In between   (a poem)
.
my mind struggles against its own illusion
nightmare tumbles out into still morning
light is heavy,
a fog of echoes...
and I am caught
.
day dreams the sunlight
dreams light the day
and I am caught in between
mourning echoes...
like a stillborn ghost
who can't take a breath in the present

….
  
I live on a tropical island and just want to go surfing with my husband, but the nausea in the early morning as I try to eat  breakfast and drive with him to the beach is so uncomfortable.  Day after day it makes even surfing a chore, and I consider not going anymore.  Background anxiety and unreasonable irritation interferes with our marriage, frustrates him enough to want me out.  

For me, a trip to the grocery store or meeting a group of people awakens the same dreadful fear as rockclimbing a cliff. Perspective has been lost in the extremes.  I try to gain some control over this hindering nuisance, seeking situations that bring the same surges of adrenaline so I can learn to master it.  If I can just push past the avoidance that would keep me inside doing nothing, if I can just ignore the feeling I want to throw up, if I can just get out there, I am rewarded with life’s potential beauty eventually.  Many days I do enjoy the thrill of mountain biking or connection with nature when surfing, but there are too many days of internal struggle that reduce what should be enjoyable to a relentless chore of wrestling inner demons.

The VA offers a few sessions of marriage counseling, and the doctor begins to explain PTSD.  ***, I’ve learned to cope with an unreliable brain, but now there’s this?  From what I understand (and that’s just me, an amateur philosopher) Sometimes the brain is so traumatized, that the memory is literally sealed off, encapsulated, protecting it from changing.  If later something happens that is similar, the brain triggers avoidance responses as a take-no-chances survival mechanism.  Literally the brain is protecting one’s self from one’s self.  This all-or-nothing strategy works fending off potential dinosaur attacks, but in our complex society, these automatic avoidance behaviors complicate functioning and well being.  Life becomes an attitude of constant reaction instead of motivated intention.

The website for the National center for PTSD says.  “After a trauma or life-threatening event, it is common to have reactions such as upsetting memories of the event, increased jumpiness, or trouble sleeping. If these reactions do not go away or if they get worse, you may have Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.”  

“Common reactions to trauma are:
• Fear or anxiety: In moments of danger, our bodies prepare to fight our enemy, flee the situation, or freeze in the hope that the danger will move past us. But those feelings of alertness may stay even after the danger has passed. You may:feel tense or afraid, be agitated and jumpy, feel on alert.  
• Sadness or depression: Sadness after a trauma may come from a sense of loss---of a loved one, of trust in the world, faith, or a previous way of life. You may:have crying spells, lose interest in things you used to enjoy, want to be alone all the time, feel tired, empty, and numb.  
• Guilt and shame: You may feel guilty that you did not do more to prevent the trauma. You may feel ashamed because during the trauma you acted in ways that you would not otherwise have done. You may:feel responsible for what happened, feel guilty because others were injured or killed and you survived.  
• Anger and irritability: Anger may result from feeling you have been unfairly treated. Anger can make you feel irritated and cause you to be easily set off. You may:lash out at your partner or spouse, have less patience with your children, overreact to small misunderstandings.  
• Behavior changes: You may act in unhealthy ways. You may:drink, use drugs, or smoke too much, drive aggressively, neglect your health, avoid certain people or situations.”   It lists four main symptoms: reliving the event, avoiding situations that remind of the event, feeling numb, and feeling keyed up (also called hyperarousal)”

Four words strung together: Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  They’ve become a tired cliché, exhausted from the endless threat of random cruelty camouflaged in banality, weary of the weight shouldering back the wall that separates death and gore from the living.  Living was a reflex beyond willpower and devoid of choice. Control was self-deception.  The mind was so preoccupied with A: survival, B: sanity, in that order.  Rest was a cruel illusion.  The tank was drained, no room for emotions ditched.  Empathy took too much effort, fear was greedy.  Hopefully they can be remembered and found on the other side, if there is one.  Sleep deprived cells were left hyper-alert from the imminent, shot up and addicted to adrenaline.  Living was Fate and Chance, and meant leaving that time and place sealed in forgetfulness.  

Now PTSD is a worn out acronym, a cold shadow of what it feels like.  I try to think of something more personal that can describe the way it randomly visits me, now resigned to its familiar unwelcome influence.  It steals through my brain, flying ahead of me with its own agenda of protecting sabotage.  Its like the Guardian Trickster of Native American legend.  Its an archetype but real enough to make mistakes: Chulyen, the black raven.

A decade after the ER, contentment is found in a garden of slow tranquility as a butterfly interrupts a sunbeam.  My heart fills with bittersweet as I’ve finally found something I love and want to keep.  Just then Chulyen’s grasping black claws clamp my heart with painful arrhythmia and it fills to burst, tripping in panic trying to recover its pace.  The sudden pain drops me to my knees, in the dirt between fragrant lavender and cherry tomatoes.  Pain stops breath and time and makes me remember the ER, when my heart rebelled its ordained purpose for a week.  I had tried to throw my bitter life back in God’s face but He didn’t take it.  Now that I have peace and a life that I treasure, He’s taking it now.  The price for my mistake is due.  It was all just borrowed time and I’m still so young, my children just babies.  God with a flick of cruelty reminds me not to put faith in the tangible, especially when its treasured.  The sharp claws finally relent and I can breathe, looking up with a gasp and the Raven takes flight overhead leaving a shadow.  Bright noon warmth, unusually heavy and foreboding, seems to say ‘there will come a time when you will not welcome the sun.’   Doctors run an EKG and diagnose ‘stress’.

