Writing Prompt #3

 “A 50-year-old has started to do the daily sudoku, scared that she is starting to lose her memory.”

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Every number nestled once into each of the nine boxes, every box holding nine squares. Nine across, nine down. I must have been about nine years old when I first played sudoku. The game sat staring at me on the back of a kid’s menu in one of the only “sit down” restaurants in my small hometown. I was perplexed but intrigued, and after my mother explained the rules, I found it simple enough. I got to work with a blue crayon in hand; blue was my favorite color for the longest time. I always thought that pink was too girly, and blue had so many stories to tell…. In the ocean, in the sky, in my grandparent’s eyes. My grandfather had pale blue eyes, almost touching grey, while my grandmother’s were bright and somehow deep altogether. They could make anyone on the outside of their world envy how deeply they loved each other. I can only imagine looking through their blue eyes into the other’s, how simple they made it seem. 

I’m trailing off again. That is why I’ve decided to pick up sudoku once more. It’s a logic game, something to get my mind working and churning. I feel I’m becoming too forgetful, my memory isn’t what it used to be. When I was in 3rd grade, I could recall every state and their capitol. I could watch a television show, and call out the actors from smaller roles they’d played years before. Melodies, quotes, even certain smells…. Off the cuff, I could tell you in exact detail where I was when I heard or experienced it for the first time. Do you know the looks you get when a certain scent hits your nose, and you causally mention that it smells exactly like your fourth grade classroom? A peculiar clean scent, with an almost sour note that, while it didn’t take away from the kind and patient teaching, is one that’s hard to lose memory of. 

Though I suppose maybe I wasn’t always the best at remembering. I’d often forget to remove the chicken, or ground beef, or whatever else was meant to be dinner, from the freezer. The only elements I can easily name from the periodic table are Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, and Boron because my sixth grade science teacher taught us “HEHELIBEBE”, a silly way to remember H, HE, LI, BE, B. I also was never able to find my place on a map, I’m still can’t. Around the time I first got my driver’s license, a friend and I were meant to take a road trip just to the next town over, but I took a wrong turn and the fun soon turned to panic. Eventually, after we made it home safely, much later than intended, we found humor in the situation and laughed all night. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Only single digits, a few chosen  numbers already sprinkled through to give a sort of roadmap to the solution. Of course, the answers lie tempting and beckoning from the bag of the catalog, supposing you chose to play with pen and paper, and not whatever app on which you can easily undo your moves. Did you know the game can actually be partially attributed to the French? It obviously wasn’t called sudoku, but the “magic number” game began to appear in the late 19th century newspapers. No watching ads for extra hints or paying $1.99 for unlimited redos. It even contained double digit numbers, although it was played differently. Modern sudoku has no true claimed founder, interestingly enough. The man who is likely to have created the game we know now is assumed to have done so anonymously. It was first published in 1979.

Sudoku didn’t make its way to Japan until 1984, but they hold credit for the name. The name originally was much longer,  Sūji wa dokushin ni kagiru, meaning “each number is limited to single occurance”,  also playing on the Japanese word for “unmarried person”, because of the single digit gameplay. 

I’ve always been fascinated by numbers and their sequences. When I was younger, I’d watch the time on the microwave, waited to see the numbers align with my birthdate. I liked to find patterns in the license plates, matching the digits up to important dates or using simple math to make the numbers equal one of the others. I watched the odometer, and try to acknowledge every ten miles, just to see the mileage end in zero. I’m not sure I ever believed in angel numbers, but I often saw 4:44 on the clock. 

Anyway, I suppose that’s what I like most about this little number game. Each one has a special place in order to solve the puzzle. Every problem has a solution, even if you have to think a little harder. I hope this is my solution, making my brain focus and stay sharp. I feel I’m becoming too forgetful. My memory isn’t what it used to be, and I just want to remember all the little moments. 

Generated Prompt #1

"A linguist, who is a perfectionist. A groomsman, who tends to get tongue tied. It's a family saga about the unreliability of truth. It kicks off in the woods with someone eavesdropping on a private conversation. (Note that: someone in the story was just released from a mental facility.)"

    Holding my breath for as long as I could, daring not to make even a slight sound, I closed my eyes, as if to focus all of my senses into hearing. I could not risk taking another step closer. The wet leaves and tangled fallen branches would only amplify my presence. The small breaths I did release created small, slow, dissipating clouds. In hushed voices two figures were arguing, so involved in their own bickering, they might not have even realized they weren't alone. I just could not be identified as an uninvited menace. Over the low whistle of the wind, and the small patter of raindrops, I could hear, "It's time to tell her. She needs to know."

    They exchanged one final glance between each other, the sort where one party leans forward slightly as if to imply, 'You know I'm right,' and the other's head bowed, eyes peering up, in silent agreement. I remained hidden among the brush, praying for my heart rate to slow itself, afraid that the pounding I heard in my ears would echo out into the now empty nest of trees. Perhaps my shivering would startle the figures, who seemed to think they were unaccompanied. I continued to stay crouched, hoping I would not have to reveal myself, as I heard footsteps shuffling away. The branches beneath their feet barely snapped as they made their ways out of the woods. When I assumed the path out to be clear, I carefully raised myself up from the mud, leaning on the tree for support, and let out every breath that I had just refused myself. I was practically gasping, appreciating the cold air that filled my lungs. I stumbled through the same slippery path, finally arriving to the soft glow of town lights. Only one question repeated itself in my mind, 'What do I need to know?'

    Typically, my mind would race; thoughts zoomed in and out with barely enough time to truly give each a thorough understanding. By the time an idea had truly formulated, I was already beginning another.  I leapt from notion to notion, like bees traveling through the garden. It felt almost impossible to not think. But after leaving the thick, cold woods, I only had one thing scarred into my head. 'It's time to tell her. She needs to know.' 

