I focused on the floor tiles, making my way to the hall’s end..

To look up was to risk eye contact: a force that could press one from mere observer to participant.

I don’t like public displays of contrition. I refuse to cry at movies. I refuse to get “caught up” in any emotion. No one must see me cry. Only 500 feet remained between myself and a dry eyed victory.

I picked up my pace, trying to clear the door before the footsteps behind me caught up. But, they were everywhere today, and an unexpected mob of them rounded the corner in front of me.

From within their ranks came the sound of sobs.

The kind of sobbing that demands attention.

Red eyed, puffy faced women flanked the form of a wailing woman, making their way outside.
I felt my lips pull downward at the sight of her, my eyes threaten to spill over. I tried to look away, but too late. I had seen the raw emotion in Wailing Woman’s face.

I was one of them today.
Holding my tears back wouldn’t change anything.
We would all go home alone when this was over.

I allowed my face to mirror Wailing Woman’s - mascara streaks and all.

My own surrender to emotion brought a small, though brave, smile to the woman’s lips.

Yes, we would return to empty, quiet homes. We would pace the floors, unsure of what to do with ourselves for weeks to come. But we would be alone together, passing these kinds of knowing smiles whenever our paths chanced to cross.

I smiled then too, and walked over to hug Wailing Woman.

“Hi, I’m Kate. Whose class is yours in?” I began.
************************
As I fidgeted with the radio in my car, I thought “They spend every day of their first five years with us, wouldn’t something be wrong with us if we DIDN’T cry on their first day of Kindergarten?”
Then I sang along “. . .cat’s in the cradle, and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon…”

Every day I wonder if today will be the day my inner secret is exposed. I live each day anticipating that catastrophe. This fear adds depth to the insecurity blanket in which I wrap myself uncomfortably. Will those I work with realize I honestly do not know what I am doing? No matter how hard I appear to be an organized, intelligent woman, I fret the secret that I am an imposter will surface with such rapidity as to cause imminent harm in those who find themselves too close when my secret airs.

This feeling is with me weekly … daily … hourly. There are times when a half hour slides by and I forget to be concerned that my best is not good enough, but then I remember and I grimace internally. I hear phrases repeating in my head “I’m crazy if I think I can do this.” “I’m stupid.” “I don’t have a clue.” “Oh my God what am I doing?” “I’ll just ignore this for another hour.” I wonder where I picked up these harmful thoughts? I wonder where along the way my thinking became skewed? When did I learn to sabotage myself so well? Regardless of the answers I find, this constant barrage of negativity rules my world.

Each day when I wake up, I wonder if today is the day. Is today the day the façade falls? Is today the day the foundation I have painstakingly worked to maintain crumbles? Is today the day I can stop worrying about being discovered for the fraud I am? Unfortunately, I think that day is a long time away and thus I must continue hiding my fears and appear to those around me as a competent, capable, intelligent woman, when deep down inside, I know the truth.

I have heard the phone call in my head at least a hundred times and it plays out the same way each time. I'm on hold for what seems like an eternity, forced to listen to a lame, muzak version of a Michael Bolton song that I can't identify. My doctor graciously interrupts the serenade and, speaking in a tone that is the unmistakable bearer of bad news, she tells me that I need to come back into her office as soon as possible.

Nearly a year and a half later, that memory stalls the very breath in my chest.

Coming to terms with a cancer diagnosis was nothing short of surreal. For the longest time, I couldn't even say it out loud. Cancer. It's only a word, but it took on a whole new meaning when I found myself staring it in the face. I had to accept the reality that the place which once gave life to others now threatened my own. It felt like betrayal. The body that houses the soul is supposed to be something you can depend on. When it fails, a part of you silently lies in wait for it to happen again because you somehow convince yourself that it will.

A knot forms in my stomach before every appointment with my oncologist for the routine examinations that have since become a permanent fixture in my life. Has it come back? My concerns fall dormant now and again but they haunt me like shadows in the night, slipping just out of view with the blink of an eye. They remain ever alert, ready and waiting to strike in the same moment that I finally allow myself to feel safe again.

The lead of the pencil splintered with a sharp crack. She looked up with shadowed eyes, watching her hand. It trembled. Slowly, she cast her eyes down again to the piece of paper, to the circling, delicate lines she had written, to the last word, ended abruptly by the pencil's breaking.

