Intangibility used to be a focus of mine. I lived for the things that were fleeting and impossible to categorize. I was free of the constraints of anything and everything, from language to thought. I found beauty in the things you could not touch and could not even grasp your mind around fully. Now I feel so far removed, I need something to grab on to. I need something I can touch and know is real, solid, and there--something permanent. It is like being stuck in an Impressionist painting. Nothing is solid because everything is momentary and instantaneous. That was the sort of thing I once reveled in. However, things are too muddled now for enjoying intangibility. I simply want comfort and firmness. I need a rock to hold on to or I am afraid I cannot come back.
The air was particularly sticky that day. That sticky air was also accompanied by a sticky feeling--a type of feeling that was foreign to me until that moment. I sauntered up the brick steps and doubtfully opened the front door to my house. “Sweetie... Come upstairs,” said my mom in a voice that was all too familiar. The word sweetie, when used by my mother, never meant good news. I walked up the stairs. There were fourteen of them, and I walked slow, taking in each and every small step. Eventually, I reached the top. I sat down on my bed indian-style and waited for the news I expected but did not want to hear.
“Kacie, your father and I are getting a divorce.” When those words finally came out of her mouth, it was as if I could have read the dictionary one hundred times and still be at a loss for words. All I felt was gaping holes where consciousness should be. It was like when you go to see a movie and you come out a few hours later blinking, lost, and wondering to you...
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... is constantly radiating with happiness. The rain cloud that was lurking over my dad’s head for the past year has now been replaced with rainbow. And me, well, strange memories and waves of nostalgia tainted with deja vu have been hitting me frequently. Sometimes, I long for the days that my dad, mom, sister, and I would spend together--all four us, one happy family. I could try to blame it on the lack of sleep or nourishment, but I actually think I’ve developed the “Peter Pan Syndrome,” or rather the “Peter Pan Syndrome” already encoded within me has simply grown and developed, like a small tumor of now epic proportions. When am I going to let go and truly grow up? Nevertheless, every now and then I look back at my life and come across a blank spot where I lost myself, like skips on a scratched CD. Even though I’m happy, that blank spot never fails to hurt like hell.
One late summer night when AAM was ten years old, she was cuddled up with her younger brother and sister in piles of sleeping bags on the floor. The pain of the last few months had graciously excused itself that night while hope, instead, was finally welcomed in. She remembers the night feeling carefree; especially once her parents came into join them. However, the happiness quickly vanished and heart-crushing fear began to set in as her parents said, “We have something to tell you.” Her heart began to beat unsteadily with each breath catching in her throat. She looked around to find her little brother and sister pale and lifeless. Her dad looked distant while her mom was epically failing at hiding her tears. All too soon the four most horrid words AAM would ever hear were said. “We are getting divorced,” her parents stated. At that moment, the entire world crashed down around her; leaving her helpless and alone. All she remembers today is her mom’s piercing cries in her parents’ old bedroom, and the terror-stricken fear of not knowing what will happen tomorrow.
The small legs that whisked back and forth in the open space of the vehicle were full of energy. The young girl spent the day with the two people she admired the most. A bigger version of herself sat in the passenger seat with her husband driving next to her. They laughed over conversation. Every so often, the girl would stick thin fingers against her mother’s shoulder to receive her attention. She would say something trivial and obvious, but her mother would still entertain her. She absorbed every phrase her daughter said as if each filled her with a tremendous joy and was the greatest thing ever spoken. Her mother had selected a black dress for her today with a large white ribbon tied around her midsection. Her hair had been combed back in two braids so that the tips were touching her shoulder blades. They were coming home late from a Christmas party at church.
She continues in this sequel to talk about the abuse she faced and the dysfunction that surrounded her life as a child and as a teen, and the ‘empty space’ in which she lived in as a result. She talks about the multiple personalities she was exhibiting, the rebellious “Willie” and the kind “Carol”; as well as hearing noises and her sensory problems. In this book, the author puts more emphasis on the “consciousness” and “awareness” and how important that was for her therapeutic process. She could not just be on “auto-pilot” and act normal; the road to recovery was filled with self-awareness and the need to process all the pieces of the puzzle—often with the guidance and assistance of her therapist. She had a need to analyze the abstract concept of emotions as well as feelings and thoughts. Connecting with others who go through what she did was also integral to her
Nausea and fear flooded my veins, churning my stomach into a bubbling pot of anxiety. Heat spread across my face surely turning it a bright noticeable shade of red. Thick wads of saliva ran down my throat. Sweat traced its way down the back of my neck. The smells of coffee and sandwiches overwhelmed my senses. My eyes darted around the table from one parent to the next. Bright white light illuminated the street outside the window making the three people around me look like nothing more than black shadows. Dad, who sat across from me, cleared his throat. He studied me with a sense of pride, he looked more like he was glowing, but his gaze shifted to my mom, my real mom, and that look got a little more hostile.
