She is a Girl

I wish I had brought more feminine clothes home with me. Something that would immediately identify me as a girl. Instead I brought a plethora of androgynous sweaters and t-shirts. I feel bad for my mother who has to accept that I am not the little girl she thought I would be. I feel worse because I seem to continuously throw it in her face. When small children mistake me for a boy I can feel the discomfort come over both her and I. She defends what is left of the female child she knows she birthed. She insists that I am a girl even though she knows I don't look like one. I hope that she is unconsciously begging them to understand there is more than one way to be a girl, and not everyone with short hair and a sweater is a boy. That even though my chest is bound tightly under two sports bras you can still kind of see that I have breasts. But unfortunately, I think she is trying to convincing herself "this is Melissa, she is a girl." 

Morbidity in the Dead of Winter

As I drove past the cemetery that my grandmother is buried in my stomach sank. I try to, at all costs, avoid the thought of her body. I try to remember her round, rosy cheeked and laughing, like I see her in the photographs from my youth. I try not to think about the frail woman who prematurely aged and then left. She is buried in a plot at the back of the cemetery. I thought of how my grandfather, who used to visit her grave regularly, daily, has now permanently relocated to Florida. Far far away from his beloved. And then I thought about how sad and morbid it is to leave our loved ones rotting in the ground. To wither away and turn into dust - alone. I unfortunately pictured what her frail broken body looked like when she died. So tiny and old. Destroyed. Ripped apart by both illness and treatment. And I think about what it means to die and to be left in a distant grave that no one wants to visit anymore. As if it is payback for leaving the living to mourn in the first place.

The Rock

There was a large rock in the middle of a lake. You could see it as you walked down the long straight hill to the house. Out on the rock was a group of boys. They had either taken the paddle boat and tied it to the rock or they had swam out to it from the dock. Two girls stood on the lawn watching the boys swim. They were not old enough to go climbing on the rock. They would have to go play in the woods surrounding the house instead. They will play with the youngest child, a boy two years their junior, who is also confined to the house. They create elaborate stories and act them out, running through the woods, pretending sticks are guns and tree stumps into dinner. They don't need to be out on the rock in the middle of the lake with the older boys, they are content with the wonders of their own imaginations.

Eventually these kids grow up. The older kids who were playing on the rock no longer visit. And the kids playing in the woods lose their imaginations. They no longer find the same excitement from running around with a wild story running through their minds. Its their turn to swim out to the rock and jump off into the lake. One side of the rock is a steep slide down into the water. The other, a surface full of places to jump off of into the water. The two girls and the boy spend hours jumping off of this rock, enjoying the sun like only a child can. It feels warm and nice out in the middle of the lake on top of the rock. It's not cold and shaded like the woods. Their skin gets brown without them taking notice. They take care to jump far enough from the rock, making sure not to hit the inevitably larger part of the rock that lies beneath the surface. They spend hours giggling and talking, and moments of silence as they simply take in what they're doing. One of them ventures up to the top of the rock. Slips and catches the top, her body splayed on the flat side - the side none of them wanted to be on. She pulled herself up, knees bloody. Her sister and the boy, their cousin, look at her. They were afraid something like that would happen. Their sweet moment on the rock is shattered as they must go back to the house and clean up the cuts. They'll go back out another day, sure to stay away from the edge.

Time stops for no one and the kids grew up. They stopped going out on the rock. They turned into teenagers and young adults. They stopped going to the house on the lake with the rock in the middle. And just as they stopped running through the woods with wild imaginations and jumping off the rock in the sweet summer sun, they also stopped talking. They grew apart. Loved ones died. And there were real life ledges to balance on, constantly hoping that they wouldn't slip and fall.

