Bruised

Footsteps down a bleach-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. Every day I am waiting for the timer to stop, but it doesn't. It keeps ticking, tantalizing my insides and shaking my confidence.

Confidence? What is confidence? I have looked but I cannot find any Here. Here in the halls that are no longer bleach-white but are now faded from the footsteps of adolescents and dirt. I have no control Here. I'm a part of the game Here.

I am alone and momentarily peaceful in solitude. It is a lonely life. I am a friend to many but I have no friends. I do not fit in the puzzle and it is my fault, isn't it? My fault that no one will be more than an acquaintance. I move from group to group, lunch table to lunch table and I still find that I don't belong. My voice is small like my stature. My heart is on my sleeve but it is constantly bruised.

Footsteps down a faded-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. These are not my footsteps. There is nothing but a soundtrack of panic and the hopes of a quickening heart that I will go unnoticed. I want to blend into these ugly walls without actually becoming part of Here- a place I hate. I want to become a ghost so that no one will see the heart on my sleeve.

I take a deep breathe and glance behind me to see who it is. I already know the answer. The two boys have not stopped tormenting me all year but I try to be nice because my friend loves one. I have to be nice so I don't lose her. Then I will be completely alone. Again.

My small voice pretends to be strong but the echo of the faded-white hallway reveals how thin the words truly are. Confidence? What is confidence? I have looked but I cannot find any Here. Here in the halls that are no longer bleach-white but are now faded from the footsteps of adolescents and dirt. I have no control Here. I'm a part of their game.

They are running. I am running but my feet are like lead and my bag is full of brick-like books. It is not enough. The bag is pushed over my head and I lose balance. I trip on my foot. I fall on the floor- this disgusting tile that is covered from the shoes of adolescents and dirt and now tears.

Laughter. A small voice echoes down the hallway after fumbling desperately for a verbal defense: "Assholes!"

My bruised heart matches my bruised knees. There is a no tolerance for bullies policy this year that will surely save me. There is hope that they will help me escape this. I don't have to hear these words pierce my heart like knives anymore. I don't have to walk quickly in empty hallways anymore.

I am wrong. We all get punished. I am punished. I shouldn't have used the word assholes.

Footsteps down a bleach-white hallway echo like the ticking of a timer in an empty room. I fear this timer will never stop ticking.

Untitled Story 2

                “You made it!”

                “Yes but barely. I can’t believe I made it from the building in thirteen minutes.”

                The approaching woman was wobbling with exhaustion from the hurried trip and heavy rain. Her boots struggled to remain balanced on the slick floor.

                “I thought you were working from the Bremerton side?”
                “Well I was,” the woman sat down to catch her breath and placed her bags on the worn booth seat before continuing, “but they told me they couldn’t support the staff anymore.”

                “That’s a bunch of cock and bull,” whispered Sandra, as she got out her knitting supplies and an unfinished blanket.

                The passenger gate had been closed and the familiar recording of a local sports announcer echoed through the ferry boat to remind passengers of the rules of the hour long ride. There was thick fog surrounding the dock and a National Guard boat sped alongside the ferry. Another woman across the row pointed at the National Guard man and his gun with her pencil.

                “Good to see the military is prepared to kill the fog,” she mumbled and looked back down at her Seattle Times crossword puzzle.

                Sandra chuckled. Her fingers – adorned by plastic rings and a shocking blue nail polish—were already quick at work on the soft pink fabric she held in her lap. The movement of her hands drew attention to the Disney fairies from ‘Sleeping Beauty’ tattooed on her arms that appeared to be flying down to her wrist.

The neighboring booths were all occupied by women in their 50s and 60s. Every few minutes one would make a comment or voice a complaint about their work day and the others would pause from their various crafts to listen.

                “A day before but it will work. Hopefully should last until she’s two years old,” said Sandra.

                Her friend reached out to touch the baby blanket with worn fingers.

                “How long until she gets it?”

                “She’s having a C-section. I think they’ll keep her for three days…maybe Thursday or Friday and she’ll be ready to go. I’ll wash it tonight and it will be all ready for the baby.”

                “Is it the same father?”

                Sandra resumed her work on the blanket and drew a deep sigh.