The breeze from the spring day blew in from the window and lightly touched my mahogany skin. I was just coming home from school and was trying to escape the heat from outside. As I lied in the comfort of my bed, sprawled out in my white sheets, my mother barges into my room.
It was the middle of the night when my mother got a phone call. The car ride was silent, my father had a blank stare and my mother was silently crying. I had no idea where we were headed but I knew this empty feeling in my stomach would not go away. Walking through the long bright hallways, passing through an endless amount of doors, we had finally arrived. As we
Witnessing the stony demeanor that surrounded cancer and seemed to infect the people around me made me fear adulthood, but I’ve realized that being an adult doesn’t mean that you have to be strict, or callous, or aloof. The task of creating happiness all around me has never stopped, as I try to spread laughter and smiles to people who need them. I realized that you never have to stop being a kid; losing that childlike wonder is not something that has to come with adulthood. Although it’s true that I’ve matured significantly and have a greater understanding of who I am, I will always be a child at heart. By keeping this part of me alive, I’m reminded that cancer can never beat me.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
There was no longer a trace of distress, ache or affliction lingering inside me. Instead, I was filled with a sense of peace, unity and neutrality. She was in front of me, I could rest my hand on her shoulder, on her face, on her being. I could feel her silky, velvet like skin. When our eyes caught up with each other and met I could tell she was
So the thoughts began to infest my brain. Mommy isn’t here. I miss Mommy. I won’t get to see her for six more days. Oh no. Don’t cry. It’s okay. Just breathe, Justina. Calm down. You don’t need her all of the time. You are here to have fun with Grandma and Grandpa and Daddy. But that little mental pep talk didn’t seem to help keep the hot tears from streaming down my face and making my pillow wet. Then I remembered: my kissing hand. I placed my palm against my cheek, as I had done many times before, and Mommy’s love was emanated throughout my body. “Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you,” I thought to myself. Soon the tears disappeared and I fell fast asleep, knowing that Mommy’s love was always with me.
After I was all dressed and ready for the big day, I made my way upstairs to eat breakfast. The smell of toast, sausage, eggs, and hash browns filled the air with an inviting aroma. Just as I was setting down to begin eating, my mom turned to me and asked how my morning was going so far. My reply was,” It feels li...
The day is warm; songbirds singing from their tree home and the warm spring transitioning to summer breeze is blowing outside. Floating through my open bedroom doorway, a sweet and decadent smell reaches my nose signifying that cinnamon rolls are baking in the kitchen. Bass reverberates, bad singing is heard, and I can distinctly visualize the tall and lanky form of my mom’s boyfriend wriggling and jumping around the living room. He’s dancing. On a day such as this my nine year old self could usually be found curled up on the living room
"Uh I'm pretty sure she was seen at the theater sir. She was uh on her way to work." I couldn't concentrate on my words. My mind was in so many other places. I felt like a mother whose baby just died. His daughter was my best friend for life. I hadn't fully come to terms with the fact that she may be dead. I won't believe it until I see her corpse.
It's funny how weeks pass so quickly and so much fills this life; I can't remember how one day is different from the next. Lately, a moment's peace means a falter of plans. My order is changed. Emotions, actions, events, and things go on around me, and I live through them not know how it was done. Sometimes there's reflection; it's haunting until tomorrow, and I have no idea what tomorrow is. Strangely, I think of why I'm here and wonder who I am behind this façade, this name-looking for a balance and a connection, never knowing where to find it, and nobody else knows either; voices talk on the telephone about it for hours, or sit there drawing some strange parallels one afternoon. It all ends up somewhere in an unconsciously dreamworld; alas the perplaxity in distinguishing truth from reality is plaguing. Thinking of how to connect the two, three, and forty thousand images that fly by me day in and lights out, waking up and shock hits. All I want to do is do what I want to do, and do what I have to do, and like it, and get something out of it. Never does a thought cross my mind that there may someday be disappointment. And, when the sun rises every morning, more things muddle some understanding and shake my order, catching me by utter surprise. Secret hopes that will one day lead me to whatever i think I am going to find, lie before me a mystery.
A world of possibilities and a world filled with joy awaited me instead of the all-consuming melancholy that drowned me every day. I developed an attitude of wishful thinking which made me anticipate every day. I no longer saw life as an everyday battle to stay alive and keep on breathing but a journey of self-discovery and adventures. What really connected the two of us was a passion for the same thing and a mutual understanding of each other 's struggles. It is as if I met another me. A somewhat better version of me, somebody I have always aspired to be but could