A House on Clover Street.

Thanks Star-Fish!

Jojo and Marcus Crane stood in front of their house, their past, they were moving on. As they stood arm in arm looking up at the massive three story home they had lived in for the past 15 years, a home they built from the ground up, a home they raised their children in, a home they fought, cried, but above all loved in, their parting was bittersweet. The Crane's would take with them those wonderful memories as they moved to a house on Clover street.

Clover street was in a newer part of town, the answer to the over crowding schools, parks, and stores in their current neighborhood. Years ago, everyone flocked to Mill Town because it boasted to be the all American town that every other nearby neighborhood promised to be but some how fell short. Mill Town got it right, so every couple with the hopes of raising a family in a nice, safe neighborhood came to Mill Town, and they came and came and didn't stop coming until the town was filled to capacity and the Town Association had to do something so decided to build more, but they would so it even better this time.

They named it Mill Mount because they had to build higher and this new section truly did reach new heights and did not disappoint. Everyone who saw the appeal of the original Mill Town saw Mill Mount as their savior, the relief that their old town desperately needed.

The Cranes had out lived their old house, with their children grown and moved out, they needed a smaller space and found their perfection on Clover Street.

Any Town USA.

I'm doing script frenzy this month! I've committed to write 100 pages of script in 30 days. I chose to use the comic book format. Writing a script is different from what I'm used to, it's the structure that I'm trying to figure out but I'm getting the hang out it. I have a very rough idea for my comic book and I decided to also write it in a story form, hoping that it will help to organize my thoughts.

* * * * * *

Thanks MyEyesSee!

There is a town in the United States that looks very similar to the suburban neighbor where you live right now. In this town there are row and rows of houses that look very similar, only the most discerning of eyes can tell them apart. The lawns are well manicured and the white picket fences glisten brightly in the sun. There is a nearby park where children play and moms and dads laugh, live, and love.

There is a town center where the family can find everything they need from groceries to household supplies to new shoes to a good book. Ah yes, the good book. There's nothing like curling up with a good book that tells the story of people just like you, people you can relate to, so you know there are people out there just as insane as you. But the book is a work of fiction, a made up story about people who don't really exist. Your life on the other hand is real. The madness that surrounds your perfect little town is actually happening. The paranoia you feel because you think you're being watched is not just the voices in your head you try to ignore, there really is a man outside sitting in a parked van watching your every move. He know when you sleep, what time you wake up, he even knows about those dark thoughts that fill your mind when you think you're all alone. He isn't Santa Claus, but he does have a surprise for you. The question is are you willing to stick your hand in the bag to find out what it is?

The Deep Cut.

Thanks nordlichter4!

The second time I tried to kill myself there was blood; a lot of blood, so much so there would forever be a stain on the carpet in the living room where I attempted to slice through my skin. The scariest part was making the first cut into my wrist. I felt like I was sawing back and forth for the longest time before the blade finally gave way to the pressure and sank deep into my arm. I didn't feel any pain although the blood did make me a bit whoozy, I had been in so much pain before that that this seemed like the release I needed to start healing. Later my shrink asked if this attempt was a cry for help and perhaps I didn't really want to die because I did it wrong, I cut the wrong way even after I looked it upon the Internet. I told her that I did really want to kill myself and cutting the wrong way was just another example of how I fuck everything up. She asked if I saw the irony on the situation. I laughed.

The most disturbing part of it all that still rattles me to this day is the memory of lying on the floor in a pool of blood and through half open eyes I saw my cat sniffing at my blood and licking it up. My cat, Q-tip, was never the same after that, her pure white fur was stained a burnt orange, a constant reminder of my failed attempt to end my life.

Until the day I died I never realized that there could be other definitions of right and how to do things the right way and maybe my right was actually wrong. I am beginning a slow realization now that had I thought outside the box my life would have gone in a completely different direction and I might still want to be alive.

Deathday.

Thanks tochis!

March 27, 2010 marked the 13th anniversary of my aunt's death. It also became the day that I put my relationship of ten years to rest. Although it didn't die peacefully in it's sleep like she did. It raged on for hours and felt like it lasted for days and in a span of 12 hours I went from having it all with a boyfriend whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life with to having nothing except an incredibly dry mouth from all the yelling and crying. I remember being very thirsty as I fought to hang onto what, at that time, felt like the most important thing in the world. Now it makes me think about other things that seemed so important while I was alive that do not even matter anymore and I have to wonder if they ever mattered.