The bird perches on my shoulder two more decades later, always seeing death just over there.  So I sit on the porch just a little longer and check my list again, delaying the unavoidable racing heart and rush of tension when I fix the motorcycle helmet strap under my chin.  I know all those stupid drivers have my life in their cell-phone distracted hands and hope my husband knows how much I love him, and my daughters too.  

Chulyen wakes me at 3:00 am when autumn’s wind aggravates the trees.  His rustle of black feathers outside unsettles summer’s calm night.  He brings an end-of-the-world portent that hints this peace is just temporary, borrowed.  Tribulation will return.

Ravens are attracted to bright shiny things.  Chulyen steals off with treasures like intention, and contentment.  I don’t realize they are missing until occasionally I find myself truly living in the moment.  I guess that is another reason why I crave adventure, for those instants and epiphanies that snap me out of that long term modis operandi of reacting, instead of being.  The daily list of ‘I must, or I should’ can for a brief while become ‘I want’  and I am free.

My companion the black bird perches relaxed in the desert on the gatepost of a memory.  A bullet-scarred paint-faded sign dangles by one corner from rusty barbed wire:
    No Trespassing    
    That Means You
I have a haunted idea what's behind the fence.  Chulyen implies the memory with a simple mistaken sound:
a Harley in the distance is for a second the agitating echo of a helicopter...
or those were the very same words they said when...
or I hear a few jangling clinks of forks in our warm kitchen...
hinting a cold cafeteria at 5:00 am smelling of fake eggs and industrial maple flavored corn syrup,
and everything else that happened that day...
My cells recollect, brace with the addictive rush of adrenaline.  But the raven denies access to the memory, distracting with discomfort.  I trip and I fall hard into the gritty dirt of irritation at the person who unknowingly reminded me.  Anxiety floods in along with fatigue of the helplessness of it all, back then and still now.  I can't go further.  Chulyen’s tricking deception says Leave This Memory, you never wanted to come back.
But I already knew from just recognizing the bird patiently sitting there a sentinal,
recalling every other time he tricked me with nausea and depression.
I tried to tell myself again that behind that gate,
the past has dried up from neglect.
Disintegrated into dust,
Blown away,
doesn't
exist.
…


After everything else, how to work through this?  The VA gave me a manual, a crudely printed set of worksheets with a government-looking blue cover page:  Cognitive Processing Therapy.
“In normal recovery from PTSD symptioms, intrusion, thoughts, and emotions decrease over time and no longer trigger each other.  However, in those who don’t recover, the vivid images, negative thoughts, and strong emotions lead to escape and avoidance.  Avoidance prevents the processing of the trauma that is needed for recovery and works only temporarily.  The ultimate goal is acceptance.  
There may be “stuck points”, conflicting beliefs or strong negative beliefs that create additional unpleasant emotions and unhealthy behavior.  For example, a prior belief may have been “ I am able to protect myself in dangerous situations.”  But after being harmed during military service, a conflicting belief surfaces, “I was harmed during service, and I am to blame.”  If one is ‘stuck’ here, it may take some time until one is able to get feelings out about the trauma, because one is processing a number of rationales.  “I deserved it because…” , or “I misinterpreted what happened, I acted inappropriately, I must be crazy…”  The goal is to change the prior belief to one that does not hinder acceptance.  For example, “I may not be able to protect myself in all situations.”

(chapter continues with recovery methods)

On the back of a math worksheet
You wrote down reasons.
Then on the back of a history worksheet
You wrote down ways.
The back of your physics homework
Had “im sorry’s”
And they all had tear stains.

On the back of my hand
I wrote down reminders to call you.
In the note pad on my phone
I wrote down plans to come talk  
And in the back of my mind
I wrote down ways to make you happier.

At 2:30, right after school
You were in your basement with pills.
You had your math,history, and physics worksheets
All laid out on the floor around you.
At 2:45 you dialed my phone, pills in hand.


At 2:30, right after school
I was on my bed looking up spanish vocabulary
I had my homework all laid out around me
At 2:45 I received your call slightly worried because
You never call, only text.

What are you supposed to say
When your best friend is on the other line
Dying before they’ve even taken the pills.
How are you supposed to make them feel better
Because at this point you both are at a loss.

Dialing 911 on the home phone
Doesn’t seem to difficult
But it really is when you can practically
Hear the minutes going by
Minutes that could determine a life from that point on
Minutes that did.

I heard that you tried again a couple months later.
I guess you smartened up and didn’t tell me this time.
You seem to have awful luck
When it comes to following through with your intentions
But while it may be unfortunate for you
Its so lucky for me because even though we don’t speak
Id like to think that one day you see that
I only wanted to stop you
From hurting yourself.