Spontaneous Prose

BOOM – An explosion shakes houses, and the ground, and people; it destroys a house, and the lives of the people inside – six people dead, one childhood friend, one classmate, and four people I did not know. July 13, 2011 – a house exploded in Salem, New York, upstate New York – the real upstate, none of this Westchester bullshit, four hours north, probably more, on the border of Vermont – where all they do is smoke weed and ride four wheelers, stereotypical rednecks, dirt roads. My first love’s family was from Salem – they had a farm, a cow farm. I saw a dead calf once, it was traumatizing; I also saw the heads of slaughtered pigs, perhaps that was more traumatizing. When I heard, that there was an explosion in Salem, my first thought was – Amber – what if it was her? What if she was dead? What would I do? She’d been my first love after all, my best friend in middle school, the girl who broke my heart in high school – the girl who made me crazy, made me do things I now regret; but then again she didn't make me do anything, I am responsible for my own actions, I am the one who chose to drag those scissors across my hips, I am the one who chose to lie to my mother, and to continue to hang out with her and her new boyfriend, I am the one that chose to follow my sisters lead, so she wouldn't be alone.
The explosion. I remember hearing about it and wondering what she was doing in Salem, it didn't make sense – it’s been over a year and I still don’t know she was there; there visiting her boyfriend and his family – everyone said they deserved it because they were sinning, well not everyone, but some people – said because she was spending the weekend with him, because they were probably sleeping together, that they deserved to die in an explosion. An explosion, a house explosion – houses just don’t explode, there is nothing explosive about a house – except for the leaking propane tank in the basement, that some jackass tampered with to get back at the landlord – they changed her death certificate to homicide last winter – that was a tough one, it was so senseless to begin with – not a car accident or a something explainable – and then to think someone did it on purpose – but it turns out homicide isn’t murder, that man, he didn't mean to kill six people, but he did. It’s weird sometimes, how things work out – Amber, my first love, best friend, and bedmate – was also Claire’s best friend, they were friends later, like in high school – after I went crazy, Amber and Claire became friends, I mean, how shitty that the girl who stole my heart and then broke it, would then turn around and take my childhood best friend. I met Claire in first grade – we were fast friends it seems, we grew up with each other, I was always at her house, she was always at my house, we swam together, played together, hung out together – she had an older sister, Ashley – Ashley was a trouble maker so to speak, one time she told us about the boy she was with, they didn't really have sex, he just went in and out and that was it – I was too young to hear this kind of thing, maybe I wasn't  maybe I was just sheltered. Claire and I grew apart, she got into culinary arts, I got into a new group of friends, high school will do that – we still ran track together, played in the orchestra, sitting just a few stands apart – but I think the real thing that drove us apart, was the fact that her father molested her older sister for six years, everyone said he did it to Claire too, but she’d never tell – Claire never believed her sister, she thought she was lying, but Bob confessed, he told the court he did it – but that didn't stop Linda from taking Claire and Zach and Gabby downstate every month to go see their father – but even worse than that, Bob wasn't even Claire’s real father, she went through all of that – but he did raise her. We grew apart because she didn't believe Ashley, and I knew Ashley was right – I knew she was telling the truth, but Claire wouldn't acknowledge that and that drove a wedge between us. When she died, I hadn't spoken to her in a while – maybe it had been months, possibly a year – maybe since graduation, I don’t know how long it was – but I did know she was going to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York – I did know she wanted lots of children, because she loved babies and she was going to own a bakery; she was a great chef, a great pastry chef. But that all ended, with the explosion – we talked to her mother, by virtue of my own mothers insistence, and Linda told my mother that she was fully intact, she was just swollen, like she’s had her wisdom teeth out, maybe a little bruised, but still Claire, she still looked like herself. I thought she had been blown to bits, pink mist was what came to mind – but she wasn't  She was still the beautiful person she’d always been, just dead, just bruised, just in a random explosion that happened to take place as she was in Salem, in a random house, where she wasn't usually – it happened the day before she was supposed to go back to school, what a twist of fate, what a tragic joke the universe was playing. At her funeral, the preacher said it was her time, and that God was calling her home – this didn't sit well with me – still doesn't sit well with me, what the hell does that even mean? Like honestly, she was nineteen years old, and barely at that – she was just able to give blood, she’d finally gotten her weight up enough, at nineteen, and then God calls her home, I don’t believe it, I don’t like it – She wasn't there, at the service, Amber didn't think so anyway, she was so mad that they cremated her. “She was intact, why would they do that? She was so beautiful.” – “I don’t know, it’s their choice.” – “Do you hate me still.” – “I never hated you.” – “You know you could call me to hang out.” – “Okay.” – I guess it’s just not like that anymore, I don’t want to hang out with her, I don’t want to think about her, she’s sad all the time – because her best friend died, and her mother, and her uncle who killed himself when we were in 8th grade, and I don’t want to be sad, I’m sad enough all by myself and I don’t need someone else helping me out – I don’t need to be reminded that we were best friends and that it can never be that way again – 