We walk through life building ourselves, molding our character, aligning who we are with what we believe and if we can lay to rest at night without being tormented by our actions towards others and ourselves then we know we did good. And if we can continue to sleep with an unburdened conscious until our dying day then perhaps our final resting place will be the heaven we imagine it to be. But if you were like me and spent countless nights tossing and turning because you are unable to turn off your mind and you question everything that you are, then I think you may end up with a fate similar to mine when it's your time to go. Because I never had restful night's sleep, I never went without doubting myself and the things I did, and I never knew if I was good.

I've met other souls like mine wandering aimlessly in this place. You can tell them from the people who are alive by their eyes. They are vacant but eager empty but hopeful compared to those who live who have eyes that betray their existence because the are dull and careless, blank and tired. There is a park I like to go to that I never went to when I was alive because it was overrun with the dead or at least they didn't exist to me because they were homeless, they were society's rejects, they were abandoned and left to die. I come here now because I am one of them. I too am dead but still hanging onto life. But this feeling isn't new, the last time I felt this was the day everything that mattered to me died. After that it was easy to let everything else go.

Imagination.

Thanks mot!

Sometime I would imagine there were bombs hidden under the table when I was out at a crowded place. I would imagine there was a package taped under my table, perfect red cylindrical sticks of dynamite waiting in anticipation to explode. I would imagine the rhythmic ticking counting down to the final explosion and I would cross my arms and hug my body waiting for the blast that would inevitably come. And then I would close my eyes and imagine my body exploding into a magnificent kaleidoscope of bits and limbs that would litter the sky against a backdrop of deep orange flames and the red hot heat. It was so beautiful to watch the burnt ash of everything rain down and stick and cling to the dregs of bodies and building parts, and I would smile. But when I opened my eyes again there I was sitting in a crowded bar listening to music from a far away land that combined fiddles and flutes and voices that sang out and hands that clapped and feet that stomped and faces that smiled.

I don't smile, but when I close my eyes and see the bright flashes of color behind my lids, my lips slowly turn up.

Water.

Thanks DawnVGilmorePhotography!

I last thing I remember was being in the shower.

It was one of those showers that is meant to change you, you go in feeling one way and when you come out you are forever changed. The water washes over your exposed naked body and cleanses you of all the dirt and grime and sin and filth that contaminated you. The water is supposed to make it all better.

I remember stepping into the water and immediately feeling the stream of bullets beating against my back. I hoped that it was beating out all the bad and all the negative, and for a short while it seemed like it was working. It was in that moment that I felt my shoulders relax and my head roll back and then I realized the water was filling my mouth and drippng into my nose, now the water making me worse. I was choking on it and gagging because I couldn't breathe but instead of moving my head away from the relentless stream of water, I stayed. I let the water fill all the crevasses of my body and get deep into those hard to reach places hoping that I'll get cleaner, hoping to get better, hoping that all the kinks would somehow work itself out and I would be free from the constraints of my mind and my biases and my steadfast resolution of how things are supposed to be. I was finding out that I was very wrong about the direction my life was taking yet I was glued to this path because I had paved it for myself since I was a small child and like most things that are learned and ingrained at a young age, this was something I could not easily let go.

What is this path that I speak of you must be wondering, well I'll tell you. It is the idea that was drilled into me as a child, but perhaps has been ingrained into American culture and perpetuated through ones upbringing for many generations, that of graduating from college, going to grad school, starting a career, getting married, having children, growing old and eventually dying. It is on this path that I began to waiver, it was more than just doubts about to whom to married or how many kids or which profession, it was why do all these things? I questioned if these were the things that I wanted to do and if maybe a more none conventional approach was my answer because after trying and failing at the path laid out for me I was ready for a change, but not just any change, something monumental that would really shake things up, so I let the water fill my lungs and I didn't fight it, I let my consciousness escape me and I didn't try to chase after it, I let my head hit the faucet and I didn't feel it.

That was the first time I tried to kill myself.

Common Ground.

Thanks loonatic!

During my life I tried to define who I was in order to stand out from everyone else. I felt it was the most important and necessary thing a person could do, more so than having a successful career, or a stable relationship, or lots of friends; knowing who I was, specifically what set me apart from others was my Holy Grail. I thought that if I could achieve that, I could die happy.

I think if I knew that at 28 my life would be over, I would have done things differently, which isn't to say that I regret how I spent my final years, or any time of my life for that matter. But if I knew I was going to die, I would have wrapped things up, drawn some conclusions, and reflected on the progress I made towards finding myself.