Biology TED talk, Ken Burns WWII
Multiple choice plus open response =
Teacher cares, out there among the English
Mathematics, fractions to imaginary i

Anything can happen any time, I mean
Mass killing--public school, movie theater,
Post office when every mother wears a gun
Yet happiness permeates like CO2 + sunlight

Photosynthesis + electricity = burning bush
Hot tea, hot shower pleasure perfect rest
Early to bed, no more lies, complexity
Poetry about history, i.e. Wolfowitz

As for non-fiction, most things qualify to know
Astrobiology, search for LUCA, FLO
Minerals on Titan, organisms on Enceladus
Divination on Iapetus, peace on Earth and Tethys

Volcanoes and tsunamis, Big Red One and Private Ryan
Don't stay up late, take your vitamins
Sin and crime being nothing more than
Mental malaise, imbalance. Love and compromise

Tolerance, practice worksheets, brilliance
Prejudice and superstition, Tha's a wrap
Nothin doin, ain't gonna happen, freedom's when
Yes is mostly a blessing and No is always an option

My hand doesn’t seem to want to hold a pencil;
My brain is having trouble focusing.
What is this?
Multiple choice?
Worksheets?
Essays and Assignments?
Woah, wait a second
I can’t handle this algebra equation
And forget about a ‘great thesis’!
Give me a second to comprehend!
Can we please skip all the introductory class rules?
I wont spit gum in your class
Or write on all the desks.
I already know where to turn my paper in, and yes,
I will sharpen my pencil whenever I feel like it.
I’m bored already, I want to get moving
I’m ready to learn.
Golly gee, it sure is hot in here!

rig was fair
spiked hair
big like an oil rig
six foot tall
square shoulders
coffee-stain birthmark on his cheek
the rest of him freckled
too feared to be fought
betrayed by his own intellect
pacing the lino tiles like a zoo wolf
wrapping tape around pins
to make blow darts
firing them from rolled-up worksheets
sticking in smelly teenage scalps
sticking in the hived cheeks of the quiet boys
muttering accusations
at the closeted gay english teacher
total immunity guaranteed
through hulk and bulk and brazen cruelty
and the fear and the jeer of the crowd

bevans was dark
six foot one
thick black brush hair
face like a gnarled foot
broken nose with one nostril welded shut
nasal jackal yap-yap-yaps
manic eyes with natural mascara
giving the girls piggy rides
to hold their sunned hockey thighs in his dinner plate hands
bevans of the dark monster ****
flashed around the library
the dinner hall
bevans and his boys
pulling themselves
behind the science desks
wiping their *** on the curtains
squawking, crying with laughter
while the rest of us set fire to peanuts
on tripods with bunsen burners
our pale shrivelled pride
tucked away in the underwear
our mothers bought us

for years rig went with a girl
who looked like a pretty frog
‘i’ve been with her so long
i’ve literally felt her ****
grow in my hands’
she lived in a small village known for its golf course
and when he discovered ecstasy
and diazepam dissolved in buckets of lager
and dumped her without warning
she turned to older boys and farmers for comfort
she became known at school
as the nineteenth hole

rig and bevans
were friends of mine
i kept them close
with quips and hoots and indifference
begging each day
would provide some amusement
some mouse in the grass
to draw their keen eyes
and sharp tobacco tongues
to keep their necks from
twisting back
to snap and bite down
on the weak of the pack
which happened, of course, every few days
when my mother asked why
my shirt was soaked in slashes of blue ink
my hair was burned
there were blow dart spots
of dried blood
on my neck and hands
i told her it was a game

Thursday is my night.
Both my sisters have dance class so I have the house to myself.
I have homework.
I have to take out the trash.

I have the most cheerful outlook I've had in weeks.

It seems a thousand pounds of sorrow
have just flown off my shoulders,
sprouting wings and going to pester someone else.

I took out the trash with a hop and a skip,
not even caring that I was still wearing shoes
(Mind you, I can't stand shoes).
As I spun in circles I "whoop"ed and "wee"ed
and the phrase,
"It's a great day to be alive"
leaped from my mouth,
spring boarding off my tongue and over my lips.

I returned to the empty house and kicked off my shoes.
I took a shower with the door open
and the lights on
(I normally keep them off).
I stood under scalding water,
burning away any residual sadness.

I returned to my room and found my spring pajamas.
Normally I shy from math,
hiding in history books
and chemistry worksheets,
but today I dove into the calculus questions,
pencil flying over differentials and derivatives.

Today was no different than any other day.
Except that today is Thursday.
My Thursday.

WHOOP!