    I continued to pace my way into the warmth of my small home. Home: abode, residence, dwelling place. The four walls I managed to return to felt more like a vessel with no heart left beating, lifeless. The photos on the walls seemed to scorn and mock me, and flames cackled away in the in the fire place, a gaggle of laughs at my perceived foolishness. This home, a quaint house, no longer felt safe and familiar. I struggled to recognize features that my mind insisted that I knew. My legs, tired and weak, managed to make their way to an aged velvet sitting chair. I slumped, face in hands, and began to sob. I no longer felt that I knew, or remembered, anything. My mind sat, a mass of confusion and flesh, stuck in a vicious purgatory of unknown.

    This was the same home that only weeks prior, I had prayed to return to. I had previously been surrounded by a separate set of walls that seemed to choke my last breaths of life. The other walls were bare, cold, with chipped off-white paint. My given bed was stiff and offered me no sense of comfort, only long nights of restlessness. Doctors regularly made their way into my small room, and made clear there was to be no privacy. I was constantly monitored, watched, examined.  A hysterical breakdown had earned me my place in this long-suffering enclosure. My thoughts had a momentary victory of consuming me and I was unable to fight the demons that gnawed at my inner being. In Latin, the word demon stems from two different meanings. Daemon in itself meant 'deity' or 'genius'. However, daemonium is a 'lesser, or evil, spirit'. I was forced against the latter, and though they had no physical formation, they worked their way into my very core and chewed their way along my spine until they found home in my mind. I was theirs for the taking, although I did not present myself as sacrifice. I succumbed to their wicked whispers. My life, in which I had once placed great pride into and cherished, no longer felt viable. There seemed no reason to continue in agony, so I had made what I considered to be a dignified decision to release myself to the stars. My attempt proved futile, and thus, I was made to endure another "chance" at life, reborn into a hospital that provided no sense of peace, let alone an ounce of love or tenderness; only cold, unforgiving shame. 

    I found myself once again upon seeing my lover's face. As I stepped out of the hospital, unsure steps into a sky full of sunbeams, he held my hand, leading the way. In that moment, I felt peace. a reassurance that I was not alone. A caress of truth. A funny thing about the word truth: the English language does not hold a primary verb for the word truth, as we do "to lie". I had placed the entirety of my being into the large, callused hands of a man who urged me to leave the comfort of blending in and allow myself to take chances. We fell into romance quickly, and I allowed myself to drown in the waves of affection. But the drowning was unlike suffering, more so a blanket that covered every inch, wrapping me in relief and succor. I no longer feared walking alone, as I was given a partner to stand at my side. A teammate, an ally, a companion... my spouse to be. 

    I had my suspicions of this man, who appeared to woo any passerby to made eyes at him, but assured me that my thoughts were getting ahead of the truth. Perhaps it was the fact that his tongue spoke no charm to other parties, but his glancing eye was hard to let slip. Was I willingly allowing myself to be blind to this truth? Was I supposed to speak out on my jealousies? Or was I truly suffocating myself in my own insecurities? He had promised me the world, and who was I to look into his eyes and deny that his word held veracity. I had evolved from a broken home, and prayed every night for a person to liberate me from the shackles of my neglect. He seemed to appear at the threshold of my lostness; a lighthouse than shone onto a ocean that thrashed wildly, and I was swimming straight towards it. When he asked for my hand, I knew in every fiber that this was my destiny. Our souls were meant to merge, or whatever cliché fits the bill. The flicker he once held in his eye for me seemed to dim in the months leading to my involuntary stop-off. Maybe that was my tipping point; the love from the man who promised to love me for eternity seemed to dilute. I no longer held the title of 'enough' or 'worthy'. 

    My sobbing had dwindled to nothing but soft, pathetic whimpers as I pulled myself straight into the chair. The photographs no longer scorned me, but offered a quiet solace at my pitiful outburst.  The heat from the fire seemed to finally reach my numb limbs and encouraged me to stand and remove myself from my wallowing. And so I stood, knowing that I had to learn the unpleasant truth, no matter how unattractive or hideous it be. My feet certainly understood the mission, and before I knew it, they had carried me out of the house and to the uncertainty of the outside. I blinked and seemed to immediately have found myself at the home belonging to my betrothed's confidant. I raised my fist to knock, but lowered it slightly, wondering if I was truly ready and willing to hear that my anxiety rang true. But a rush of anger pushed my fist back up to the large wooden door. Knock knock knock.

    A pale, thin figure of a man answered the door. Sheepishly, he poked his head through the small gap, as if he wanted to keep a barrier between himself and this wild, angry woman who appeared at his doorstep. "He-hello? What b-brings you by, m-m-ma'am?" he asked nervously, his eyes refused to meet mine. "That depends," I responded crudely, honestly taken back by my own callous tone, "What is it I need to know?" The man stopped for a second in every entirety of the word; stopped breathing, blinking, moving, only coming back to life when he managed to swallow the large lump in his throat. His eyes fell to the ground, and I knew then he was stumbling to find the proper and correct, though not necessarily accurate, words to respond with. I refused to break my leer at his colorless face, like an animal rejecting the idea of backing down from a fight. He realized I had overheard his previous conversation inside what he thought was the refuge of the trees, the oaks he thought would preserve his secrets. He let out a defeated sigh and widened the door to allow me in.

    I kept a brisk pace as I passed him, as if to insist that I had shown up with courage, but all that strength had left my body as soon as the door had been opened.  I had forgotten my tenacity outside it seemed, because my legs became shaky and my heart raced. I invited myself to his divan, while he stood still in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes lowered. I extended my arm to point to the arm chair across from my sitting place, my mind begging him to take a seat, but my face reading as more of a demand. He carefully scuffled the floor before lowering himself into the chair. "What is it that you need to tell me," I questioned. His eyes darted across the room, searching for an answer to pacify me. 
"W-well. I suppose you p-picked up on the private conversation between my p-pal and me."
"I suppose I did," I hissed back. 
He glanced up at me momentarily, before slamming his eyes back to the ground. 
"You sure kn-know how to sneak around, don'tcha?"
"I suppose I do."
"Well, I-I-I don't know what y-you think I know, b-b-"
"Don't try to protect yourself," I interrupted, "Just please tell me the truth", softening my speech a bit, hoping if I showed some sense of vulnerability, we could get to the point quicker.