But it's the nature of life not to know when the end is approaching, or near, or coming, only when it happens and then it's over just like that, in a split second, in the blink of an eye, except that eye never opens again, not even to say goodbye. Just one more peak, would have been nice, damn, it happened so fast. So, anyways, I can't say if I died happy, or died knowing I lived a full life, because what measures a life? How many years do you have to live for your life to be full? Was 28 years enough? I say no. Til the day I died, everyday was a constant struggle, with the choices I made, the place where I was. I was no more sure of myself then I was at 18, which isn't to say that I hadn't learned anything in 10 years because I did, I learned a whole hell of a lot, but learning quantity just makes it harder to find the things that really matter. I thought for sure I would have at least another 30 years to shift through all the stuff and make some sense of it.

Now I'll never know, but I do know this, I spent my entire lifetime searching myself for those idiosyncrasies that separated me from everyone else, that identified me, and as time went on, I felt like I was slowly creating my individuality. I had my own thoughts and opinions and feelings all of which were unique because I used my own reasoning and insight and reflections to come to my conclusions. I armed myself with these positions as I went out into the world and what do you know? I found others who thought like me and dressed like me. I felt, for the first time, that I was a part of something bigger and I felt safe. I blended in with a larger group and I felt more confident in speaking my mind, but what I was really doing was further dividing who I was from who I was not, creating a bigger gap between us and them,;and them over there, oh and them too, yup and them, and them, and them, until before I knew it my "large group" was a select few and everyone else was, well everyone else.

What happened was my individuality became a collective conscious, one in which I embraced while forgetting who I was and blindly running with the pack because I had made a connection with other people who were as individual as I was,. Yet somewhere along the way I forget who I was, and I lost that part of myself that defined me, that made me stand out from the crowd, because all of a sudden the crowd was just like me. The crowd was thinking my thought and having my opinions and telling me how I feel and my reasoning and values got skewed and I didn't even know it. And before I was able to find out what mattered, nothing mattered anymore.

A Cancerous Religion.

Thanks daniel y. go!

I was 15 when my aunt passed away. She was the first person close to me who died and I didn't know how to deal with it, perhaps in the normal ways that people cope with their first loss, but in my egocentric mind, I felt, and I still believe to this day, that my struggles were unique.

I remember I was studying the Bible in my English class in school and I remember thinking that it was somehow against the rules. I mean I went to a public school for Christ sake! Were there not rule that separated church and state? My English teacher said she was not teaching us about the Bible but merely using the Good Book as a piece of literature to be studied and analyzed and close read just like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Catcher In The Rye and all those other novels we read. I remember thinking that was some how blasphemous but not really understanding why. I bought and read my first Bible that year, the same year my aunt died. I remember thinking there must be a reason or a connection for that but I never worked out a good reason without it sounding like a conspiracy theory. So perhaps it was just a coincidence.

I liked to think that I was a firm believer in science and facts and concrete evidence which organized religion didn't provide and I looked at devout believers as weak, lost souls who needed a crutch to lean on to get through life and I believed that I was stronger than that. But the longer I lived the more I realized that I was deficient in the basic decencies that most people learn about every Sunday in church, because of their religion, because they had a crutch, because they had a guide, that I never had and then I realized that perhaps there was something to this whole religion thing. But when I wad 15, in my twisted adolescent mind, I saw it as a curse that killed my aunt. It was actually the cancer that killed her but it all seemed the same to me, religion was a cancer that infected my life because once I let it in, it spread like wild fire consuming everything in it's path including my aunt who could not get out of way before destruction torched every inch of her body and soul and mine, my mind was forever tainted with death.

A Plan.

Thanks Corie Howell!

In life, I didn't believe in an after life, or in heaven, or in reincarnation. I believed that after life you died and that was that.

I find it interesting that I was wrong about death because I still feel so alive. To me death was the only sure thing you could count on, so I was prepared to fall out of the life of the living into the grit of the earth where everything goes to die and decay and end but sometimes, like in my case, something gets stirred up and creates a new form of existence, dare I say life? Because as far as I can tell, this, whatever it is, is similar to being alive. I find myself wandering as aimlessly as I did through life, although now I'm wondering how much this existence matters in the grand scheme of things.

You see, while I was living I was one of those people who didn't listen when I was told 'don't sweat the small things' because that's all I ever did; all the time. Every mole hill was a mountain, every deal a big one, I was so sure that I had only one shot to live my life that I wanted everything to be perfect and so I planned and stuck to the plan and was completely disoriented if things didn't go accordingly, so much so that I would crumble and break and lose my way completely.