Don’t put off til tomorrow what you can do today
Its always work work work and no more play
working hard or hardly working
well trust me no one’s really working
they would much rather be jerking off
the some hot ***** buxom blonde
they found while surfing
the (alternative to working) world wide web
but that won’t change the ebb and flow
it’s nothing but ******* stop and go
a shitstorm of ‘hurry up and wait’
that makes us indecisive babies
because specialization creates dependence
what happened to the renaissance men on our planet?
a man can only do so much
and woman only gives her touch
what? so there’s no more time in life to learn
and I’ll just have to wait my turn?
what about potential? I’m ready to be educated
there’s more to life than wasting time getting wasted
and self-fornicated
let me tell you how to do your job
you’re in my way, I won’t be robbed
of any chance I have to be the best, I wanna impress
but mere population overflow represses my need to show
show you how I can run this show
all by myself, I know,
I sound like an *******, we could all be fantastic
if we weren’t so fanatic just cuz we don’t fill a quota
that determines our determination
when we fill out simple-minded worksheets or switch stations
that’s messed up
we might as well give up and become chronic masterbaturs

I wish to be a single unit.
I want all of my body to contain my
vibrancy
I do not want to feel restrained by
my anxieties.
This unit will work together
a full microbiome
a complete structure
good-enough in nature
keeping you alive.
self-efficacy,
a concept I'd love to measure.
blood levels, stress worksheets, therapist visits,
drugs, anti-depressants, side effects
things i can measure.
Biology,I get it,
but intrapersonal connections?

Did you know
over 100,000 people
die every year by
careless drivers, slippery stairs,
not following printed directions,
lapses in common sense,

These are common errors we share.

Some of us get lucky,

we evade, we clutch the banister,
we start at step one,
We double check electrical wires,
& carry scissors blade down,
never running.

People die at work all the time,

on the Monday morning drive,
rear ended in traffic on a rainy
Thursday night.

The 9 to 5 can take you,

spirited away at the desk
during a 45 page monthly report,

you get to cell C83
on worksheet 8
and your heart explodes
from stress,

blood vessels burst in
your brain like black cats
on Halloween night
from strain,

All for a gold watch,
a 401 k,

so your wife can smile
and your children can
play in their backyard.

We do it for 48 hours we can
call our own.

5 days of Hell
for two days in Heaven

means the devils
get their dues
and the gods
give yours to you.

Oh, Weekend
Mourn,
How I love thee.

I wake up
when I wake up,
no alarms needed.

Sometimes I shower after
coffee, sometimes after
dinner.

Death leaves me alone
leaves me to my
streaming movies,
old books
and my poetry.

Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee

No worksheets.
No stress.
No Death.

Until Monday,

everything is fine,

until Death wakes me
with a whisper

"Get up,
It's almost time."

Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee.

Let your children go explore.
School does not teach a kid nearly as
much as a romp through the woods
or a foreign exchange.
Meeting new people and finding inner peace must become priorities in life if you want your kids to be happy.
Try telling that to them while giving them worksheets.
Open their minds.
First and foremost, give them some
autonomy to roam.
This will ultimately make them happy.

Yes you heard me
I hated this toy
I hated it with a passion
That was fastened
To my chest with seat belts
And burned onto my heart
With a hot branding iron

This toy was a teddy bear
One of teddy roosevelt's passions
With a patent owned by a name
I'll never know
Given to kids who are just beginning to grow
So that they have something to talk to
To let everything flow

My brother named him sgt.grizzly
And he was always busy
Telling this little teddy
The secrets of his life

I kid you not
He told this bear his world
He entrusted and unfurled
Everything to this inanimate
Object that couldn't even answer back

By now you're trying to figure out
Exactly why I hate a thing
That I don't even own
Well when that thing sits on the throne
Of a brother you wish you'd known you'll
Understand

Because everytime my brother and I fought
He brought up this stupid teddy bear
And how it did things I did not
How it listened to him
And didn't try to advise him and it sickened me


What disgusted me more than this
Was the fact that he told a toy
More about himself
Than I will ever know in a lifetime
He told it secrets I've been trying to learn
Since the beginning of his time
He gave that toy more of his heart
Than I have ever seen in him within the 13 yrs I've spent with him

And while he threw at me nothing but ****** and pins
He gave this toy an inside look on his many opinions
And while he tested me constantly
He gave his stupid teddy
A degree in justinology
The study of my brother a study in which I wish I wasn't struggling

While my brother threw me worksheets
Sgt grizzly got a free pass
Even though he did nothing in class
Justin let him pass
With an A
While I struggled to hold a D
While i fought hard
He handed grizzly a security card
And as far as I was concerned
All he ever did was put me on blast

I'll admit it I was actually a little jealous
I still am at times
That a stupid toy
Managed to know more about a boy
Who I spent majority of my life living with than me
And honestly it was insulting

Everytime grizzly got lost
I was the first to blame
Just because I was cursing and speaking negatively whenever I spoke that dreaded name




Honestly I have never before admitted
This to anyone
After all being mad at a toy
Isn't the best way for a teenage boy
To be seen but oh boy
I’ve lost the will to keep this in
So I'm simply going to sit down
And write about the hate I have
For this little stupid toy

when i close my eyes, i still see light
a spectrum against my eyelids
hands outstretched
knowing its close
another uneasy step
victorious
hop-skotch dodging
trusting strangers is dangerous but sometimes neccessary
endless paces of paranoia
1 man snowball fights
repairing broken connections
realizing yet again, life can get much worse
snow on halloween?
fingerpainting and worksheets on feelings...where am i?
strategy is all i got in here
its easy when all you got is a basic blueprint

They say the night is black,
a shadow cloaking the beast that
makes horizons bleed at dusk and
flees her wrath at dawn.
But the night is grey,
life is grey,
a transitory shade,
silver lusterless, passionless like
gleaming blades too long concealed.
Inflections chart themselves across bed sheets,
worksheets, warning labels,
charm their way past sunlight and into
matrimony with patriarchal corners,
vestiges of dark upon dark.
Grey is beautiful.
Sad symphonies tender their resignations,
masterpieces monochromes occupying the dome
of the sky, storm cloud devout
leaving their stations.