Claire’s family keeps her ashes in a cookie jar, a nice cookie jar, but a cookie jar none the less – I hate this cookie jar, I hate that at her birthday celebration in June, they brought her ashes – so not only did we have to remember everything all over again, but we were also surrounded by her remains. I don’t like remains, they freak me out, I really don’t like dead bodies – they really freak me out, I’ve only seen two. My Great Grandmother died when I was 10, all I remember was my mother coming into my room in the morning and saying she was dead, I was like okay, and went on with my day unaffected. Then there was the wake, we went shopping and got nice clothes and my mother did my hair in braids, she warned my sister and I – “These people are going to want to hug and kiss you, okay?” – It wasn't okay, that was the last thing I wanted but it wasn't that bad. I saw her, lying in her casket, she looked bloated and like she had a lot of make up on – my mother said if I touched her then I’d dream about her, no thanks I’d rather not – my second cousin Chris had dreadlocks, so did his girlfriend at the time, my Uncle Phil told us – “They put shit in their hair, go smell it and see if it stinks.” – He’s dead now too. He died in June, he’d been sick for a while, years really, but that didn't matter, no one really saw it coming, 48 years old and he just dropped dead, my mother’s brother. It seems to be a reoccurring theme in my life – it was 5am, I was asleep, my mother came out much more frantic this time than she was ten years ago – she said “Uncle Phil died this morning.” – I just stared at her, what was I supposed to think, death is so surreal, here one minute and gone the next, it didn't sink in, it didn't mean anything – I’d seen him a few weeks ago, he looked fine, he couldn't be dead. Worse than that was seeing my mother and her family so sad – so broken, seeing my grandmother in tears and my grandfather barely holding it together, he was so tender, more so than I've ever seen him – maybe that’s how he was coping, by taking care of the rest of us. My mother forced me to go up to his casket, I didn't want to go, made an effort to be out of the room when my family, the four of us, were set to go up – I was talking to my other uncle, and some family friends when my father came to the door and waved me in, I was pissed – I didn't want to remember him that way and said so but my father said – “do it for your mother, she needs you to go up.” – Alright, fine. He looked good, better than my Great Grandmother, but still dead, and still not him – it’s just a body, and he wasn't in it, just like Claire wasn't in her casket.

I Only See You in My Dreams

Thank you for visiting me last night. I only get to see you in my dreams, but every time I do, it's worth it. Every time I see you it brings a smile to my face. So thank you for coming to me when I am stressed with school, and letting me be happy and forget about it for just a little while. I don't know if it's possible to get closer to you in these dreams. I feel like I do things with you that I never did when you were alive, at least not when I was older.

I love getting to see you, and hear what I remember your voice to be, and listen to your laugh. I get to see your smile spread into laughter, making everyone just a little happier. I wish I could still see these things in real life. Dreams are so surreal, you know. Like at times they don't make sense. At points last night it was like things were in slow motion and I was watching an old home movie. And then at other times it was like I was actually there, sitting close to you and we were laughing and talking. It keeps things interesting I suppose.

It's these wonderful nights that make the hardest days, the hardest mornings. I wake up and I realize, that sadly, it was all just a dream. I realize that your not here and you haven't been here for over two years now. It still makes me just as sad. But I don't want you to stop visiting me! Don't mistake my words. Because all of the sadness I will feel in the next few hours, or for the next day, is worth getting to spend just those few moments with you while I sleep. So thank you for visiting me. I look forward to the next time.