I planned every single detail from what I would wear to work for the next month to the final outfit I would wear on the day I was put to eternal rest. I never figured out how to act if things didn't go my way until it was too late and I saw myself being put in the coffin in the white chiffon dress I was supposed to get married in instead of laying to rest in the Chanel suit that I hoped to be able to afford some day. I envied that body wearing my dress, it was beautiful and elegant in it's simplicity because that's the kind of person I was, muted and passive, downplaying my traits in an effort to hide who I was. The dress didn't announce a bride walking down the aisle, it commemorated a life that wilted like a flower whose petals have fallen, but the fragrance still lingers long after.

Oh, well, I guess that's life, and death. Since I have another shot at existence, I plan to make the most of it, I plan to figure this place out a little bit more, I know what I can and cannot interact with, although I have yet to find someone I can interact with. Everywhere I go all I see are blank, vacant stares of the living, head down avoiding eye contact, rushing to who knows where? I wonder if that's how I lived life too, because now I'm wide eyed and looking at everything and everyone hoping to find another soul just as eager as I am to connect.

She's So Lucky.

Thanks Gold 41!

I vaguely remember my grandmother telling me that her mother was one of those people who were lucky to be alive, and because of that so was she; later I realized that also because of that, so was I. My great grandmother's life was special because it was saved before she even began living. But then again aren't we all lucky to be alive? Isn't every life special?

My grandmother told me that the stars aligned that day in just the right way so my great grandmother could live even though she wasn't a boy. But aren't each of our lives because of some cosmic fate, the result of actions and decisions and choices of other people? Although most of us, or I hope most of us, were wanted. I used to hear my friends say things like, one day I want to settle down and have children, or we waited 5 years after we hit married to start a family or I really want a girl or I hope it's a boy. My grandmother's mother on the other hand was not wanted simply because she was a girl. This was like a century or so ago when the Chinese thought that girls were worthless and if the first born child wasn't a boy they would kill it. Actually, now that I think about it, the Chinese still have absurd rules about reproduction, so maybe things weren't so different back then, just slightly skewed. I think about my own thoughts on babies and wonder how much influence my Chinese heritage had on my decision to only want boys, except I didn't make it that far in life to have children. I don't regret it though, some people should not be parents and I guess the way the stars lined up in my life, I was one of those people.

On the Other Side.

Thanks indieink!

My grandmother always told me, "wear nice underwear when you travel, just in case something happens." To her there could be nothing more humiliating then dying in holey underwear. What would they think if they pulled you out of the wreckage and the elastic band around your waist was all stretched out? Probably nothing, I would hope that saving your life would be the priority but then again maybe I'm wrong, maybe they are scoping out your underpants.

I was the type of person who thought something could happen even on a simple trip down the street to the grocery store, so I was always wearing nice underwear whenever I left the house. And eventually something did happen so when I see my grandmother again I'll be sure to tell her I took her advice.

I don't know how long it will take me to find her, they don't give you a map here, wherever this place is, limbo, heaven, hell if I know. But I don't know too maybe people that passed, not personally anyway, so it should be too hard to complete my mission: to find my grandmother and tell her how I died.

And I Wonder.

I sit in a diner, the air smells faintly of burnt grease and ammonia. I sit in a bright shiny booth stirring my coffee with a thin plastic straw, thinking about my sessions with Dr. M. Immersed in my thoughts I watch without interest as a dark skinned man mops the floors, dipping his thick stringed mop into muddy water, returning the grime back to the checkered tile floor.

Thanks gwen!

A nondescript waitress asks if I am ready and I order a BLT with no bacon on wheat toast with some fruit on the side. My back is facing the door but I know when people walk in or perhaps out too because the metal bell chimes every time the door opens. I glance around me and realize it is almost closing time, one half of the place is shut down with the chairs on the tables, probably so it will be easier to mop. There is an older couple next to the window in the front, gazing out into the nothingness of the gray, bleak sky while sipping their coffee and I wonder if it's something they put in the water that gives everyone in here that far away look in their eyes.

There is a man in a suit counting money at the counter and a women sitting a couple seats down in an apron eating pancakes. This juxtaposition makes me chuckle to myself because just when I really start to believe the world has changed something like this slaps me in face and wakes me up.

All of a sudden I hear a familiar song fill the room and I ask myself why I didn't hear the music before. I start tapping my foot to the beat and wonder if I too am just a small town girl, living in a lonely world and I look up from the swirls in my coffee half expecting to see that midnight train pull up in front of the diner to take me to anywhere. It is then that I realize how perfect the final scene in The Sopranos was with Tony and Carmela sitting in the booth of a diner listening to that familiar tune on the radio because it captured a certain essence of American culture in a way that every heart beating red, white, and blue can relate to no matter where they are from.