                “No. The first two were the same guy and we don’t know who little Marie’s dad was. This one was a sailor and doin’ fine until he had to take a urine test. Failed it. Then I found my daughter in my room looking for Codeine for him. I used to respect him. Neither looking for a job and they don’t have a job now. He’d rather go food bank to food bank than find a job. They get $200 each and I’m not getting’ a cent because I make the most money. I told ‘em, ‘I am not taking care of this next one because you aren’t caring for the other kids.’”

                Her booth partner nodded her head in agreement and mumbled “oh dear” and “I’m sorry” whenever her friend had to pause for breath.

                “I’m tired, May. I can’t care for more children. I can’t even think about retiring for another five years. I’ll be 67 by then!”

                A different voice than the sport announcer’s came over the speaker system to ask for the owner of a vehicle to turn off the alarm.

                “She’s been talking about the C-section non-stop but she’s had one before. I told her to grin and bear it. When she’s done the hospital will send her home and she’s to take her painkillers like she’s supposed to. There’s no way I’m giving her some of mine! I need to get a bedroom lock for my door, May.”
                “You better not tell me she’s still got a habit with that baby on the way,” said May. Her fingers were also busy at work; but unlike the other women in the booths, she braided her blonde and grey hair rather than weave yarn.

                “Unfortunately, I think she’s only off the drugs right now because she is pregnant,” said Sandra with a frown. “But I told her to take her painkillers right and when they’re gone, they are gone…she says she likes that fuzzy feeling. I’m glad she’s staying away from Crank at least.” Her voice ended the statement in a whisper.

                Sandra finished her the baby blanket and smoothed the fabric out with her hands.

                “Well damn. Nice and soft,” she turned around while laughing to ask a woman crocheting a scarf, “Carrie, what the hell am I going to do now?”

                Carrie yelled back to May’s amusement, “You’re so excited to be done and yet already complaining you have nothing to do.”

                She looked away from the booth behind her and turned her head to the right. One woman was knitting a blanket and had the finished end over the back of the booth in order to cover her napping friend. Sandra let out a roar of laughter and rubbed her knuckles.

Coffee Shop

“Are you going to the coffee shop with grandpa this morning?”

                My eighty-four year old great grandmother was sitting across from me in the kitchen. Her hands were moving across the heavy pages of the Friday newspaper. I was spinning the bar stool back and forth while I unraveled the braids in my hair.

                “What time does he usually leave?” I asked.

                “It’s almost eight o’clock so he’ll be leaving soon. I’d take you shopping all day like I used to with your mother when she was your age sweetie, but mornings are too hard for me now,” she paused. “But you’re a grandpa’s girl and I bet you want to spend time with him.”

                I nodded my head and smiled. I had only two days to spend with my great grandparents on my trip to Idaho and I wasn’t going to waste any moment of it. I had set my alarm earlier than I was used to just to be awake and ready to get coffee with my grandfather that morning. The idea of drinking diner coffee had never been more appealing to me.

                “Seems like those men have to go every day or they’ll be talked about down there and they know it. Those old men are worse than women, you’ll see,” said my grandmother.

                A deep laugh entered the room followed by a round belly and big smile.

                “Come on now Dell. We’re not worse than old women!” said my grandfather, as he turned and gave me a wink. “Let’s go sweetie. We don’t want to be the last one there.”

                We walked out of the house toward the garage, where my grandfather kept his large truck, and I felt smaller than normal sitting in the wide cab. As we made our way across town, the summer dust uplifted from the road and the tires left a hazy path behind us. There were close mountains in the background but the small town seemed mostly flat and dry. Large houses broke the dominance of long farming fields until we arrived downtown. The drive there was pleasant but quiet; the only noise out of place was the occasional dinging sound that hopelessly tried to tell my grandfather to put on a seat belt.

                My grandfather parked the truck behind several others at a diner that appeared busy for a weekday morning. The worn down sign declared it served “home style cooking” and we entered the crowded diner together. My grandfather led us directly to a few tables near the front where he was greeted immediately by the waitress and by other tables on the way.

                “Boys, I’d like you to meet my oldest great granddaughter. Before you say anything about it, I think it’s obvious to point out that she got her good looks from me,” he said as there was a roar of laughter.