    He let out one last deep sigh, his exhale acted as a silent prayer that if he broke the news, it would remove me from his home and he could go back to the quietness of his night. And then he spoke. Quickly, without stuttering, only ill grammar, almost all in one breath. 
"I don't know how to say it other than this. Your man don't love you the way he used to. He don't know how to tell you himself. He thinks when you went off your rocker, everyone would look at him funny. He don't want a woman with 'woman problems', y'know? Someone with too many emotions. Thinks it makes him look bad. He really don't even wanna do the wedding anymore, thinks he's spending too much money. I mean, he doesn't want to do it for other reasons too," he paused and looked up for permission to carry on. This is the first time he truly looked at me, and I knew I had tears rimming my eyes. I could feel the sting, but I still nodded, granting that permission.
"Well," he continued, "When you were in the loon house, I'm sorry, I mean, uh, oh god I'm sorry, that's not a good name for it, the, uh, the hospital, y'know? He caught the eye of a lady in town. At first, he didn't think twice, but she was, y'know, persistent. Said he was good looking. And she wasn't a homely thing herself. I mean, I'm sorry, but she's beautiful, you know? And she seems educated. Smart. Said she was from out of town. Makes sense, I guess, we don't see a lot of people like her here." He didn't seem to acknowledge his offenses towards me, let alone his awful speech, but I had a weight sitting in my lap that refused to let me stand and leave so I wouldn't have to hear anymore. Maybe was the weight was my own conscious forcing me to listen to every damned word that man mumbled out, knowing I needed to hear the truth. 
    "Well, he's keen on her now. Took a liking to her. Took her on a few dinners. I told him you weren't going to be in that place forever, but he don't care, I guess. I'm sorry. It's not, well, it's not like... I mean you didn't, um, you didn't do nothing wrong, I guess?" almost as if he needed to ask me if he was correct in his words. "You were just real sad. Ain't a thing wrong with being sad, it just gets hard for some people, y'know? But ain't nothin wrong with being sad."

    Somehow, the man who could barely find his own words brought me goodwill, although he simultaneously broke my heart.  He relaxed his stance and breathed a sigh of relief, not so much for me, but because he was no longer tormented by an oath he did not want to be a member of. He looked sadly at me, hoping for some sort of forgiveness in telling me the truth. I wanted so badly to be angry at him, but he was simply the messenger. He stood, silently beckoning me to keep my emotions to myself, and I agreed as he led me to his door. I turned to face him, wanting to thank him for his offer at honesty, but upon meeting his sympathetic gaze, I cowered and left. 

    As I left the warmth of his house, and the glow of the lights began to fade, I realized I had not an idea where I was headed. I was lost, stardust with no direction. I could only go were my feet took me. The buzzing thoughts were quiet, almost silent, and the rain clouds had parted like curtains, allowing the beauty of the moon to beam down. And Lord, did she beam. The leaves of the trees reflected her beauty back towards her, and the chirps of crickets sang their love songs to her. The man I loved promised me the world, but that night, I decided I was worthy of the moon. I deserved what no man can just take and claim as his own. My craters and my dust were not faults, but wonders that someone will one day gaze upon in amazement, knowing that they aren't easily obtainable. I found myself in the woods, where hours previous, I prayed I wouldn't be found. It was then, standing under a silver moonlight, I once again prayed for no one to seek me out. For a different reason this time, though. I prayed that I could move silently through the trees, not disturbing the birds asleep in their nests. Not bothering the bugs who sang their ballads to each one another. I sat, propped against the strong trunk of a beautiful oak tree, staring up at the moon. And at that moment, I released myself to the stars. 

 

Writing Prompt #2

Write a story about waiting — but don't reveal what's being waited for until the very end.

Through bleary, tired eyes I check the clock once more, hoping time has suddenly passed quicker. Nope, just taking it’s time, quite literally. ‘Good things come to those who wait’, a mantra I’ve passed to others as advice my whole life. It’s hasn’t been a long life, but it’s been full; full of heartbreak, disappointment, being discontent. I’ve found myself to be dissatisfied with every outcome of any situation. I expect too much, I set my hopes too high, and when a plan goes even slightly off track, I want to scrap the whole idea and quit. 

A soft, peaceful tune dances delicately through the empty lobby, the only other sound coming from the tick, tick, tick of the clock. I scan the tiles on the floor, desperate to find something to focus on, but I can only seem to pay mind to the ticking. I’m given the opportunity to hear the time pass, but I don’t feel as though it’s gone by quick enough. 

The woman at the desk, the only other person sitting in the waiting room with me, hasn’t said a word to me. When I arrived, she offered me a gentle smile, and politely passed the forms to fill out. Not a single word between us. I suppose I found the silence to be more comforting, as we could avoid the awkward conversations societal norms have pressured us to expect. Sure, we could talk about the weather, we could talk politics, or even converse about a good movie we saw, but what does it matter? It won’t change the pattern of my day, let alone my life. 

I glance over to her, in hopes she won’t notice. I don’t want to make eye contact. I want to be as anonymous as possible. There’s this unshakable feeling that if she were to catch my gaze, she would know and understand me as a person. She would empathize, maybe show compassion. I guess I don’t want any sympathy any longer. 

She’s reading a book I’ve never heard of from an author I don’t recognize. The novel has kept her busy, and she’s been so enveloped in each page. I feel almost a twinge of jealousy. How is she able to focus so diligently on every word, care so deeply about a story that isn’t hers? I see her shift in her seat, her body language insinuating a major plot point has come up. I see her grip on the book tighten, and her free hand lightly touch the page. An audible, and unanticipated, gasp escapes her mouth. She tries to stifle the sigh that follows, but I recognize the look of anguish. She’s connecting to the characters. She has developed her own secret relationship with these people that she knows, but don’t know her. 