Here I am in this diner dissecting my sandwich, eating it piece by piece, first the juicy tomatoes, then the crisp lettuce and finally the slightly burnt toast and I

Thanks grumpy chris!

ask myself how it is that I came to be in this quintessential American moment because everything in my life defied the norms of the country that I call home. Although perhaps I'm exaggerating that point because NOT everything in my life defied the norms, but my life didn't look like the America they showed on TV, the America I grew up learning about in school, the America that always seemed a part me yet an arms length away. While growing up I felt detached from the cultural conscious of the nation that I unquestioningly pledged my allegiance never believing that I would ever be a part of it and then all of a sudden here I am, in any town USA drinking coffee, eating a sandwich and watching myself sitting in a diner that smelled faintly of burnt grease and ammonia, lingering with the nostalgia of a distant time, in a far away land, that wasn't so different and reminds me of my yesterday, my today and without a doubt my tomorrow.

For some reason, this thought grabs hold me and shake me to my core, I see how things that once seemed impossible can one day be my reality. I trace my thoughts to figure out how I got to such an amazing conclusion, and all on my own too. It is with this on my mind that I decide not to go to therapy tomorrow.

Now is the Future.

I tell Dr. M that sometimes I get flashes like I'm in the future. She asks if the flashes come true. I tell her I don't get visions of the future like psychic do, but I feel like the future that they always show in movies of how everything is high tech is happening right now. Like how everything in our lives is becoming automated so we hardly have to do anything on our own anymore and how everything happens so fast that we don't have time to appreciate what we do until we realize we cannot do it again or how we can hid behind our gadgets while still reaching out to people .

Dr. M says that a lot of people struggle with balancing technology and physically engaging and interacting with others and how we as a species are about to embark on a journey unlike any we've ever experienced before because technology is literally changing our social structure and how we respond to these changes will tell a lot about humanity. I tell Dr. M that I do not have this problem, I tell her that I think technology is incredibly fascinating and it is in fact enhancing our experiences with each other in ways that we are not yet aware and I welcome the screen that protects me from the world as I say and do things I normally would not have the courage to do. Dr. M gets this look on her face that makes me feel like she is going to tell me something I already know and I am right. I tell her that I'm not a 12 year old girl who uses the Internet as a way to hurt other people or make insensitive comments without thinking. I tell her it gives me the voice that I somehow lost as I got older because instead of becoming more sure of who I am, I'm questioning and second guessing myself more and more as every day goes by. She asks me how it is that the Internet helps me do this, then I say that I guess I didn't tell you about my blog.

Now Dr. M wants to read the things I write even though I tell her it's not like a journal or a diary, it's short stories that are loosely based on my life and how I feel about the world. I also tell her that it needs a face lift and I'm working on that, but she still wants to read it. She tells me our session is a little off topic today but that's okay because she has learned a lot about me.

Then she asks about my trip and I tell her I spent most of the weekend drunk and it was great and I can't get drunk anymore unless I'm away from home because when I'm at home I have too many things on my mind and I can't relax and let go and have fun. Dr. M wants to talk more about this but I keep telling her about my trip and how it took me 11 hours to get home.

The Things I Don't Say.

During my session Dr. M she tries to ask me questions that are in search of an answer, but Dr. M doesn't know what she's looking for so she's not asking the right questions. I don't correct her or lead her in the right directions with my answers. But Dr. M is quite intuitive and after about 15 minutes she catches on and knows it's pointless to continue with this line of questioning.

She finally asks me if there is something in particular that I want to talk about. I tell her I'm excited for the weekend because I'm going away for my boyfriend's birthday. I tell her we're going to Victoria and I'm especially excited because I get to go to Canada again and it look me basically ten years to finally cross the boarder after living in Seattle for so long and the first time I went was three months ago. She asks me why I didn't go before and I tell her I don't want to talk about it. But I couldn't help but think about the times when people I knew went to Canada but I was never around to be included in the plans so I never went and I wonder why that was. I don't want Dr. M to think I have no friends even though at times I don't think it's true. Instead I tell her that I actually don't feel very well, that my stomach started to feel very achy. Then I tell her that something very upsetting happened to me at work that could be making me physically ill. And I tell her I don't want to talk about it either. Then Dr. M says it looks to her that I'm all over the place and I say it's true and suggest we end early even though it's almost time to go. She says she hopes I have a nice trip and I say I hope I do too.

Behind the Front.

