A new never

A NEW NEVER

She lifts her head from the toilet. She sees a muck lying below her in the bowl; a yellow mush, little bubbles emanating from the gook, chunks, small little pieces of food that she remembers forcing down her throat, an odor that disgusts her. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she take charge of her destruction? Why does she cause herself such damage?

She lifts her head from the toilet, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, the tears from her eyes. She decides this will be the last time. Drool dribbles down her bottom lip, and she takes a tissue to wipe it away. This will be the last time. Her behavior is so ridiculous, so pointless, so unreasonable, so wasteful. She thinks and thinks, yet she cannot find any REASON for what she does. Her life, her actions, everything is based on REASON. Yet here, in this coveted release, in this rare episode, lies no reason. Yet she continues to punish herself in this manner, fully aware that there is no sense in her action, that she is knowingly punishing herself, inflicting harm on herself; why, she does not know. But it is certainly punishment.

She turns around, facing away from the toilet, toward the mirror. The toilet stares at her in the mirror’s reflection. She looks at her watery, bloodshot eyes, her red cheeks, her tired face. She places the toothbrush on the sink, and washes out her mouth. She cannot understand why she has done what she has done. She knows that she cannot turn back time, yet there is a strong desire to do so. She rests her hands on the sink, and takes a deep breath. “Never again” she thinks to herself. “Never again” she repeats silently in her head. But is this “never” truly a “never”? Is this the real thing? Will she follow through this time?

She looks up, back into the mirror. Her face, her look, her worn out appearance, it all disgusts her. She does not hate herself, but in this moment, an image of an enemy is reflecting back on her. She wants to punch the girl in the mirror, attack her, dismiss her. But her anger quickly dissipates, and she realizes that more than anything, she wants to fix her. She wants to make her better; she wants to be better. If only it were easier.

She knows that “better” is not something that just happens. It is a hilly road to travel, with an end in sight, but without knowledge as to where or how long it will take to get there. She is traveling that road, and has been for quite some time. She has reached the top of one of the hills, and has fallen down, despondently and furiously. But she is getting back up, ready to face another day, to rise, to stretch her arms out, and become the person she wants to be. “Never again,” she utters silently, as she glares back at her reflection once again.


She stares at herself, knowing that in her head “never” is the truest thing ever. Yet she wonders if she is strong enough to let the ease of never occur, blocking all of the hard work of the destruction that gets in its way. She rinses off her toothbrush again in the sink, opens the toothpaste next to the faucet, and prepares herself to be temporarily cleansed. “This will help” she thinks to herself. “This is step one to a new never.”

Long gone

Long gone

I jiggled my key so that it would enter the stubborn, rusted lock of the front door. The dirt surrounding the lock stuck to my fingers, covering them with a brown residue, reminiscent of the one enveloping me in sorrow. I walked through the door. The house was dim, quiet. I heard my footsteps move slowly under me as they made contact with the old, creaky wooden floor. I felt a sense of hope, but a greater sense that my hope only existed to shield me from the truth.

I entered the hallway to the bedroom, and saw her room. As always, she had her Hello Kittie nametag on the door - a remnant of her childhood, of the cute little girl we all once knew and loved. The Hello Kittie sign read “Hannah” in pink bubble letters, with the expressionless face of the peculiarly popular cat leaning against the big H.

I knocked on her bedroom door. Nothing. I knocked again. My heart raced, everything inside of me willing for a response; a grunt, a whimper, something. Anything. But all I heard was the short echo of my knocks, my rapid breathing, and the silent crawl of goose bumps rising across my arms; the physicality of fear was taking over me.

I turned the knob, and there she was. Face up on the bed. Her pin straight black hair smothered across her yellow-stained pillow, her forehead covered by her black bangs, clumped together with oil and dirt. Her arms were sprawled out across her uncovered mattress. She wore a white wifebeater over her thin frame, allowing the curls of her long, thick underarm hair to jut out from her, like roots of a tree, longing to plant themselves somewhere. She wore no pants, only a small, light pink thong, with faint stains on the outside. The left side of her underwear was slightly down. Perhaps she had rolled over during the night, shifting them. Or perhaps someone had been here, had tried to take them off. Maybe they had taken them off, and couldn’t be bothered to put them back on properly.