It's the time of the year again
Hopes where they can rest their life
On fire and of dreams to ignite other than
What they plan for years ahead

In this summer island they could ever just lay
Heat won't even matter

(But she's sorry)
This summer island, though is in reach
Same set of coal began to burn again
And thought no more miles to go

Papers and calculators moving round in round
Around her head were retrieved worksheets of Chemistry
Even Trigonometry in different corners by her sight

(Just as she thought, by now she is playing her puppy)

The weight of dreams from her youth
Now the weight of failure, heavier
To ever let her travel Summer sadness

Dreamology: Chloe continues to have dreams after a girl named Max, saving her life over and over. AU where Max and Chloe never met, and Max still has her powers. Chloe’s POV.
_______________

Prologue August 8th, 2013:

“Dare to visualize a world in which your most treasured dreams have become true. – Ralph Marston”

Lightning crackled stentoriously in the bleak gray sky. That wasn’t the first thing I registered. It was the rain nipping at my exposed skin as I pushed myself off the ground. The winds were vigorous and unrelenting as I pushed my blue hair back into my beanie. The strands kept on flinging itself into my vision, making me stumble slightly. Working my legs to climb up the hill, I finally made it to the top where a girl sat at the bench looking down into her lap. Directly in front of her was the largest ******* tornado I’ve ever seen. It was a ******* behemoth.

I gripped onto her shoulder roughly. “What the **** are you doing? There’s a storm right there!”

I pointed at the monster of a whirlwind, her head slowly turning towards me. The side view of the girl made it apparent that she was actually very cute. Her high cheekbones were peppered with freckles, her curved lips like something made out of calligraphy, her nose as small as a button, her long and feminine eyelashes were one of the few things that stuck out to her. “Chloe, I don’t want to lose you.”

A loud snap aroused me from my nap when I noticed a ruler was less than two centimeters from my face. Pushing myself off the desk, I looked into the face of Ms. Grant who didn’t look pleased. “Napping in class, huh? Pay attention, Price, some of this material will be on your upcoming quiz.”

Wobbling back up to the board like a penguin, I pressed my knuckles against the bottom of my chin pretending to look vaguely interested in Ms. Grant’s boring science lesson. Truth was, my mind was reeling the events of that dream. Who was that girl? Why do I keep on having dreams about her?

Rachel – as expected – was trying her best not to giggle so much as to cause interruption. For some reason, her laughter was going undetected by Ms. Grant. Pulling out my phone from under my desk, I sent Rachel a quick angry text.

Chloe: i c u laughing *******. r we gonna fite 1v1? 12:22 pm
Rachel: figured you would either skip this class or sleep the entire day. looks like it’s the latter. 12:24 pm
Chloe: yea i’m going to body slam you after class. just u wait. 12:25pm
Rachel: bet you won’t. you will probably hit your head on something. 12:27pm

I grabbed one of the graded worksheets that Ms. Grant gave back to us, balled it up slowly, and threw it at Rachel’s head when Ms. Grant was turned around. Her blonde hair whipped around to face me, her eyes screaming, “THIS MEANS WAR.” Quickly, she threw it back before awkwardly turning around to face Ms. Grant who hovered in front of Rachel’s desk. “Rachel, let’s talk after class.”
ooo

“You’re such a bad influence on me.” Rachel joked, her hair up in a towel bun. All she was wearing was the Otters swim suit, a heavy jacket, and the towel. Her tanned legs seemed to shine with leftover droplets of chlorine water. “My eyes are up here, Chloe.”

“No wonder why guys hit on you at those swim meets.”

“Chloe Price, are you flirting with me?” Rachel laughed, taking out a box of cigarettes out of her jacket. She gave one to me, which I graciously accepted. “It’s kind of irritating. Kind of like when you’re at your job, and some **** bag decides to come in and be an *******. I don’t need that ****.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Look, Rachel. It sounds crazy, but I keep on having that ******* tornado dream.

you've always been
"rough around the edges,"
seeing lines in coloring books as
suggestions and
scribbling wherever you **** pleased
(your handiwork adorns
countless bibles in two churches,
innumerable physics worksheets,
and the walls of
one bathroom stall in your high school,
which has probably been
repainted
by now)
I'm sorry I couldn't smooth your edges,
but I'm glad I did not.