They couldn’t. How could they? They aren’t real, simply figments of the author’s imagination, molded into people and stuck with names that don’t matter. But isn’t that all of us? We’re conceived and brought into a world we don’t ask for, with names we didn’t choose, and immediately given our identities at birth. We are raised to be who our parents were, but better, unless we disagree with anything they chose to box us in. 

I shake my head as discreetly as possible. This is my problem. This is why I’m so unhappy. This woman sitting across from me is so easily swayed into the romanticization of fictional beings that who will no longer affect her when she turns the last page, but I? I’m consumed by anger. Bitterness eats at my very being as though it’s never had a meal. I’m jealous of the book she is holding. The conflict in my soul, do I want pity? Do I want everyone to mind their damn business and let me be? What am I yearning for? AM I yearning for anything? 

Tick, tick, tick. I’m still sitting.. waiting. I manage to spy a plant on her desk. It’s green with life. How does she find the time to care so deeply for a plant who offers nothing in return? She probably has a schedule to water and provide sunlight. I bet on weekends she dreads leaving the plant alone on the desk, no one to keep a watchful eye or offer it a sip of water. Maybe had I been nurtured in such a way, I wouldn’t be sitting here. If someone offered me the water I thirsted for, I wouldn’t hold this anger so close behind the walls that I’ve built. 

“Stop thinking,” my mind whispers. I want to take heed of its instructions, but it doesn’t stop. It’s never stopped. Words, images, voices flash by over and over. Even when I sleep, there’s no silence. There’s no quiet. 

Finally, the door behind the reception desk opens. I can’t quite tell the age of the man on the other side. His hair is littered with grays and whites, but his stride, his stance says he’s never been younger. I almost can’t see his eyes behind his thick framed glasses, but perhaps I prefer that. Again, it reminds me that he, too, is human; capable of feeling. He stands in the entry way silently, and gives a soft nod, as though to indicate it is time to follow him back. 

I stand, my legs shaky, but I don’t believe, or don’t want to believe, it’s from nerves. I’ll just keep telling myself that its because I sat so long. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to walk, my head is telling me to move but I feel frozen. “Take a step. This is what you want,” my mind hisses. Still trembling, I make my way towards the door. 

As I remind myself that it’s only one foot in front of the other, I pass the desk. I think of the book of which I’ll never know the story. I think of the plant, that will continue to sit and be watered as it needs to survive. Without thinking, my hand reaches out, and before I can realize what I’m doing, my finger tenderly strokes the leaves. I can feel my face twisting in confusion, as my feet continue walking. Suddenly, I’m through the door and the lobby is behind me. 

“It was plastic. A fake plant. I hurt my own feelings over a synthetic succulent.” The doctors ushers me through a long corridor, although I suppose I wouldn’t need him to lead me. There’s only one other door at the end of the hallway, so the “Quiet! Treatment in Session!” is a bit ironic, and quite unnecessary. As far as I know, there’s only the three of us here. 

He rustles in his pocket for a second before pulling out a key ring. He swiftly, but gently finds the proper key, and unlocks the door. He turns the handle, then extends his arm to prop the door open and allow me in first. 

The pod sits motionless, beckoning me to come forward. I know the man is trying to confirm what I already know, but the thoughts in my head are still whirring so loudly, I can’t manage to pay him any mind. It’s as though my soul knows what it’s doing, controlling this vessel of a body, and marches me to the pod. The lining inside appears soft, comfortable. I climb in, close my eyes, and hold my breath. 

“Just hold the button”, the doctor whispers, but his voice feels like thunder. The first words I’ve actually heard since I arrived. The last voice I’ll hear. He motions towards the exit, steps backwards, and leaves silently, closing the door behind him. 

The lid to the pod slowly lowers, sealing me in. I once again take a deep breath, and place my hand on the button. Suddenly, the voices in my head are screaming at me, reminding me of my worthlessness, my faults, my struggles. They tell me I’m nothing, I deserve nothing. They shriek and squeal, insisting I’m a coward and a failure. I keep my hand on the button. 

“How pathetic? This is your only choice?” one of the voices moans. Another responds, “Of course it is, would you expect anything more?”

“Stop. Thinking.” I demand of myself. I can feel my body becoming more weightless. I can no longer move my legs, and the voices become quieter, more distant. I feel as though I’m falling asleep, although I know this slumber will be everlasting, eternal.

I take one last deep breath, let it out, and drift. 

An Open Letter to the Man who was Supposed to be my First Love

I know the title makes it sound like my first romantic heartbreak, but this is an open letter to the man who should have been there from the beginning. Frenchy in Grease has a line that has stuck with me for years. “The only man a girl can depend on his her daddy.”

Can you imagine how much that hurts me? Doesn’t it eat you up inside knowing you have an adult child that you’ve never held, you’ve never wiped the tears from, you’ve never tucked in? You missed my plays and my dance recitals and my choir concerts. You missed my graduation. You didn’t teach me how to drive or how to ride a bike. I didn’t learn how a boy was supposed to treat me, and still, you broke my heart before any boy could. 

I’ve spent 22 years wondering what I did to make you resent me so, and why I wasn’t good enough. What could I, as a child, done to make you ignore my ways to contact you? Where did I overstep? There are things I deserve, and I thought one of those would be loving and supportive parents. 

For years, I’ve wondered where I went wrong, but for brief moments I blamed you. I was angry at you. What goes through your head? Does the guilt tear you up at night when you tuck your other children into bed? Do you even think of me? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t get a choice, but here I am; a product of two people’s decision. 

I have bounced from anger to bitterness to sadness and depression. I’ve felt guilty and ashamed, yet hopeful and optimistic. I have a whole cocktail of emotions that could be resolved with one phone call. I need closure. 

I am not angry anymore, but the sadness and confusion remains. I saw a picture of you the other day, smiling with a little girl. Did you happen to think of me while you were with her? Did you imagine what I was like at that age? Did it overwhelm you and drive you crazy? Or am I not on your mind, even when you rest your head on your pillow? I dream of you often, so often. And each night that you visit me in my sleep, I weep. I never recognize your face in my dreams, but I know it is you. I picture our first meeting, and we hold each other and cry; happy tears, sad tears, and we forget all about the mistakes of the years prior. It is you and I, at last. 