I walked over to Hannah and shook her. I shook her again. I yelled her name. Finally, an unexpected grunt. I felt my heart rate slow down, the goosebumps settle, and found myself catching my breath. Hannah rolled over and saw my face; something like a grin spread across her dry, skin-caked lips. “Hey you” she said. I looked on the night stand, where the spoon, needle, and empty bag, sprinkled with a white powder residue, lay. I then looked back at Hannah, flooded with memories; of the girl I used to love.

I remembered my first day of third grade. I was in a new school, after my dad’s job transfer. I was so nervous, so shy, so scared to meet all of the unfamiliar kids. Hannah came up to me during art, gluestick in hand, and asked if I wanted to share her box of crayons. I looked up at her and smiled nervously, thinking of how pretty she was, how I longed to look like her, to have her confidence. I didn’t even have to respond; she sat right next to me, sensing my desire for her to be close to me.

From then on, Hannah and I were best friends. Recess, snack time, arithmetic, spelling, we did it all together. First, third grade. Then, the trials and tribulations of middle school, where we cried each other to sleep over the phone, tormented by our changing bodies and emotions. Then, high school, where we gossiped nonstop, talking of our futures, lost our virginities, and had our first beers.

Now, at twenty-three, Hannah was no longer Hannah. I could blame her ex-boyfriend Jeff, who introduced her to the stuff. I could blame our middle school, for having a shitty drug education problem. I could blame the country of Columbia, for trafficking so much blow to the US. But really, the only person to blame was sprawled out incoherently right in front of me. I hated Hannah, hated myself for being so insensitive, so odious, and all of this had led me to hate life most of all.


She was alive. At least I could sleep tonight. I looked down at my flannel Garfield pajamas. When Hannah’s mom had called me, saying she hadn’t heard from her in five days, that she wasn’t answering the phone, I ran out of my house, unaware of how ridiculous I must have looked. I now felt like a fool, running over here to THIS. I turned around, leaving Hannah vulnerable, confused, oblivious to her own filth, lying on the bed. I walked out, promising myself that this time I would truly let go.

I have never been more frightened than when...

I have never been more frightened than when...

“It doesn’t look good” Dr. Mitchell said. At that moment, I had never felt more frightened in my life. Stage IV breast cancer…metastasis to multiple lymph nodes, and now it had spread to my lungs. I was going to die. I didn’t want to utter that cliché question “How long?” so instead, I just looked at Dr. Mitchell with my ridiculous, pleading puppy dog eyes. He said “A month or so…it spread so rapidly, is so aggressive…at this point, there isn’t much we can do.”

So that was that. Fear of death hit me, but only for a brief moment. I jumped right to the acceptance stage. I’m quick like that.

I went home, fed my pet gerbil, and called my mom. “Hey mom. Yup. Yup. Yup, I talked to him today. Yup, they’re doing fine. Yup, I’m feeling great.” This went on for about a half-hour. Then I hung up, sat down on the couch, and turned on the tv.

The next month went on like any other month. I went to work each morning (I’m a kindergarten teacher). The kids had known about my cancer, with the double mastectomy having taken place just six months earlier. I could have told them my time was short. I could have advised my principal that I would be “leaving” my position soon. I could have told my mom. My brother. My best friend. I figured I was better off just keeping it on the DL.

Since I had shaken off that intense fear so quickly, I thought my next move should be the opposite of fear (or as close to an opposite one can get): indulgence. This, meaning, margaritas, every kind and type of cake, and a lot of masturbation. So that’s how I lived the next five weeks. I was a bit shocked after four weeks, when I didn’t die the next day. But I suppose it isn’t an exact science.

Since I wasn’t dead after week four, I took a weekend to fly out to see my mother and brother. My dad had died of a heart attach a few years earlier, so there would be no last goodbyes to him. The weekend was pretty routine. Dinners out (more cake and margaritas!), bland conversation, a few laughs here and there. Then I headed back to the airport on Sunday night, ready for work the next day.