Blackness that’s all I remember. Pain that’s all I felt. I was just 12 when death started calling my name. My name is Becca and this is my story well was… I was 12 and my older sister was babysitting me and my little sister. Death…....that was the first time I actually seriously thought about it. I held the knife up to my chest my heart beating rapidly , terrified and just didn’t want to fight anymore, I dropped the knife. I fought the thoughts of death off 6th through 7th grade. Eighth grade was a rough year, I went to Waunakee schools and I was bullied a lot. I got picked on because scars covered my body. That’s where my story really begins. It was January of 2015 and I lost it I found the pill bottle and counted out exactly fourteen pills because that is the age I didn't want to see. I was found by my parents; they called the police refusing to let me end my pain. That’s when things started to really going down hill.
6th grade:
6th grade I got picked on because I like different things I wasn’t the average kid that was into what everybody else was. I also could be considered a religious freak. That year my grandma had been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I prayed for her constantly. Thinking it would make her better. That year I had also learned about the holocaust. That made me not sleep at night. I was constantly terrified. I started hearing voices then.  I never told anyone I thought it was the devil so I just started praying. I thought about killing myself many times. I never went through with it because I was scared of death and what came after it. I constantly fought myself.
7th grade:
That year was unexplainably one of the worst years of my life. My older sister started seeing a therapist. I didn’t know why. My religion had always said to depend on God when you were having a difficult time. I got picked on majorly that year because people thought I was lesbian but, I said no way in hell am I lesbian. that year my parents told me they didn’t believe in God. I was already majorly depressed and well I hid that. That was the last thing I needed. I started cutting. I stopped because I didn’t want anyone to see. I was friends with this one girl named Taylor she was super tiny and well I was bigger than her. One day she called me fat. I already had body image issues. I stopped eating. I was anorexic. As of March 2014 I was 5’0 and 72 pounds. I was taken to the doctors and well I wasn’t hospitalized. My parents just sat down with me until I ate the food that they put on my plate. I wasn’t allowed to serve myself at all because they were afraid I was going to starve myself. I wasn’t allowed to pack my own lunch, little do they know, that only made things worse. My older sister would pack me a meat sandwich. Meat was never my favorite thing. especially meat sandwiches. I never really ate at school when I was younger I always threw away my lunches if I didn’t like them.  I always had a hard time eating. Recovering was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life. Little had I known that what was coming next would change my life forever.

Summer: The summer going into eighth grade was so hard for me. My parents let us go to church but was hesitant with every week that went by. That summer I turned thirteen and as usual by birthday was hell. I was losing myself with everyday that passed. Then I started playing this game called Meez. It made my depression worse because then I started getting bullied on the game. I didn’t stop playing because I didn’t have friends. The only ones I did have were online.  
Eighth grade:
Everyday was a battle; I could barely get out of bed. The first part of eighth grade was a blur. Kids picked on me. My grades were dropping faster than a blink of an eye. I had no friends. The friends I did have turned on me. I was all alone facing my battle of depression. I started cutting majorly. It was bad. Till one day we didn’t have school, It was a Monday. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My mom took us to Pizza Hut for lunch. Then we came home. My dad was gone at a meeting. My mom went to drop my older sister off for babysitting. Now was my chance. I run to the cupboard grab the bottle of ibuprofen counted exactly fourteen pills. I was scared to be honest I stood there for a minute thinking this is the last night. I took them. I ran upstairs crying. My little sister looked at me and saw I was upset and asked me what was wrong. All I could say was “I’m sorry. I know I’m not the greatest sister but, I love you so much.” My mom came home then and I went downstairs. She saw that I was crying. She asked me what was the matter. I bursted into tears again. All I could say was “I’m sorry” over and over again.  Then she yelled at me telling me to say what the hell I did. That’s when I told her. She started crying. She started calling the cops. I started screaming “NO! LET ME DIE! I’M MISERABLE!”  I heard the sirens coming. My dad walked in asking what was going on, my mom told him. She was shaking so hard and crying. The police walked in they questioned me thoroughly.  I was rushed to the hospital. I had so many tests done. I spent the night there. The next day I was discharged from the UW hospital and admitted to the Meriter child and adolescent psychiatric facility.


Hospital:
´´Hi my name is Becca.´´
  were my first words there. I was terrified and still wanted to die.  The first thing I really participated in was karaoke. It was ok I guess I laughed so, I could get out of there as fast as I could. I spent the next day being angry that I hadn’t died, then the second day I was there that’s when I met him.  But I’ll get to that later. I spent the next 5 days attending group therapy, DBT, mindfulness, and many other things.
Miles:
When I first saw him I stopped and stared. It was like time had stopped. (this is where I would stop if you don’t feel like going through an emotional rollercoaster and have your heart ripped out.)  When he entered the day room I couldn’t get over his shirt. It was a Sleeping with Sirens shirt they were my favorite band. Then his eyes, piercing ice blue eyes that screamed out in pain. Then I just stopped talking because he looked irritated. The next morning I was as quiets as a mouse then he sat by me and started conversation. We got along I was like one of the only people he talked to. Movie night that’s when things changed. He said he wanted to just hold me. That is a night I never wished had happened. He talked to me constantly. He confided in me, he trusted me. I thought he loved me as I loved him. Two days later I got released from the hospital. I cried that day because all I wanted to do was stay by him to make sure he was ok.