Every birthday candle, every 11:11, every single time I was throwing a coin in a fountain, I wished for you. I wished that you would come into my life and sweep me off my feet. I stopped wishing as a late teenager. I knew I was being silly. Magic wouldn’t make this true. It had to be you. You had to decide to want me, and I can see now that I am not what you want. 

So forgive me for writing this, and for whatever I may have said on our one phone call that pushed you away, but I am terrified, shaken to my core, that the moment we finally meet will be as they lower you into your grave. 

I am simply a phone call away. I’m a mere couple of states away. It isn’t too late. I’m not angry. I just want to know you. 

All due respect, 

Forever and always, 

Your daughter

Married at Twenty

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about my life compared to other young woman around my age. I’ve been debating whether or not to accept the fact that I’m the stereotype. “Oh, everyone is getting engaged.” “Military couples get married too quick.” 

I’ve argued with myself about embracing the fact, or ignoring it. I married shortly after I turned 20. We hadn’t even been engaged an entire month before we went to the courthouse and eloped. It definitely wasn’t the wedding I had spent much of my adolescence planning, and it’s absolutely not where I thought I would be. It was never my plan, honestly. I much preferred a wedding over a marriage. Matrimony seemed like just an expensive piece of paper for a title that earned you tax deductions. I was just in it for the big party and the pretty dress. 

There were neither the day that George and I were married. It was just me, him, and an old man standing a little too close as he read our vows and watched our first kiss as Mr. and Mrs. We were in a small chapel somewhere in downtown San Antonio, on Halloween day, with a very busty woman waiting for her turn to use the cheaply decorated chapel. It was not at all what I pictured when I imagined my wedding day, and it was still the happiest day of my life. The ceremony with just George and I, and Pastor Cravy, was odd, but intimate. I realized in the moments that George and I were saying “I do”, that although this was hardly my plan, it was exactly where I was meant to be in this life. 

Much like any other couple, we had rough times. We had our share of arguments, selfishness, and even a break up. However, as cliche as it sounds, we had to fall apart to realize how much we needed each other. I can’t speak for George, but I’m so thankful we had that time to understand how deeply we wanted each other. The boy I sat in front of in sophomore chemistry, who teased me all throughout high school, had grown so important to me, and I don’t think either or us really recognized how much we really needed the other person. 

Getting married so young scared me. I spent the night before we got married sobbing on the couch, absolutely inconsolable because I was afraid of what we were doing. I wasn’t necessarily worried about me, I was so afraid George would change his mind. I was afraid what everyone said about young couples or getting married at 20 would weigh too heavily on his heart, and I was terrified he would regret choosing me. Even now, it’s hard for me to truly grasp the fact that he chose me and married me and even though I have his last name, I just have to ask once in a while how long he’ll love me, to which he replies “7ever” (because it’s more than 4ever, duh). 

Along with my own insecurities, like needing to be told that yes, he does still love me, and no, he’s not mad at me, I’ve realized a problem I’ve created for myself is being so dependent on social media to tell me how I should be loved. When I see a girl who’s partners mm has brought her flowers or set up a cute gift for their anniversary, I would get a twinge if jealousy, a sort of “Why doesn’t that happen for me?” When people post cute pictures with their girlfriends with sweet captions, I would wonder to myself “am I not pretty enough to show off?” I would become incredibly sad because I felt like all these other girls were being spoiled and although I appreciated everything George did for me, I wanted more. I felt like I would send him long paragraphs pouring out my heart to him, and he would reply with a couple sentences. I would send him pictures all day of what I was doing (thanks, long distance relationship), and he would open them and not respond. I felt like I was doing so much, and it wasn’t being reciprocated in the ways I wanted. I didn’t understand how toxic I was being to both of us. 

Being able to live with George has really opened my eyes to how much he did for me without me even realizing. What I took for tough love was him wanting me to better myself. He pushes me to do better and to want more, not just for us but for myself. He loves me in his own, private, intimate way, in a way I’ve never been shown love. He cares for me in such an immense and powerful way, I actually cry if I think too much about it. 

We get on each other’s nerves and we argue over who has to pick lunch, but the marriage that we have is everything I could ask for. I’ve stopped comparing us to what I see on twitter, and I’m so much happier for it. The attention I thought I was lacking was a toxic mindset that I drove myself into, and have very much grown from. The love that I’ve been lucky enough to have for the past years has made me a stronger young woman, and shown me the way I should be treated. We have a genuine “I can finish your sentences, literally before it’s out of your mouth” connection, and he’s easily my best friend who I can tell anything to. 

Being married at 20 isn’t ideal for everyone, and I definitely never pictured it for myself. But it’s just extra years I’m able to spend seeing the world with the best teammate I could ask for. I’ve found someone who encourages me to grow, and will always help me to do just that. And I couldn’t ask for more. 

Undiagnosed

Today, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I sat in my car and cried for ten minutes while I looked at my prescription. The illness that has waged wars within myself for years has finally been tagged. I finally have an answer. And I couldn’t be happier. 

I’ve been diagnosed with depression since I was 14, when I was first hospitalized. I had years of self harm and suicidal ideation under my belt. I was hospitalized again at 17, for the same reason. It was obvious I was depressed, and my anxiety has never been easy to hide. But I knew there was something more. 

For years now, I’ve had dramatic mood swings that felt uncontrollable. Out of nowhere, I felt the incessant need to punch or break something, or sit and sob for hours. No warning. No trigger. No explanation. I’ve generally been a pretty kind person, and although I would never intend to cause anyone harm, unwanted thoughts would fog up my head. 