For some reason, I don't or can't tell Dr. M about the memory of when I was in the second grade. I decide this while I sit in the "living room," in the single chair by the window, next to the table with a bouquet of flowers; there are always flowers of a yellow variety on the table but this week I can't tell what kind they are. They are very pale, barely yellow with delicate petals. They look very fragile as if they will shatter if anything or anyone gets too close. I factor this into my decision of sitting in the chair by the window, but I figure someone must have put the flowers in the vase and they are still in one piece so sitting in a chair next to them will probably be just fine.

Whenever I go to Dr. M's office I feel like I'm stepping into an upscale apartment that's actually a front for some kind of underground business, not an office on the 17th floor of the Two Union Square building, a building I once temporarily had a job in. This building is so tall that there are two sets of elevators. I took one set that went up to the 20th floor, the other set of elevators takes you to floors 21-47.

Anyways, I call the reception area the living room because that's how it feels, and I call Dr. M's office the "bedroom" even though it is an office and because of that I always feel oddly like I am seeking out the services of a prostitute or something that is forbidden as I wait for my appointment to start. I don't know why I feel this way, perhaps part of me still feels like what I am doing is a dirty secret that I dont want anyone to know, I mean I can't even tell my boyfriend where I go on Wednesday evenings, he thinks I'm volunteering at the library. But it's in everyones best interest if I keep these sessions to myself, I'll let other people know when I think the time is right, maybe after I know when or if these sessions will be helpful.

Follow the Arrow.

I tossed and turned last night with Dr. M's voice ring in my ears, repressed memories, something so horrible that I buried it deep down, in the depths of my soul where it would stay for as long as it could until one day it had to come out. It would be conjured up at some later date, after I had made my way merrily through life when all of a sudden a field of tulips triggers a memory and I remember that one summer I went to my uncle's cabin, deep in the forest, right by the tulip fields and I remembered the abuse I suffered at his hands.

But there was nothing like that in my past, I was sure of it, the time I got molested in the second grade is still as clear as if it happened yesterday and I can describe the culprit's face as if I some him seconds ago. I can feel my body stiffen as he comes up behind me and I squeeze my private areas as tight as I can because I can feel his fingers creeping lower and lower down the smooth, soft space that forms a triangle shape between my legs, like an arrow pointing the way to the hidden treasure.

It was as if my body betrayed me and made it easy for anyone to find what should be the most sacred and protected place for all women, I mean isn't that where the idea for the Chasity belt came from? But no, here my body was providing a guide for whomever came along to seize, to conquer, to take whatever liberties they pleased. I often wonder how a seven year old knew what lay beyond the flimsy protection of cotton and denim? Perhaps he had an older brother who showed him the way or an older sister whom he peeked at in the shower, whatever the case this boy violated my innocence before I even understood what his actions meant. I guess I don't have to suppress things to have skeletons in my closet.

A TV Guide.

I had my second appointment with Dr. M today. We actually talked about real things in this session. I told her that I think I watched too much TV as a child and while I tired to convince myself that I wasn't affected by it, how I knew that real life problems didn't resolve itself so neatly and so perfectly and in under half an hour like it did on all the great sitcoms of the eighties, I can't deny that I some of it seeped under my skin and played itself out in my own life.

Like how they make friends on TV, the new kid happens to be a her locker at the exact same time her future bff goes to open her locker right next to the new girl or how a fresh face navigates through the cafeteria forlornly looking for a friendly face when someone calls out to her and there is an instant connection or upon being gawked at for being new, the somewhat awkward girl gets rescued by the person who she will soon be having sleepovers with and sharing intimate secrets.

My experiences as the new girl didn't quite work out that way and maybe because I believed it would happen just like on TV, I lingered at my locker but never reached out to the girl one locker over and I wandered aimlessly in the cafeteria until the bell rang signaling that lunch period was over instead of asking if I could have a seat with someone. It was that way when I was 10 when I started a new elementary school and the same when I was 18 starting freshman year at college a quarter behind all the newbies. And I wondered why I had a hard time making friends and so when I finally did I tried so desperately to hold onto them in any and every way I could. I molded relentlessly thinking that if I could be the person these new people wanted me to be I would have a friend for life. So I became the tough girl who picked on others because my new gang needed a bully, I tortured and stole lunch money all in the name of friends, but when we went to middle school, my friends and I were no longer the bullies but the bullied so I was no longer needed so I faded away.