A few mornings later I started to feel sick. Then a bit sicker. Then sicker. Week seven I was out of commission, and I stopped leaving my apartment. All I felt was pain; I was coughing up blood, I could barely breath. I could have gone to the hospital, but instead chose to drink myself selfless. Cake was done with, since I couldn’t keep anything down. But, I am proud to say that I could still somehow manage to swallow vodka shots.


And then, 58 days (8 weeks and 2 days) after my most frightening moment, I died. Well, I’m assuming that is what is going to happen, as I’m writing these words to you with my last bit of strength. So soon, I will close my eyes, and will be gone. It was frightening for a moment, but now, now it’s just life. Or lack thereof.

If and when I raise children, I'll never...

If and when I raise children, I'll never...

Cassandra wrung out the soaked towel. Thin red liquid dribbled out of it, quickly at first, then slower with each additional squeeze. She was almost done cleaning up the mess. Her whole body felt numb. She knew she was alive, but there were moments when she had to stop and just look at her tinted red, blood-stained hands in order to confirm that she was still the same person; she was still existing.

Samantha had been eight months old. So little, so cute, so vulnerable, and just so perfect. And she had been hers. Cassandra had never imagined that she could love someone in that way. From the pain-filled moment she pushed her out of herself, to when she was placed in her arms, she knew that her love for Samantha was eternal; she felt it evolve, having blurry, drowsy visions of Samantha’s first word, first step, first day of school, first date, and then first day at university. All of that was gone now.

Cassandra left the towel in the sink, turned on the faucet, and picked up the bucket from the ground. She filled it with soap, then put it under the running faucet. She watched the water fall in the bucket, and felt herself fall. Her feet were planted on the ground of the dim basement, and as she crouched down, she felt her heart being pulled out of her, saw it leaving her body, dragging along with it the veins and arteries that allowed her to live. “My baby, my Samantha, my Samantha…” she cried, getting louder and louder until she was shouting. She was shouting so loud she felt herself running out of breath, her lungs unable to fill up quick enough to give her the air she needed to release her agony.

She stayed crouched on the basement floor, her face drenched with tears, as she suffocated on her sobs. Her Samantha, she would never hold her small, fragile body again, feel her warm breath. Squatting on the ground, balancing herself on her toes, she again reached her hands out, looking at their redness through the blur of her tears.

Cassandra had not known she could experience such rage, never knew the savagery of her hands. But she had done it. Samantha, her little angel, had been crawling about as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was crawling, picking things up, exploring, as infants do. Cassandra was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for a stew she was preparing for dinner. She saw Samantha crawl into the kitchen, giggling and babbling along. Cassandra saw Samantha, saw the knife in her hand – she would never comprehend what happened next. Cassandra had never believed in neither God nor Satan, or any foolishness of that nature. But what else could have come over her other than the devil?

Cassandra came back to the reality of the basement and her cleaning task. She lifted herself into standing position, her knees feeling weak from holding her body weight. She stood up, and taking in a deep breath. She climbed up the basement stairs, leaving the bloody towel in the sink, ignorant of the faucet still running. She walked up to the kitchen, the floor still stained with blood, the cleaning not yet complete.

She walked over to the phone. She slowly dialed 9, then 1. Then she hung up. She walked over to the counter, and picked up the knife with which she had destroyed all that mattered to her just an hour ago. She pointed it toward her chest, holding it tight, feeling the strength building inside her. Then she lunged it into her it, feeling nothing but darkness as her she fell to the ground.

If you could change anything about yourself...

If you could change anything about yourself...

Lydia paused by the door of the bedroom for a moment, and then shut off the light as she walked out. Through the darkness, Marian could see her soft smile. She wore colorful scrubs, even though both Marian and her mother were fine with her wearing street clothes. Yet, as Lydia said, “old habits die hard.” She had worked in the pediatric intensive care unit for 10 years, and wearing scrubs was simply “part of her deal.” Marian didn’t particularly like the scrubs, as they made her feel like her home was a hospital. But, she wasn’t one to argue.

Marian was fifteen years old. The accident had happened five years ago, when she was just nine. She was riding her bike, her new Swanson two-wheeler. Her mother had gotten her a white basket for the front, with pink ribbons laced through it. In the basket were some N’Sync CDs, to share with her friend Ashley, to whose house she was going. Marian couldn’t wait to sing along to the peppy music with Ashley, and to show off her new bike. Ashley would be jealous, surely, but she was so good at hiding her jealousy behind her shy demeanour. Marian didn’t care; just the feel of her envy was satisfying enough.