                One of the old men quickly replied, “Well if that’s true, she must have stolen all the good looks you had, Wes!”

                The laughter continued and another man added, “Looks like someone took your good hair genes too!”

                We had barely arrived and I knew that coming for coffee had been the best decision of the day. The waitress came over and gave my grandfather a Pepsi without question before asking me what I wanted to drink or eat. She brought me a coffee and a refilled a few of the men’s cups.

                The conversation and witty comebacks continued as I looked around the local hot spot. There was a large “We Proudly Serve Pepsi” sign, which the cups and menu holders proudly addressed as well. It was a tiny building with a worn atmosphere and the warmth from the laughter overwhelmed me. Every time the door opened customers were greeted by their first names or by waves from across the dining room. I felt at home.

                “Are you going golfing today, Wes?” a man asked my grandfather.

                “No, no I’m gonna head by the shop and then spend the day with my girl here,” he said as he squeezed his hand on my shoulder. I felt too happy to say or do anything but smile and I continued to listen to the conversations about how someone should have gone golfing or fishing, as if it were Christmas morning.

                One of the men on my side of the table looked up from his eggs. He had been one of the more outspoken jokers of the group and let out a deep sigh.

                “Remember when we used to talk about what we should have done or were planning on doing? Now we’re talking about all the surgeries we’ve had or the surgeries we need,” he said. Other men sipped their coffees or nodded in agreement.

                “Used to be about kids and now it’s about our great grandkids,” added another man.

                The tables were close enough together in the diner that one man at a different table turned around to ours and asked about someone else’s family member. The jokes continued as a new round of coffee was poured. After almost an hour at the table my grandfather and I said our goodbyes to his friends and a few other customers while walking out. When we got back on the road, he asked me if I had a good time.

                “Of course I did. I know I was really quiet but I enjoyed myself. I just wish I could have been able to go to coffee with you more in my life. It’s sad that I don’t see you,” I responded. “I’m glad I spent a little bit of time with you and grandma. It’s weird, actually. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life even though I haven’t seen you more than five times.”

                I paused and watched sprinklers in the fields we passed take off in directions. The dinging noise had turned back on inside the truck cab but my grandfather chose to silence it by clicking the middle seat belt buckle into his instead. I smiled.

                “I’m going to miss you. I wish I could stay here in this town with my family. I wish Mom was here too.”

                He sighed and said to me, “You can’t always wish for people to be there. You know that your family will always be there, whether you like it or not. We’re big and we’re proud and we support each other. You have to take some time to find yourself and learn. You need to go to college and meet new people. You can lean on all of us if you need to but you have to walk for yourself. We’re all so proud of you.”

                I thanked him and returned to looking out the window. I agreed with every word that he said but I didn’t want to think about actually having to leave. I felt like I had spent my whole life leaving people and it was exhausting to know it wouldn’t ever truly stop.

                “Besides sweetie, you can always take a break and have coffee with me in the future.”

In Bed

                I don’t want to get out of bed.

                It’s a common enough problem. When you are young you don’t want to go to school, and when you are old you don’t want to go to work. Not wanting to leave a warm bed first thing in the morning is part of the human experience. On the other hand, not wanting to leave your bed for anything after a full night’s sleep is the opposite of living. It’s a Pause. It’s the act of doing nothing.

                I want to do nothing.

                It sounds so terrible on the page like that. I wish I could fix the words and convince people it’s not that bad. My life has been like this for a long time and I’m accustomed to these feelings; after all it’s been almost a decade since they started. The funny thing is I’m not sure what to call “it” anymore. I used to think these feelings were dramatic flares – an unfortunate case of teenage hormones. The difficulty in that case is how extreme they could be and how deeply they affected me. After all of these years I’m still haunted by the word that people have often labeled the feelings as…depression.

                Ugh. What an ugly word. Thinking or speaking the word makes me feel awful, like I’m choking on something that was unwanted in the first place. Instead of choking on a piece of food I consumed willingly, the word depression is like gagging on a tongue depressor my doctor insists on shoving down too far.