She stood, the broken pencil gliding from her limp fingers, and suddenly felt tired. There was nothing to do. She decided to go down and check the mailbox for letters. She never got letters. When she inserted the little key into the keyhole of the mailbox, she briefly wondered why she locked it anyway. She never got mail. And besides, the mailbox was broken, and you could reach into it from the side.

When she had unlocked it, she saw a small, white envelope glittering in the rusty darkness. She grabbed it hastily and hurried back to her room.

The woman seated herself on the stool next to her desk and laid the envelope neatly down in front of her. She read the address. It was written by hand. Karla.
Was that her name? She dimly remembered hearing it, and pondered, for a short while, speaking it aloud, just to hear its sound again, but then decided against it. She still stared at the letter, laying flat and unmoving on the desk's surface, next to the words she had been writing on a piece of paper.

Who might have sent it? She had had a family once. Brief memories flickered through her head. The pain of them piercing and took her by surprise. Fortunately, it passed as quickly as it had come.

The letter was still lying there. She laid her hand upon it, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in the paper. Then, she carefully took it in one hand, and a lighter in the other. The paper wrinkled and blackened under the gentle, steady touch of the flame, hissed and went ablaze. She let the burning letter fall to the ground, silently watching. Silently, the ashes settled on the floor.

Calmly, she turned around to the desk again. She took a new pencil and resumed her writing.

There was a ritual she partook every morning before she set out. A minute or two in front of the mirror where she would bask in the comfort of her home one final time before stepping out into the world. These days, walking down the crowded hallways of her high school was too daunting a task to accomplish without ample preparation.

The moment she entered the doors, she could feel the silent judgment in each sideways glance, and the disapproval that followed. The sound of her sneakers squeaking obnoxiously on the linoleum floor drew more unwanted attention. She wanted to disappear. The more she tried to under the inappropriately thick sweatshirt (for it was already late March), the more she felt like she was exposing herself.

It was a constant battle for control by her rational thoughts. A small voice, a broken, overplayed record repeating over and over again: It doesn’t matter what they think. They’re probably not even thinking of you. What matters is what you think of yourself. Just ignore them. Ignore them. Ig --

There!

Lingering glances from those who passed in front of her. A hushed whisper and muffled snicker to the left. Hearty laughter from behind. Snips of conversation from all around coagulating into blatant disapproval swirled all around her, breaking down what remained of her mental shields.

Rationality had lost the battle.

It was as if her mind had become a house of mirrors, everything she thought about reflected back an image of herself. In it, every imperfection on her magnified, caricatured, until the image became nothing but a collage of mistakes upon a structure of blood and bones.

Her footsteps, quickened subconsciously to reach her locker, where she would no longer be in the middle of the hallway. As her fingertips touched the metal door of her locker, the voice inside her head came back with a vengeance.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. It’s not like you were the only one in the hall. Why would you care what those shallow lowlifes thought? Ha. Them thinking, that’s a funny thought.

Of all the little voices in one’s head, Rational Thought was the most passive aggressive. Weak when challenged, but had more than enough scorn after the worst had passed.

Christmas is ruined forever. All that I believed were lies. I know I asked for the truth, but you should have read my mind. I wanted you to tell me that it was real and that my life would continue as it always had.

Now I don’t want to make Christmas cards. I don’t want to bake shortbread cookies. The plans I had to build a gingerbread house are cancelled. I’m no longer interested in eggnog, candy canes or Christmas specials on TV. There had better not be any Christmas music playing either. What’s the point? You destroyed my world. I’m afraid of what will come out of my mouth when I see Santa in the mall. That’s not true. I won’t even go to the mall this year.

Today is the worst day of my life. Christmas is a scam. How could you, mom? Since when does stating the truth mean ripping my heart out? What were you thinking? Oh, I’m sorry, you weren’t. Life sucks when you can’t trust what you’ve always believed in; when you don’t know if what comes out of your parents’ mouths is true.

And if you think I can keep this to myself, you are sadly mistaken. Everyone who sees me will know I have been crushed and robbed of my childhood. Yes mom, you are a thief. I blame this all on you. I’m not moving on. I will wallow in this for as long as I want, maybe forever. At least every December anyway. Unless you are also going to tell me that there’s no Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny. That would be more than I could take.