After Miles:  
My parents found out we were dating and they made me leave him. I struggled.  I loved him. He was my world. I regret to say I still love him but, I would be lying if I said I didn’t. I had tried to **** myself right in front of my parents after they told me I couldn’t talk to him anymore. I felt so much pain. Then a month later my older sister tried killing herself. I tried killing myself a couple days later.  I was sent to another mental hospital.


The other Mental Hospital:
I was sent to St.Luke’s it’s a step down from Winnebago. It was scary at St.Luke’s you couldn’t even go to the bathroom without having someone unlock the door. There were no paper towels. You had to share a room. Showers were 15 minutes. We had to be at least 2 feet from the other patients. We also didn’t talk about our problems; we had to do worksheets instead.
October 19 2015:
I knew that day that I wanted it to be my last. I went to school and acted like everything was fine even though I knew what I had planned. I went home did my homework, ate supper, did the dishes, and had a bonfire with my family. When everyone went to bed I pulled out my shiny, bottle of advil, and hard cider. I downed the hard cider and 30 advil. I sliced my wrist up the blood was slithering down my arm. I was rushed to the hospital I stayed at the UW for 2 days. I was then admitted to the Meriter child and adolescent psychiatric facility again . It was hell as usual. I got back the following Monday. I went back to school the next day. things are starting to get a little bit better. The suicidal thoughts and thoughts of self harm are still there but I have new coping skills.  

Goodbye note (I had wrote this hoping someone would find it after I died but, obviously I’m still here”):
I had set my suicide date to January 31st but I can’t do this. I feel like a walking Zombie. I tried everything to hide the pain and deal with the pain. So this is goodbye I guess. You will never know my full story. No one will but me. The demons I faced have taken hold of me. I took 30 pills because 15 is the age I do not want to see and I couldn’t imagine living double that time. <3 you all dearly.  

Seven letter one word ends it all:
I’m guessing you are wondering what that word is. Well It’s suicide. S for self harm. U for useless. I for I hate myself. C for crying all the time. I for illegal substances. D for death. E for ending it all. This is my story and I’m fighting a battle everyday.

With three more weeks of holiday vacation,
Lisa and I’ve started studying 5 hours a day.
You can read a novel for atmosphere
but you have to puzzle over and wring-out academic books
- with their essays and worksheets after every chapter.
I feel a simultaneous focus and boredom
- but the pull of school is staggering
- like resisting it could break me apart.

If I know

My timing

My timeout

I don't have perfect options

If I close my eyes forever

I see my life never

Leaving my body
Like the way I entered

Soul will be solo

Body will be hollow

Assignments
Worksheets
Daily tasks

Everything losses it's track

And I will be in a separate isolated world

Which no one has ever explained or dreamt of it

Though scary I am not worried

When I was 5
I wrote poems on printed sheets I would get at day care
about apples and leaves
and whatever inanimate object was within my vision
and I had to make sure every line rhymed
Or it wasn't real poetry
When I was 9
I wrote poems on loose leaf paper
but only for school
because I hated writing
because I thought I wasn't any good at it
That it wasn't real poetry
When I was 12
I wrote poems on the backs of my worksheets
but only when no one else was looking
because I didn't want anyone else to see
because even though I thought my writing was good
I was afraid that no one else would
That it wasn't real poetry
When I was 15
I wrote poems on my arms
with the sharpest object I could find
because my words didn't matter anymore
only what I felt
so I would feel in free verse
Until my words blended red
But that wasn't real poetry
Was it?

In the midst of a waning Thursday afternoon,
I observed the outdoors from my cozy nook.
Birds serenaded each other from the treetops,
Flapping theirs wings,
Playing in the cordial breeze.
A handsome red robin took center stage,
Usurping the cynosure of the garden.
Gracefully, he sauntered to the edge of an evergreen limb,
Released an emphatic chirp, and slid into the sky,
Becoming airborne.
Free.

Meanwhile, I gazed at the clouds lethargically.
I was anchored to the land,
Indentured to books and worksheets.
I wished that I too could flap my wings,
Be hoisted into the air by the breeze,
And venture into the clouds.
But this I did not endeavor.

Unknowingly, I contracted my horizons,
Preoccupied by the useless facts and figures,
I was oblivious to the world outside of my abode.
While others lived their lives and spread their wings,
I fell behind.
They found joy in clouds, while I,
A flightless emu,
Buried my head in the sand.

Who am I?
It seems like such a simple question,
And in all honesty, it is.
The challenge comes in answering it.
Because the answers come in layers
That must be unraveled
Like a ball of yarn.

Who am I?
In kindergarten we drew self portraits,
And we filled out worksheets
That told the world "All About Me."
My hair is blonde, my eyes are blue.
I like the colors red and gold,
And I love to eat chocolate.

Who am I?
As we got older, we developed hobbies.
"We are defined by what we do."
I like psychology, so I'm a nerd.
But challenge me to a riveting game of Clue,
And I'll read your mind and win the game.
So I guess being a nerd has its perks.

Who am I?
Well, I like to think that I'm a musician.
My fingers dance across keys of black and ivory,
And I smile as sweet harmonies
Fill the vacancies of the room.
I believe music is heard with the ears,
But felt with the soul.

Who am I?
I choose to be an optimist.
Because life is too short
To spend it without a smile.
I laugh at simple things
Because I love to laugh,
Simple as that.