The word depression is never spoken in a normal tone. When a person says the word they either whisper it ever so slightly, as if it will be too loud and harsh for the listening ear, or they avoid it altogether. People are more willing to curse in front of their child than dare suggest the word depression has any connection with the other person needing comfort. The reality is that about 8% of adult Americans are affected by this dirty word and approximately 80% of people with major depression are not currently receiving treatment (PBS), which makes me wonder, how many other people are out there trying to deny how they actually feel? How many people are out there like me?

                It’s a curious enough question, especially if you consider the irony. It’s no secret that people feeling depressed frequently tell themselves they are alone, despite the common sense (and statistical evidence) that they are definitely not. As humans partaking in self-reflection, however, we cannot think in these logical terms. When you are depressed, sad, anxious, overwhelmed by your stress, etc.; you are more likely to isolate yourself in a corner and focus on your problems rather than seek help from others who struggle as well. It’s a common problem for people like me. I think normal people call it stubborn.

                Oh and we are stubborn. People with a mental disorder are often the brightest and most tenacious individuals I’ve come across in my life (and to think, I’m just passing the two decade mark on my biological calendar). We learn to adapt to our issues in an attempt to have control over them. We can become sneaky and expertly avoidant in order to hide our deeper turmoil from the people surrounding us. I would even make the argument that the first false conversation we perfect as humans sounds like the backbone of someone depressed:

                                “How are you?”

                                “I’m fine.”

                See what just happened there? An innocent and brief dialogue that serves as our most common defense from admitting something might be wrong. We don’t want to know what is wrong. I don’t really want to know what is wrong. Sometimes I’ll convince myself that it’s for the best and I’ll seek help, but deep down I think I could keep trying to say “I’m fine” because I hope that childish logic will prove to magically make me feel better. It’s all a game and I’ve unfortunately become rather skilled at it.

                Whenever I try to reflect upon my mental state, I always have to ask when things started. It stresses me to not have a particular day that I can derive my troubles from. The bad memories started after the sadness, not before.

                There are fragments of memories; sharp details surrounded by a fog of emotion. When they ask me how I think things started up, there are no words to describe such blurry memories. As if I were stuck in a thick fog, I am lost and isolated in my emotions. I feel disoriented because fog has no beginning and seemingly no end…I wonder if this makes any sense. It’s difficult to describe how emotions affect your thought process.

                I can remember sitting in my bed with my cd player and hoping that anything from Otis Redding to Nine Inch Nails could stop my repetitive and anxious thinking if it was played loud enough.

                I can remember tearing my math homework in to tiny pieces until it was too small to rip with my fingers. Then I would begin the assignment all over again or give up completely because I felt it would never be understandable. These memories haunt me with their honesty. They reveal the truth I hate - that this anxiety has been with me for a long time.

                I have an hour until work and I’m still in bed.

                Dammit.

Untitled Story 1

“How have you been lately?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

                She stood beside him in the cold and hoped he wouldn’t be able to hear the plea in her dry voice. She hoped the thirty degree weather and the fact it was night wouldn’t left him notice her trembling hands. She hesitated and then took out a cigarette from her coat pocket. Lighting the slim stick had finally seemed mechanical. That is why she smoked. It was something to do with her hands when she needed to focus. Breathe in. Breathe out.

                “What was the most exciting thing that happened to you this week?” he asked. He smoked also.

                “I can’t think of anything, at least nothing positive,” she said.

                “Me either…I started talking to an old friend, if that counts.”

                She smiled. “Yeah we could count that.”

                Deep breaths of cold air followed short inhales of wispy smoke. It felt necessary to focus solely on breathing when it came to days where it hurt to think or feel.

                “Are you still sad?” asked a voice.
                “Yes,” said a different voice, “always.”

                “I don’t know this song.”

                “Listen.”

                She closed her eyes and curled into a ball. Classical music always made her feel like a small child. Music stirs something in your soul. It makes you ache or smile without asking for your permission to do so. She put all of her energy into sitting still so she could simply listen.

                “Do you want to read my story?”

                She said she would love to and he brought her a copy from the printer. She pressed her hand against the smooth, warm pages and slowly digested the words. It made her want to laugh and smile at the anecdotes and carefully placed details.

                It was lovely. It made her want to cry.

                Later at home she repeated the process of slowly reading the short story. It was bittersweet. She hated how similar she felt to the central female character. It scared her.

                “Are you still sad?”

                “Yes…always.”