I’m not sure what I’ll do now. Maybe I’ll bury myself under the covers forever. Maybe I’ll scream from the rooftop - that Santa was supposed to land on! One thing I do know: I will never forgive you mom. Ever. And don’t put Santa’s name on a present again. Just forget about Santa, since he never existed. I don’t want anything for Christmas this year. It’s over. Christmas is dead to me.

I thought about the words you had spoken over and over until they began to roll out of your mouth on their own. Those words that begged for solitude, the absence of my being, but never specified the amount of time you wished to have no one in your life, to have anything but me in your life. Sometimes gliding by on a weak wind, and other times withdrawing air from my very lungs for which to have stability, your words came forth. While your utterances--your requests of utter seclusion--stampeded towards me like forgotten missed messages, the intelligent figure within your eyes whispered promises unkept and affections never true.

At one point I could dodge your provocative mannerisms, ones never thoughtful or complimentary, but simply sexual, for emotional ties had not yet formed. Yet when those odd spiritual chains bound me to you I could not escape your charming emotional abuse or the way you toyed with my hair exactly as you had done with each of your past female fixations and no longer could I dodge your mannerisms, nor your anything. Please do not let my visage mislead you again, for the cause of such color in my cheeks is not lust or love, but now simply flushed frustration in an attempt to rebuild the mental stability and independence you so easily dismantled with one thrust.

Author's note: If you feel this describes a different emotion, inform me. Because this was how I was feeling and it's hard to label one's own emotions sometimes.

I’d been in tears since I’d gotten the phone call, “It’s your dad, he’s not doin’ so good.” It was all I could do to keep myself steady as I made the necessary phone calls to family, and then made arrangements to be on an airplane as soon as possible. Standing at his bedside, after twelve long years, a part of me was crushed to the point of no repair. An ache in my heart so bad, my knees almost collapsed at the sight of him laying there. Yet, here I was, standing next to the man who’d help give me life, and all I could do was cry. I couldn’t say all the things I’d kept bottled up inside, all I could do was cry. The ache, so bad, wanting so many answers, yet, not being able to speak the questions. The unbearable pain and sadness as I saw this man who was once so strong, lying there so helpless, and not a thing I could do to help, but, just be there.
For four days, I sat by his side, wishing I could say everything that had gone on in my life, ask him why he left, ask him why he wasn’t there for me when I needed him, to ask him what I’d done to make him hurt me this way. Yet, I couldn’t speak, all I could do was cry, burning tears of hate, love, anger, and extreme loneliness.
I left his bedside with more questions than answers, but, a small sense of peace. Hoping that one day we might be able to restore our relationship. That ache slowly subsided, and a glimmer of relief came through.
Nine months later, my dad was gone, and the ache was back and it has never fully gone away. Even though I didn’t know my father well, the pain of losing a parent, is something not even time can heal, because I now know, I’ll never know the man who I once called “Dad”.

The branches are reaching out,
grabbing me,
pulling me in.

Try to get a hold of my naked body,
as I'm running, silently,
further away.

I can hear them calling my name,
screaming out in anger,
but for that, it's all in vain.

I'm too far way,
and I'm running faster and faster,
and they can't keep up.

The swollen branches steal me away,
hide me, comfort me.
Hiding the tears runing down my cheeks.

I stop, and I crouch,
resting underneath a huge willow tree.
Keeping my ears alert to the stomping of their feet.

I hear them close, and my breathing stops.
The coldness of my nakedness,
alerting me from deep within.

They whisper to each other,
and I hear them sigh.
Gone within moments, as I continued to hide.

I got away this time,
next time will be worse.
I creep away into the darkness, my soul is still mine.

Electric fingers grip throbbing heart,
Stone yoke round the neck, pushing down
While neck stretches high.
Fighting above rushing water,
Life gushing by.
Focus on one point
Or safe place.

Breathing water
Distracts from focus.
Spattering, seek air
And focus.
Rough current tumbles
Bounce along jagged boulders.
Not sure whether to try
To survive.

Involuntary will prevails;
Loathing natural survival instincts,
Pawing for a handhold,
While rapid life steals what warmth remains
With its overflow, submersion,
With bursts of sky
Until reaching still waters.

Focus comes without effort
In the still deep.
Body ripped and torn inside
Before the wounds were real.
Floating soft with so much sky,
Amniotic air aplenty until the nudge

Soft place, gentle place
Beautiful place to rest
Before the next plunge.