Marian was so engrossed in thought, so excited to show off her new bike and dance along to N’Sync with Ashley, so overcome with 9-year old bliss, that she barely felt her feet moving. The endorphins produced by the new bike, the fun she was going to have, and the overall excitement of being a child on the move, freer than ever, made her feel like she was flying. She had unknowingly begun to pedal faster, then faster, then too fast. The turn onto Ashely's street came up almost out of nowhere, and Marian quickly moved the handlebars to the left. The turn was abrupt, and she felt the bike start to lose control, her hands clenching around the handlebars. She was not strong enough to hold on, and as she felt the bike begin to tip over, she was thrown from it. She was weightless in the air; as she flew, she innocently thought to herself “I fell off my bike. I wonder what everyone will think when they see how bruised I am!” In those moments she was thriving on her naivety, her feeling of indestructibility. She barely even felt herself hit the ground. Then, everything went black.

Being a quadriplegic is not just horrible. It’s not just terrible. It’s not just the worst thing ever. Well, yes, it is the worst thing ever. But more than that, it’s just not existing. Each morning Marian’s parents hurry out of the house for work; her mom to the local bank, her dad to the car dealership, and Marian stays with Lydia. Lydia gives her her daily sponge bath, brushes her teeth, and dresses her. Marian lies still, as it’s all she can do.

It was her mom’s decision to have her home-schooled. Each day Mrs. Sorcerile comes in for a few hours to give her lessons. Lydia then helps her with her homework. At first Ashley used to come over and visit, to tell Marian about the other kids at school. She’d fill her in on the gossip, excitedly relating the day’s events. These visits started to fade a few months after the accident, and now Marian hasn’t seen Ashley in two years.

Marian used to feel positive. She used to have hope, hope for a cure, hope for a miraculous recovery, hope to salvage her wasted life. As puberty has set in, and her emotions have begun to run wild, that hope has disappeared. She puts on a show for her parents, for Lydia, for Mrs. Sorcerile, but really all she wishes for is death. If only she had the courage to ask for help. Maybe Lydia would give her a hand? But Marian can’t let anyone know how weak she is; that she doesn’t possess the power to go on.

So each day is a meaningless hole. She feels nothing. No arms, no legs. So, she grabs onto her sadness, the only true feeling she will ever have. If she could change just one thing - well, it would be everything.

Fading of innocence

Fading of innocence

Her name was Sarah Ann.  She embodied beauty.  Her blue eyes had an indescribable twinkle in them.  Her round cheeks were not cute per say, rather they caused her to give off a sense of love that made the hearts of everyone who saw her warm up, forcing a smile across their faces.  Her blond curls were wild; they shot out from her head like ballerinas pirouetting, graceful, full of energy and motion.  Her petite frame gave her a sense of vulnerability, making you want to grab out for her, to hold her, to soothe her, to help her.  And she had a twinkle in each eye, causing her appeal to shine from her, giving off a beam that touched every near her.  

She wore a pink jumper, which floated around her roundish frame.  On the collar of the jumper were tiny flowers with white petals.  There were two pockets near her knees, empty, as Sarah Ann had no possessions.

Sarah Ann was a simple soul.  Quiet and calm, she was not one to pontificate life’s mysteries.  Rather, she lied still on Lilly’s bed when unoccupied, or stretched out on the blue carpet of her bedroom.  She liked to feel the sun shine on her face through the bedroom window.  In those moments, when she lied there alone, she felt at ease; the silence singing into her ears, its soft melody like fluff running over her body. 

Sarah Ann was content in her life.  She enjoyed her duties as Lilly’s companion.  When she was home, Lilly never left her alone.  She was constantly checking to see how she was feeling, poking and prodding at her, or wanting to play dress up or shove food in her face.  When Lilly wasn’t around, there was Allison.  Sarah Ann tried her very best to like Lilly’s newest companion.  She had a sweetness about her, an innocence that Sarah Ann did not possess.  The truth was, Sarah Ann was jealous of the attention Lilly devoted to Allison.  Sarah Ann would see Lilly run up to Allison, excited to tell her about her day’s activities, to caress her and give her the a type of affection that Sarah Ann now rarely received.  There were times when Sarah Ann looked at Allison, and felt a hot rage grow in her stomach.  She pushed it away, as she knew she should not be having these types of feelings; they were not part of her being.  At those moments, she felt for the twinkle in her eyes, begging that twinkle to take over her body, making her pure once again.