I didn’t really understand what bipolar disorder was when I was younger. I figured it was just mood swings, and the term was used so loosely, I couldn’t understand how serious it was. Crying randomly was normal for me, due to my PTSD. I didn’t think much more of it, besides understanding my depression. I’ve been actively working to tackle that demon for years. I was 16 when I first began to think there was another layer I didn’t quite grasp. ‘I was just fine a minute ago, why am I so angry now?’ ‘Today was a good day, why am I feeling so down?’ I was told it was hormones or it was stress, and even so much as I just wanted the attention. I hid my problems. I pretended. I kept quiet. 

I’ve always been very open about my journey through recovery, and will continue to be. However, I’ve never talked about these intense mood swings. I’ve never talked about the manic feeling I get for a few days, the new instilled self confidence that would come and go. The feeling that I was indestructible. That i could do anything and nothing bad would happen. The higher I got, the harder I would fall. Although things could be fine in my every day life, I was angry. I was irritable. Annoyed. I snapped at people. I lost my temper. I felt guilty for things beyond my control. I was overthinking everything. I had a weight on my chest that I couldn’t lift, and so I allowed it to crush me. I’ve been putting up with this ongoing battle for longer than I could remember. But it was just “hormones”. Just “stress”. 

Sitting across from the psychiatrist today, I didn’t expect an answer. I’ve never gotten one beyond “depression”, which didn’t excuse the voices I heard, the racing thoughts, the aggression. I felt misunderstood and hurt by myself that I could let my mind win. To have an answer to the problem I’ve been facing for so long almost immediately brought me to tears. I’ve been living undiagnosed for so long, and now, FINALLY, I can work on my solution. I’m not crazy. I’m not looking for attention. I’m not just stressed. I am fighting every day, constantly, for a moment of peace in my mind, and this diagnosis is everything I’ve been waiting to hear. As sad as it makes me to know I have this disorder, I’m so happy that we can work towards a better understanding of how I need to heal. I start my new medication today. I meet again with my therapist soon. I’m on the right track to loving myself and the life I’m living. 

The past twenty one years have been far from easy, but I’m choosing every day to keep going. That’s the thing, I wake up, and have to make that choice. But I will continue to work on healing, I will continue to work on my peace. It’s a hell of a journey, but it’s not done yet. 

Therapy Session 1

Ephemeral 

Ephemeral- lasting only but a short moment; fleeting, momentary, short. 

I opened up, today. For the first time in years, I opened up to an unfamiliar face and released an undiluted roar of emotion that I have held in my head for an ungodly amount of time. 

Today, I looked in the eyes of a soul mine had never met, and I talked, something I’ve always had some issue with. Either I talk to much or too loud, I share too much, I don’t communicate enough, I apologize too much, I’m too narcissistic. I’m too quiet, I’m too awkward, my sense of humor isn’t fit for the setting. Today, I squeezed a twenty one year long journey into an hour, but lord knows I talk so quickly, it flew by. 

Today I talked about my abandonment issues. This is always the easiest place for me to start, regardless of friend or stranger. Being raised by a single mother is not at all a rare situation. In fact, it’s often relatable. I grew up without my father, and to this day, have never met him. We talked once on the phone, for a short time that I don’t remember. Ephemeral. We have the power to remember so many useless facts, while forgetting things of importance. There is almost nothing I wouldn’t give to recall the sound of his voice, be certain of what I said, what he said. Maybe that phone call is what pushed him away for good. I was only seven, I don’t understand what I could have possibly said to ruin a relationship we could have had. My entire life, I have spent wondering what my short comings were to not be enough for him to love me, why I wasn’t enough to want. 

Father figures I’ve had in my life have left as well. I understand it couldn’t possibly be because of me, but it’s so hard to let go of someone who promised to take care of you. I’ve had men who came and stepped up to the plate, and even gone as far as to say they would legally adopt me. Willingly take me in. Say they would be my new dad and love me as his own. And they’ve left. 

Today I talked about my mother, the woman who raised me “on her own.” The woman who’s one job was to protect me and care for me, and who I cannot honestly say tried her best. While I know my mom loves me, she has never known how to show it properly. Looking back, I was a very sweet, smart, well behaved kid, and yet I grew up hating myself, believing I was never enough. There’s an entire novel of stories I could get into to talk about her, but it would just be broken record at this point. I was told I was selfish, I had no common sense, and I was ungrateful. I was told I could go live in a girl’s home many times. I was told she was going to put me in foster care because my dad wasn’t around, and she couldn’t “be a mother anymore.” I was told over and over again that she had lost her respect for me. My mother had problems of her own, but always managed to take them out on me. Every angry thought, every bad day immediately was reflected on me. I grew up scared of my mother. Physical abuse was minimal, but the psychological torment she put me through, unknowingly or not, has followed me for years. I am afraid I’m never enough. I’m afraid when someone raises their voice too loud. I am afraid when people don’t respond as quickly too me. Every good memory I may have from my childhood with my mother seems fleeting. Ephemeral. I know what I went through could have been much, much worse, and I understand that “she is still my mother”, but at 20 years old, I made the long awaited decision to cut out that toxic part of my life. The part of my life that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough and I was only a disappointment. The part that made me feel like I would never have a happy family. 

Today, I talked about my history with sexual abuse. I talked about how at only 6 years old, I knew how grown up intimacy was supposed to grow. My first abuser was some years older than me. I had chronic nightmares, the same plot over and over, about this time in my life. This went on for years. I would run to get help, only to be dragged away and instructed not to tell anyone about it or they would kill me. I had these dreams well into adulthood. My second abuser was a family member, who thought I was asleep that night. I was 7. I told almost no one for years, for fear of being made fun of. I didn’t tell my family, because I didn’t want to be the reason my family fell apart. I saw him for years afterwords, a dark stain on every holiday we went to, every family reunion, every time I heard his name. I finally confided in my mom, years after it happened, and she did the one thing I was afraid she would do. She told the rest of my family. I still pretend like nothing happened, but every god damned holiday, there remains a noticeable uneasiness. My third abuser was someone I loved, someone I trusted. Someone who had broken my heart and my trust and my happiness. Someone who wanted me to wait for him, while he “experienced other people”. When he found out I began to see someone else, he did what I assume gave him his power back over me. I was pinned down that night, sobbing, and begging while he kept telling me how much I missed this, how bad I wanted this. I didn’t. That night, I took my entire bottle of anti depressants. I swallowed all of them with vodka to wash it down. I went to bed that night, expecting to never open my eyes again. I slept for two days. When I woke up, I was told that I was lazy, and being unproductive. I went back to school that Monday, and told no one what happened. I didn’t open up about this to anyone, until one night, I drank a little too much and in the midst of being black out drunk, I confessed to George everything. I told him about the rape, the over dose, the fact that I went back to my abuser afterwords. I still don’t know why I told George, and why I don’t remember any of it. But I do remember the nightmares I had and how I turn off certain songs that sound a little too familiar. I lost a piece of myself that night. The strength I thought I had was gone, short lived, ephemeral. 

