to spell out the traumatic events of my life and how I've overcome them. But I'm trying to say more by saying less, though these opening statements are a poor attempt at that. I'm also trying to be less arrogant and self-congratulatory with varying degrees of success. I can tell already this response is going to be a bit of a tangent, but if you stay with me, I'll make it worth your while. I'll try to, anyway.
A deck of tarot cards is broken up into 2 parts: the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana. The Major Arcana consists of 22 cards. It begins with The Fool and ends with The World, and tells the general story of a spiritual journey. The Minor Arcana covers more specific situations and the challenges we must face to overcome them. If the Major Arcana features the chapters of the Book of Life, the Minor Arcana are the paragraphs within that carry the plot along. I'm going to focus on one Major Arcana card in particular: The Tower.
The Tower is the 16th card out of the 22, close to the end of the spiritual journey. It typically depicts a stone tower being struck by lightning and a figure falling seemingly to their death from its peak. It represents unforeseen events that result in sudden, cataclysmic change. There is destruction, crisis, devastation...and liberation. The few cards before The Tower involve a change of perspective and acknowledgment of your role in your present situation, and the cards after represent inner wisdom and moving forward with faith. It's a scary looking card and tends to make people panic when they see it, much like the Death (13th) or The Devil (15th) cards do. The notion that everything you've built is falling apart is unsettling. The only change people like is the one they get to choose. A burst bubble leaves you vulnerable, naked. In my opinion, the structures that crumble with ease are the ones built on loose, shifting foundation.
At the peak of my depression (one of them, anyway...my mental health timeline is akin to a mountain range), I stumbled across an article about kintsugi. Kintsugi is a traditional Japanese method for repairing broken pottery. Instead of disposing of the broken pieces, gold is mixed with lacquer and the pieces are arranged once more- but now with some flair. The result is even more unique than it was before. Perfect, no but beautiful still. Maybe even more so than before. It's no secret that the pottery cracked, and it shouldn't have to be. It fell apart, and there was undoubtedly a moment of grief, a moment of mourning for purity, for perfection. But one cannot mourn forever, nor should one feel obligated to rid themselves of what once was. The secret to a happy future is not to eliminate the past. We couldn't even if we tried. There is power in acceptance.
In my Tower moments, I fell apart. Lightning struck, and my structures crumbled. But as I examined the pieces, I realized that my materials I'd used to build my illusions were never meant to last, or at the very least needed much more support than I realized. The poetic thing about everything falling apart is that you get to rebuild in any way you choose. We cannot strengthen weaknesses if we are ignorant to them. Grief may consume us for a time, but eventually we (hopefully) realize that the inaction of pain disturbs us more than the discomfort of growth and we move forward to meet The World, golden veins on display. At this point, I am more lacquer crack than stone. Truthfully, I like the way the precious metal catches the light.
I give myself a C- on the saying more by saying less part. Maybe a D.
Gemini, an exercise in delicacy
The earliest thing I can remember is being pulled out of my classes in elementary school. I was one of those kids- you know, the ones that would mysteriously leave class, for the rest of the period with no pushback from the teacher. From first to fifth grade, I was summoned from the room by a staff member. From sixth grade on, I knew when to go. I'd grab my stuff, get a brief rundown from the teacher on the rest of the day's lesson, and head to the counselor's office. I don't know if this is normal in other schools, but it's not something I bring up to other people very often. Childhood trauma makes for awkward party talk and advertises you to all the wrong people.
Every time I was called out of class, a tense atmosphere would fall over the room. It was odd for a student to seemingly without reason, and the other students knew this. I knew this. There were a couple of kids in my grade who would do the same, and we seemed to have a silent understanding. I remember seeing Jeremy, a boy I thought was a absolute ass-hat, walking out of the counselor's door as I was waiting to be called in for my appointment. Incidentally, Jeremy had also met with the same nightmarish juvenile detention intervention counselor that I'd had the misfortune of meeting with, but that's a story for another time. From that point on, I showed a lot more empathy for him.
I saw "school-based mental health counselors" until I was thirteen. It was decided that I had situational depression, and they said I no longer needed the help. I disagreed, and still do, but I'll tell that story some other time- along with the other one. They're closely related anyhow. Mental health and self-destruction are old friends.
My adolescence was tough. My mother, who has had a decades long battle with her own mental health, struggled to be fully present with me. Even in the moments that she made an effort, my own thoughts were so deeply entrenched in my own pain, that I often failed to be present for her as well. I sought out many vices- I'll remain vague on that- and my mother could do little to control me. My school performance was best described in my report cards as "Has potential, but no effort." and I had a few more close calls with juvenile detention. Despite all this, I managed to do pretty well in my English classes. I'd always loved to read and write, and it became my biggest outlet.
As I moved into adulthood, I spent a few years doing psychedelics and reading into various spiritual practices. I would highly suggest both activities, but I don't think it's for everyone. I fully believe there is a reason those worlds are so deeply connected, but both require you to dive into discomfort to achieve a greater outcome. I made many breakthroughs and learned a lot, though I'm sure my levels of spiritual self-assuredness made me insufferable to those who could tell I had a long way to go. I continue to carry many of those lessons into the present day, and feel like I'm in a healthier place because of that time in my life. I still had major lows and was no stranger to bad decisions, but they steadily decreased over the years. I volunteered with NAMI for a brief period, going to schools and telling my story to elementary and middle school teachers who were seeking to become better versed on mental health in children.
Now that my behavior is more under control, I've recognized that some of the behaviors that have trended through my life are abnormal. I started watching YouTube videos from mental health specialists and came to some conclusions that led me to seek out a counselor of my own. I am wary of self-diagnosis, but I suspect that I have ADHD or OCD, both of which rarely manifest in the way that they're stereotyped. This leads to them being overlooked, especially in young people. ADHD is infamous for going undiagnosed in women. The therapist I'm seeing seems to agree with me, but we've only met once so she's taking her time to come to a diagnosis, which is fine by me. I've gone the better part of two decades knowing something was wrong and trying to stop it from ruining my life. A few more weeks won't kill me.
I don't necessarily see these as a hindrance, not entirely. Most of the time, I feel like there are two sides of myself in a constant battle, arguing back and forth about the most appropriate way to handle a situation. One, that has been there as long as I can remember, goes off the cuff and suggests all kinds of problematic things but is a strong source of drive and creativity. The other, which is more recent and developed out of necessity, does its best to keep me balanced and focused, though it can keep me weighted down and burned out. I know a lot of people think astrology is dumb, but I'm a Gemini (the twins), so I find the whole two-sides development amusing. It's a delicate balance, but I'm doing my best.