I wore all black one day and the goth people thought I was one of them so I obliged. I painted my finger nails black and started listening to Marilyn Manson and wore dark eyeliner, my first try at makeup. But when we got to high school and I was put in all the honor classes my goth friends didn't want anything to do with me. It made me wonder how it was possible for the Saved by the Bell gang to incorporate the jock, the geek, the cheerleader, and the straight A student in such a cohesive group. So I played up my scholarly side and joined the national honor society and the debate team and organized study sessions at the library, and true to form the friends came but instead of devoting myself to them I held back and observed how they were able to juggle different groups of friends yet still hold onto their smarts, perhaps because they knew who they were or as much as they could know about themselves as teenagers, but for some reason I just couldn't get the hang of it.

At this point in the session, Dr. M asked me if I knew who I was now and I told her that I'm still getting the hang of me but I often feel uncomfortable in my skin and I'm practically 30! She told me that a lot of people feel the way that I feel that it takes an entire lifetime for people to have a true sense of who they are because people change always, people progress and advance and learn and make mistakes and that is the beauty and curse of being human. I told her that I understand that but I feel like a walking contradiction and I don't know who I am at all. She suggested we go back in time to see if there was anything I suppressed that might shed some light on my current state of mind, but before I could reminisce, she said that time was up and we would have to continue next week.

Real Friends, Maybe, Not.

The blunt truth is no, I tried talking to my boyfriend until I realized that it was starting to drive a wedge between us and I came to terms with the fact that maybe it's better if some things are left unsaid. I mean isn't that want compromising is all about and isn't compromise at the cornerstone of any good marriage?

I talk to my mother, but she lives an ocean away and too much happens in between even our most frequent conversations, and while no topic is off limits with her, there are some things I hold back because I don't want to worry her. I want her to think that I'm happy and safe because if she knew the truth it would hurt her and that is the last thing I want to do.

My coworkers and I have had experiences together that qualify us as friends, but I wonder if our friendship will last if we are no longer coworkers. And my actual friends, well they are few are far between and the longer I go without seeing them the less I have to say to them, so when something plagues me, they aren't the people I turn to, but now that I think about it, is there even one to turn to?

But where did they all go? Because at one point there were lot of people around all the time, I was a social butterfly juggling a hectic schedule of happy hours, dinner dates, house parties, movie showings, gallery openings, live concerts, and on and on and on. In the midst of all that I vaguely remember thinking that what my mother said was true, that the friends you make in college are the ones you keep for life because I had found people that I had opened up to more so than I had anyone in my life up until that point. And I thought we would be friends forever. But now, they are all gone, sure I "keep in touch" with a few but the connection we had is severed, some beyond repair. Maintaining a friendship is a two way street and so is losing one, I know I have my own issues with people and with myself that factor into the demise of my relationships with other and I hope Dr. M can help me with, that but sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing, perhaps my friendships with these people were not based on anything real, but forged under the influence of college freedom and experimentation. Maybe, not.

Is Anybody Listening.

"I'm here because I have no one to talk to."

After about 15 minutes of nervously twitching my leg and biting my lower lip and doing a lot of ums and ahs, I finally answer Dr. M. I thought she would want me to elaborate, but she continued with what seemed like a questionnaire form that she asked all her patients. She went on to ask about my family, my job, my hobbies, my health but I didn't go into details with any of my answers, it didn't seem like the right time and I also was not comfortable enough to open up. Sometimes I give people too much information too soon, almost as if to come across as confident about who I am or someone who is easy to talk to or even something else that I can't quite place my finger on, but it's not really who I am.

Even after twenty minutes of going through seemingly routine questions, the very first one was still on my mind, actually it wasn't so much the question, but my answer to the question, 'I have no one to talk to,' was still plaguing me. I tried to analyze this statement in the back of my head during my session with Dr. M.

Was this true? Was there no one in my life that I could confide in? Had I succeed in alienation myself from others? On the surface it wouldn't seem so, I had a great guy, a healthy relationship with my parents, coworkers that turned into friends, and friends whom I could spend the day with tasting samples at the Sunday Market or going out for dinners on Friday nights, but did this mean I could open up and share my deepest darkest feeling with these people?

First Impressions.

My first session was awkward to say the least, partly because of my own expectations of what I thought therapy was going to be like and also because I was distracted my doctor. Her name is Dr. Sophia Montgomery

Dr. M has a corner office and two walls are floor to ceiling windows and while I expect she has an amazing view during the clear summer months, on wet rainy days like this it makes things seem so much more depressing or at least I thought so, but Dr. M had a calm, pleasant disposition as if the beating drops against the window panes didn't bother her at all, as if I was just background noise of her already serene space.