Today, I talked about my miscarriage. I talked about how vulnerable I was after losing my baby. How confused I was. It hurt to know there was some relief. I was 16, close to 17, when I found out I was pregnant. I was young, scared, unsure of what to do next. I began to write letters to my baby, originally to help myself come to terms with what I was going to endure. But with every letter I wrote, I grew more attached. I would write, telling about how much I loved it already, how I couldn’t wait to meet it. How much I was going to do and how hard I was going to try to ensure it lived the happiest life. We poured over baby names, and decided on Jameson. I just knew I was having a boy. I knew before I ever actually knew that I was pregnant. I dreamt about for an entire month before. I dreamt about the little boy I would be holding in my arms. I knew. Of course, when I told my mother, she expressed very clearly how disappointed she was in me, told me all the things I would have to give up, but I was ready. I accepted this before I ever told her. I was working at the baseball fields the day I miscarried. It started with spotting in the morning, but by that evening shift, it was concerning. I was bleeding way too much. I called my mom immediately and we rushed to the emergency room. The doctor ordered an ultrasound. I prayed that we would still hear a heartbeat, see a picture on the screen. There was nothing. My baby was gone, and my world was shattered. The tech didn’t have to say anything, I knew right away there was not going to be a Jameson anymore. After I was wheeled back into my room, the doctor confirmed what we all knew. I didn’t sleep properly for two weeks. I couldn’t fall asleep without taking something to force me down. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t just sad about my loss, I was sad that I was relieved. I wasn’t going to be a teen mom, I wasn’t going to have to give up prom, I had my life back. And I felt selfish. I hated myself for finding comfort in the fact that I didn’t have to grow up quite yet. Above all this, though, I hated that my baby wouldn’t grow up to read the letters I poured my heart into. These documents with every change I felt physically and emotionally would never go to anyone. They served as a reminder for what once was, a brief moment. Ephemeral. George and I haven’t necessarily tried to start a family yet, but there also has been no pregnancy announcement. There have been no positive pregnancy tests. We don’t know yet if we can have a family, and one of my biggest fears is that the only positive test I will have will be for my baby that I lost. It’s hard not to beat yourself over things like this. To not be mad at yourself and your body for not being able to do the one thing it seems like every other woman can do. It’s hard to understand that I’m not broken, and these things take time and that everything happens for a reason. After all that I’ve been through, my miscarriage is what I believe I’ve struggled with the most. 

Today, I told a stranger all these personal, vulnerable events in my life that seem to stand out the most. I woke up feeling sick to my stomach knowing I would have to go to get another counselor, tell my story yet again, and start my progress over. But I did it. It’s not a major stepping stone to other people, but this is the movement I’ve been waiting to make for myself. I’ve tried for so long to be a catalyst for change in other people’s lives, talking about my recovery from suicide attempts and self harm, informing other they aren’t alone, that I don’t take the time to tell myself the same things. I’m not alone. Every single thing that I’ve held on to was a brief moment in my life that I allowed to control me for so long. I’ve been through eating disorders, cutting myself, trying to overdose, I’ve written suicide notes, I’ve made plans, and I’m still standing. And I have to understand this is not for nothing. I still have some very bad days, where nothing seems worth it. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be a better me and encourage people to do the same. I am not my abusers. I am not my past. I am not a lost cause. My name is Mackenzie, and I am hopeful. 