The wonderful soul of Sarah Ann did not have a happy ending.  One day, Sarah Ann heard Lilly clunk up the stairs.  She heard her mother screaming behind her “Clean up your room, there is crap all over the floor!”  “Fine!” Lilly screamed back.  Lilly entered the room, tears smeared across her face, anger breathing off of her skin from her mother’s scolding.  Sarah Ann saw Lilly approach Allison, happy that she would bear the brunt of her discontent.  Lilly picked up Allison, struggling to get her words out, saying “Oh Allison, oh Allison, why can’t I stop crying?”  Lilly then placed Allison on her bed, lightly laying her across her pillow.  Lilly began to pick up things off of the floor, throwing clothes in the hamper, and toys in the basket next to the window.  She picked Sarah Ann up roughly, muttering “Hi Sarah Ann,” and threw her into the toy basket.  She then continued to clean the room, tears still running down her young cheeks.

Sarah Anna would remain in that toy basket day after day for the next five years.  She would watch Lilly snuggle with Allison each evening before falling into a quiet sleep.  The twinkle in Sarah Ann’s eyes would start to fade, perhaps due to the constant shine of sun coming through the window.  But Sarah Ann knew it was not the sun that was causing her twinkle to disappear.  It was the sense of abandonment and loneliness that tore through her body minute after minute, day after day.  Sarah Ann would stare at Allison on the bed, wishing she could move, that she could wrap her hands around her perfect beige neck and take back her place as Lilly’s number one doll.  

Dreaming

Dreaming

I wrap the warm covers around me, and snuggle into my bed.  I curl my legs into my stomach, bend me arms and crunch them into my chest.  I picture how I look from above, a little ball enveloped in a fluffy blanket, silent and motionless, like a turtle in its shell.  I close my eyes and feel myself doze…

Before I know it I’m there.  The powder blue sky sits above me, and I’m surrounded by bubbles.  The sun shines on them, the reflection revealing their blue and pink tint.  I spin around, my arms raised in the air, surrounded by bubbles and the perfect blue sky.  I feel pure elation, inner peace, a sense of happiness that I never thought possible.

Then I see it from the corner of my eyes.  The gray and black ball comes rolling toward me; not fast, as if someone kicked it, yet not slow, as if the wind were pushing it along.  It stops in front of me.  It slowly splits itself in half.  It is hollow inside, and I approach it.  Before I know it, I am sucked into the black ball, shrunk to fit inside it, and taken away.

I try to breathe, yet I’m covered in mud.  I feel my lungs begin to collapse, an intense pain forming inside of them, as I struggle to take a breath.  Finally, an air hole opens under one of my nostrils.  I still cannot open my eyes, and the sensation of the sticky mud and the unawareness of where I am pushes an intense sense of fear up my throat.  The fear lingers, lodged in my mouth, which I cannot open to release it. 

I somehow manage to move my head, and I am back in paradise, with the flawless blue sky and bubbles all over.  I feel the strong sun on the top of my blond hair; I am somehow clean of all the mud.  The sun takes me in, and my feet are being pulled off the ground.  I am rising up higher and higher into the sky.  I see my parents below me, my mother wearing a light green dress with buttons down the front, my father in a gray suit.  They run toward me as I rise up, smiles on their faces and twinkles in their eyes.  I am higher and higher in the sky, I am weightless, complete bliss taking the space of where my body used to be.  Suddenly, I feel a jolt.  I find myself falling fast, faster, faster, faster, my heart racing and despair taking over me. 

My body shakes unexpectedly and I am awake in my bed.  I open my eyes, and wipe my forehead, which is warm and damp.  I turn toward the window and see the sun is rising.  I look at my watch, which says 6:30am.  I climb out of bed, ready to start the day.