Her office was an extension of her waiting area, rich mahogany wood furniture, overstuffed chairs, but to my surprise no couch. I am very wary of new situations and like to picture myself doing and experiencing whatever new thing I'm about to do and prior to this, I imagined myself lying on a couch with my eyes closed and my ankles crossed extending over the arm rest at the other end listening to soothing music while telling my shrink all about my problems. But there was no couch in this room, I scanned the walls to see if there was another doorway that led to a hidden room with the couch, but all the walls looked solid.

Dr. M grabbed her netbook from her desk and sat in one of the oversized chairs and motioned for me to do the same. I walked to the chair, dropped my bag on the floor and sat down, but my eyes continued to scan the room because I didn't want to make eye contact with Dr M. I felt like once I did, it would mean that this was real, that my session was beginning and I would have to start facing all the things that had tormented me and brought me here in the first place. I think my doctor could sense my unrest because she kept clearing her throat but never said a word. Finally I stopped looking around and turned my attention towards her.


"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

"So, how are we supposed to do this?"

"Well why don't you start by telling my why you're here today," Dr. M spoke loudly and firmly which struck me as odd if only because her overall demeanor didn't give off a commanding presence. She was rather tall, but not imposing. I'm five feet six inches and she was almost a whole head taller than me, so I was guessing she was around five ten or eleven. I always check for heels if I think a woman is tall because it can be so deceiving; Dr. M wore flats. Women are lucky because they can fake lots of things that men can't like their height, their cup size, their nails, even their orgasms.

Anyways, Dr. M was tall and thin and she wore pants with vertical strips which gave off the illusion that she was even taller than she actually was which also reminded me of myself since people also think I'm taller than five six. She had on a silk blouse with lots of ruffles around the neck that made its way down the front of her shirt typically where buttons are which made me wonder if the ruffles were covering the buttons or if it had a more functional purpose. Don't get me wrong, it was a cute top, but I could never pull it off. My mother used to tell me I was lucky because I could wear whatever I wanted and I used to believe her, but it's a shame that I lost some of the confidence that let me do that, let me be uninhibited in my dress - let me make the distinction that uninhibited for my purposes does not mean scantily clad, because that isn't me either. I guess that's another thing I can tell Dr. M, about my loss of confidence, but this first session didn't seem like the right time.

While I Wait.

I left work early today for a doctor's appointment, and to be honest with you I was pretty nervous about it; the last time I was this anxious about seeing a doctor was when I was a kid, even then I was a very private person and I hated exposing myself to people I didn't really know.

After I checked in with the receptionist, I surveyed the waiting area, deciding where I should sit, this shouldn't have been as difficult as I made it because the room was completely empty, usually if there are other people waiting, I try to sit farthest from the person whom I deem the most likely to talk to me because I despise making small talk. But this time, my indecisiveness came from the overall feel of the room. The space looked more like a living room than a waiting room, like one of those classic American style rooms you would see in a Pottery Barn catalog. The reception desk actually looked extremely out of place I decided after taking in the rustic bench that served as a coffee table which combined the look of distressed hardwood with handcrafted detail that made it the most fitting choice to accompany a plumb off white couch that was decorated with an assortment of pillows of various sizes, colors, and patterns. Two over sized leather chairs faced the sofa as if friends would gather around the bench table and catch up over wine and cheese. Then a little further away there was a single geometric patterned chair facing a window with a pedestal looking side table housing a bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers.

I decided on the seat by the window, only because the rest of the room made me feel awkward. Perhaps it was trying to make me feel like I was at home or in a very comfortable place so I would feel equally as content when I stepped into the doctor's office. I didn't want to let my guard down just yet. I always approach new situations with my shield poised and ready just in case I need to protect myself. So I sat in the chair by the window and looked out through the rain splattered window into the dreary streets of Seattle and I thought about how one week ago, my exposed skin was burning from the rays of sun that blasting from the picturesque blue sky as I buried my toes in the sand and grabbed fistfuls of the grainy substance feeling very comforted by the familiarity of it all.

I wrapped my already buttoned coat tighter around my neck and closed my eyes trying to remember the feeling of being out on that beach again, but the harder I thought, the less I could hold onto; and perhaps that is way I'm here today, or at least one of the reasons why I'm here. When I think back on it, it seems inevitable that I would end up on the couch of a psychiatrist whining about my life, lamenting the woes that is me, but I also know that I'm here because I have no other choice. It's my last chance at a normal life, so when I hear my name being called, I open my eyes, dig my hands in my pocket and cross my fingers, hoping that this will make the difference that I so desperately need.