Writing Prompt #1

Most of the memories I felt were warm, that sort of scene you’d see in a movie, with the glow of a summer sun illuminating a room, splashing a golden tone on the walls. I’ve felt the love, the joy, the hope of each person. I’ve seen the birth of long awaited babies, I’ve seen the reunion of couples after months of distance, I’ve seen countless dance recitals, concerts, sports games, you name it. Those were my favorite, the happy memories.
Not everyone could focus on the good, I guess. Through the minds of my patients, I’ve seen war. I’ve watched loved ones pass. I’ve watched tiny caskets lower into the ground. I’ve seen a red eyed, tear stained face in the reflection more times than I could name. Those are the hardest memories to see. 
I don’t know how to explain it, the images I see. When I operate, the memories my patient holds onto, I can feel them, relive them. It’s like a cosmic gift, except it isn’t a gift. Not always. So often it feels like a burden. I hold so many secrets from so many people, and no one knows. Who would believe me? I’ve looked through the eyes of every person who has laid on my operating table, and I have felt what they felt. Heartbreak, relief, anger, romance... Maybe I was afraid to tell anyone. Maybe if I let my secret out, I would lose these experiences. As awful as it could be at times, it made me feel human. It humbled me, reminded me that so many other people live live’s we have no idea about. 
Neurosurgery had always been a passion of mine. I was entranced by the human mind. Memories fascinated me, how one organ can dictate what we do and don’t remember, without us even knowing. I’ve had patients from all ages and backgrounds, and I’d thought I’d seen it all. I’d built a name for myself, made sure my family was taken care of. There are some things you can’t prevent, I guess. Things you can’t save.
My wife developed a tumor on her temporal lobe. She had always been so strong, and seeing her weep when the news was broken to her was one of the memories I wish my brain would get rid of. I hurt for her, but I trusted I could fix her, I could make her better. 
Seeing her asleep on the table shattered my heart, tore up my insides. The woman who I promised my forever to, who gave me my children, who made our house a home, was now vulnerable, something I’d never seen before. My hands could not, would not stop shaking. I had reminded her over and over again that morning that she would be okay. The words echoed in my head, pounding, as if they were boomeranging around. Clawed at my skull like an animal trying to escape. ‘I can fix her,’ I assured myself, ‘I can make her better.’
It wasn’t until I had begun that I remembered my “gift”. I had been so caught up in everything, it wasn’t until I felt that familiar vibration, I realized I would soon be seeing what she had seen. It always began that way, with a slight buzz in my head. This time was different, though. I was nervous, anxious to see how she saw me. Who I was through her eyes. 
She had always been a lively woman, I’d never loved someone the way I loved her. The way she could light up a room, how her laughter carried on the wind. Her mind seemed no different. A million memories flooded as though a barrier has been broken. I had never felt such a rush of emotion, it almost became distracting. My hands slowed while I worked, as her thoughts took over mine. It was almost like holding your loved one’s diary, and knowing better than to read it, except I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t push these thoughts out. I felt so nosy, so selfish. And at the same time, I couldn’t resist. I could hear the usual mumbling of the nurses, and the hums and beeps of the machines, that was the only thing that kept one foot on the ground while I drifted away into her thoughts. 
We had some memories that coincided, of course I just watched from her point of view. Our daughters first steps, our son’s tee ball games. I watched her prom night, her first kiss, her old best friends I only knew through pictures. I watched her become the woman I knew her as. They all jumbled together, but each one left a different feeling in my heart. I felt her heartbreaks, her laughter, her peace. I wished I could have stopped and just held her in that moment, let her know how much I admired her and her mind. 
What felt like hours in her world was nothing on earth. It had become a routine for me, I knew the procedures, I could focus on her. 
I could see the night we met, and I couldn’t believe she would fall for me. But that blind date couldn’t have led me to a better life. I watched her walk towards me at our wedding, watching me carefully at the end of the aisle. She never took her eyes off me, and she seemed so happy. I could have sat and wept like a child. She chose me. She loved me.
Almost immediately, i got this sick feeling in my stomach. I felt weak, confused, nauseous. What was once an ultraviolet light became grey and clouded. It took everything in me to keep from collapsing on the cold tile floor. Normally I kept these visions in the back of my mind, my patients were important to me, but their memories were not, so although I couldn’t stop watching, i could keep myself focused on the surgery. This time was different. 
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to hurl. I began to see a figure above me, blurry, but I could tell it was a man. I couldn’t recognize him. I did not know him. The image became more clear, and his sweaty body crowded over her. I felt disgusted, why was this something she would think of? Was he a past lover, someone she hadn’t quite gotten over? No, I told myself, trying to fight the jealousy growing inside me. It’s just a memory. You can’t help what you remember. 
I tried to distract myself, but it roared louder, stung like a wasp in my mind. I wanted to pass out, I wanted to walk out of the room, but kept myself standing because I knew I had to fix her, make her better. 
I watched her roll around with him, and briefly, I caught a glimpse of her wedding ring. Immediately, my hands stopped their motion. I froze, I was a statue caught in this dark storm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. She was wearing her wedding ring, the ring we went to 6 different stores to pick out. The ring I knew she kept her eye on, but wouldn’t admit it out loud because it was out of our spoken price range. The ring I surprised her with on our wedding day, and remembered seeing the way the light in her flickered as I slid it onto her finger. The ring that symbolized the promises I made to her, and the ones she failed to keep to me.
In the middle of the crude images I was forced to remember with her, she had flashbacks to our wedding. I could see the way they zipped in and out. It was like an ugly game of ping pong, a few seconds of each memory bouncing around. She was thinking of me that day. She knew what she was doing. She knew.
I could hear the nurses asking me questions, but I couldn’t make out their words. The buzzing didn’t stop. The floating sensation I had felt in her world immediately crashed, as if someone tied cement blocks to my feet. I felt as though I were sinking, drowning, stuck watching the woman I loved break the promises we made. I wanted to scream out, I wanted to storm out of the room. I couldn’t. 
I was stuck in a sort of paralysis, as I watched her meet with the same man over and over, with different backgrounds. Different hotels, different beds, and then one that seemed to hang forever in the air. It was our bed. I could make out the footboard that we had argued over, but I finally gave in because she swore it matched our carpet better. I could see the ugly decorative “Live, Laugh, Love” canvas that she cherished so much, as though it were a unique piece of art. I could see our window, that faced our backyard, where you could see the tree that had a family of sparrows every spring. She brought this man into our house. Into our home. 
I became outraged. The house I bought to grow our family in was now tainted. I could feel the tears brimming my eyes, burning, but I wasn’t sad. I was angry. I held her life in my hands and in that moment, I could no longer want to fix her or make her better. I couldn’t make myself forgive her. I could feel my hands drop my tools, I could feel the tears that burned my eyes begin to run down my face. I watched as she recalled our first dance on our wedding night. I never was a dancer, I looked awkward and lanky as I held her close, but she was as smooth as ever, with a rhythm that burned like a fire in her soul. She didn’t whine when I stepped on her feet, she instead held me closer. She chose me, she loved me. I could feel the nurses begin to shout over the ringing in my ears, pleading with me for some sort of reaction. I could hear the monitor beeping quicker. Her life was in my hands, and I couldn’t save her. She trusted me to fix her, to make her better. I couldn’t. The trust she had in me died as quickly as mine did in her. I felt yanking on my sleeves, but I stood, and with stinging, burning tears, I wept, without motion. Every image began to churn together, a technicolor swirl of pictures from every part of her life, childhood to now. I watched as the colors became white washed, a blinding light, before pitch black. 
I snapped back into myself, I could see my wife once more, still motionless, but the buzzing was replaced by a solitary beep. Mumblings from my colleagues flooded my ears at once. She chose me. She trusted me to fix her, to make her better. But resting on the monitor was a single, flat line.


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