Missing You

When this summer started, I wasn't expecting to miss you. I didn't even know what was happening with you and me. I didn't know if it was going to be anything. You had touched my arm under a blanket, that was it. We had been drinking, so in my head, nothing was clear. As the summer progressed it became clear there was more than just alcohol behind this action. Eventually it came out that I liked you and you liked me. What was that emotion? What was I feeling? I was still confused and now scared. You see, its tricky letting people into your life. Its scary and makes things complicated. But I did it anyways. I made trips to the city. To see you, to see my friends, to see sweet lady New York. As the summer went on things seemed to get more serious, more complicated. We skyped and talked on the phone, for hours. Learning about each other, talking about our lives, getting to know one another. I started to like you more and more. But I never had the chance to miss you. I'd never really had you, you can't miss something you've never had. Then, I finally got to hang out with you, really hang out with you. All the talking, all the nights of no sleep from phone calls and skype sessions turned into nights of no sleep because of other things. And then I left again. I left to go home to the obligations I left behind for one short week. And now I know what it is to miss you. I know what it is to be apart from someone you like, someone you call your girlfriend. And what a weighty word that is, it seems. I am sad now, because in a week, when I return to my friends and my sweet lady, I won't get to return to you. I will still be missing you. And right now there is nothing anyone can do about that. Right now this waiting, this thought of when I'll get to see you next, seems endless. I'm sick of missing people. I'm sick of missing you.

Entries From a Cutter Who Never Really Was One

1. I don't remember where I got the idea to use scissors. But I feel no relief as I drag them across my hips. They are barely scratches, but if I press hard enough I can get a few droplets of blood. I still feel the same intense sadness and hurt that I felt before and now I have these cuts to go on top of all of that. I do know not to do it on my wrists though, too obvious. Maybe someday I'll feel the relief wash over me.

2. Came home from school today and did it. I still don't feel anything. Am I hoping I will? Am I just doing it so that I won't feel so alone? Am I doing it for attention? I don't know. The pink mark rises over my flesh, maybe an inch and a half long. Its hard to break the skin when you have no real desire and only a dull pair of scissors.

3. At his house. With her. We're all watching a movie. I don't know why I'm here. I need to do it. I need to feel something other than this aching, blinding sadness. I use the tab off of a soda can. I go into his bathroom and I run it across my skin several times. So I can feel it. So I can see the marks so clearly. And still, there is no escape. Still I have all this sadness. I still don't know why I'm doing it.

4. Got into a fight with her. I told her I was doing it. Told her I was cutting. I told her over AIM. I wanted her to know she was hurting me. That she was forcing me to do this to myself. I go hang out with her and him later, stop at home quick to get something. Run upstairs to find all the scissors gone in the bathroom. Damn, I'll just have to do it later. Go to the bowling ally where the misery increases. I have to do it again. I have to. I use a soda can tab. I feel some relief, but not enough. Not enough to justify it. I go home and find myself in big trouble.

5. I have just gotten out of the shower. My mother comes in the bathroom, demands to see the marks. I show her. She's so angry. I want to tell her I'm sorry I did it. I want to tell her I didn't get anything out of it. But all I do is let her get angry at me, let her get sad and frustrated that she can't help me and this is what I have turned to.

6. I'm talking to my therapist. I can't even be honest with her about my reasons for doing it. She asks me about my cuts. I snottily shoot back that they are scrapes, not cuts. She doesn't react to my attitude. I don't tell her that I only did it because I thought it would help. Not because I wanted to, or really even had the urge to before I started. I don't tell her I'm ashamed and it's stupid. I own it, like I feel I should. I try to take pride in my actions and hope that it validates how much pain I'm in.

7. I don't do it anymore. I try not to think about it. I talk about it sometimes, but never in a glorious way. It was dumb. I never got the sweet relief I felt I had been promised. Instead I screwed things up at home and made everyone at school think I was crazy. I guess that's what I get for being a cutter that never really was one.