Who am I?
I am a fighter.
I have struggles, just like the rest of humanity.
I'm not perfect, but I'm not a quitter either.

Who am I?
I'm a loving sister and a loyal friend.
Till the very end of time,
I will stand by the ones I love.
I believe in a God who believes in me.
He is my anchor, my light, and my friend.
In His strength, I CAN succeed.

Who am I?*
I am the person I choose to become.

You can do everything.

all the breathing exercises, all the mind calming techniques, all the grounding rituals, take all your meds at the appropriate times and with food, go to therapy, do the worksheets, make the changes, but you'll still falter sometimes.

and it could be anything, and you could see it coming and not even know you're seeing it.

it could be a song, a word, a noise, an action, anything.

for me it's the sound of rain on roofs.

and you'll fall back into the darkness and the hatred where you think no one can find you or pull you out again. You'll slip under the raging black sea, and let it consume you entirely
as black water
fills your lung
like rapids

and it burns but you let it happen.

because it was too quick, too sudden, for you to stop the water from drowning you.
you try to stand but you can't find your footing because there are no sandbars for you to stand on
only water.

and you thrash but sooner or later you're dizzy and your throat burns and everything is spotty and you can't think

and you're gone.

replaced by a shaking shell of the memory
of not being able to move your arms
and the thunder and rain drowning out your screams
and each blow to your head making it harder to make any noise at all
(and people wonder why you have memory issues)

and finally, when it's over
you're shaking and shivering and your sobs are so violent that they don't make any noise
you can't eat for weeks and when you do you just throw it right back up.
you can't look at your brother
or hug your father
and the disassociating gets so much worse that your arms bleed and ache almost constantly.

your "friends" worry, but not enough to do anything.
your teachers worry, but not enough to ask why.

no one ever asks, so you never tell.

and while you shake and shiver in the car
because you remember it all so well
and you just want it to stop
but you can't get enough air
and you're an absolute wreck,
there's light drifting down to you
through the murky black water.
it's bright and blue and warm
and suddenly you're on dry land
and can breathe
but you're looking into eyes made of galaxies and storms
and you're afraid if they see you this way that they'll leave,
because you're such a mess
but you can't pull it together.
but he found you, in that deep, dark water.
and he pulled you from it,
and helped you breathe again.

and you wish you could show some type of gratitude,
but you know that even if you said thank you a thousand times over,
you'd need a better word than that.

and you sooner or later smile,
and it's like the water and tar never took hold of you.

so maybe you can be better, with a little help.

you used to lean over and doodle
flowers or turtles or fish or random french words
on my worksheets and notes
when i wasn't paying close enough attention.
i'd find them the next day
while i was in a different class and
when i'd question you about it with a smile on my face
you'd just smirk and look away,
but you'd never deny the vandalism.
you never hesitated to give me your sweatshirts to wear
if i was cold during class.
if i said i was tired you'd offer me ibuprofen because
apparently that's what i say
when my head hurts and
you know i downplay pain and
that i hate asking for things.
you would video chat with me late at night
for hours
just so you could listen to me talk while i painted and
i could help you choose a color scheme for your new picture.
you'd walk with me in the mornings before school,
you'd walk with me to class,
you'd walk with me to the bus.
it's been so hard these past five months,
not seeing you in person like i used to,
knowing that the chances of us being in the same room again
are slim to none.
but somehow you haven't given up on me yet,
despite there being every reason to do so.
through our days of silence and
missed phone calls and
unread messages,
you still put in effort.
you still send me pictures of your dog because
you know how much i love her and
that seeing her in penguin socks makes me laugh.
you still call me when you're lonely in the house and
need someone to talk to about your day,
even if it's just for a few minutes.
you still come to me when you need help with homework.
you still text me when you need advice or motivation,
when you need someone
to be proud of you or
to believe in you.
and i will continue to be there for you,
because of the little things you did and
still do for me,
despite there being doubts and
reasons not to do so.
i'll never be able to thank you enough
for the time and friendship you've given me.
you're my person.
i'll never be able to tell you how much
i love and appreciate you.

Messy ink, ragged paper, dust
I laid them down to gather dust
And came back to them only now
Sorting, sitting, wondering how
A few weeks ago these worksheets
Were my world, these were feats
Of daily effort to a common goal
Now, never to be touched by all of us at all.
And saying “To think...” to my sister, who didn’t hear,
And likely never will, I all but let go of a single tear.

I always misspell “Write”
And it’s all my teacher’s fault
English was taken with Ms. Wright
Writing 115
Writing 121
A total of 11 essays
20 worksheets
4 poems
All with her name at the top
And now I can’t write wright right
Right?

My pain has consumed my existence,
My pain has fouled you again,
How must I inform you of your ignorance?
For my pain will not be “cured” by your statistical based evidence, nor you facts.
Though please know I’m happy you found comfort in your worksheets for mindfulness, and your psychology books you read from back to front hoping that the techniques will cure me.
I’m sorry your blind, blind to see behind my eyes there is a storm raging, and soon I shall not have my pain for I shall be my pain.
Though please do not fret, for fretting is my expertise.