Sight

“Where were you today?”

“Yeah, everyone was asking for you.”

It was the beginning of an interrogation. Kendall’s shoulders slumped.  She took a long sip of her wine, immediately feeling its effects.  Her antidepressants already made her sleepy.

“I didn’t feel well,” she slurred.

Mara, the oldest sister, groaned loudly as Kendall’s eyes lowered.  “Really, Kendall?”

“We ALL have bad days,” Lane, the middle sister, added, her tone dripping with fake compassion.  “I wasn’t feeling all that great either, but I pushed past it and got through.”

“We’re getting tired of having to cover for you all time.  People ask for you and we don’t know what to say.”

“Why do you care so much if I’m there or not?  What does it matter?”  Kendall asks, her hand shaking as she lifted the glass once again to her lips, droplets of wine falling onto the table.

“It’s about how it looks, Kendall.  We’re sisters.  Why won’t you let us in?”  Lane asked.

Kendall dabbed at the spilled wine with her napkin, not looking her sister in the eye.  “Because you don’t see me.”

“What does that even mean?!”  Mara yelled in frustration.

Kendall dropped the napkin to the floor and rose from the table without a word.

“And now she’s leaving,” Lane commented as Kendall walked past, throwing her arms in the air.

I’m already gone, Kendall thought.

*

Kendall opened her eyes.  She was in a strange room filled with light, surrounded by beeping machines, her nostrils filled with the smell of antiseptic.  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed.  An initial wave of despair and disappointment washed over her as she realized she’d failed.  I can’t even do this right.

A nurse leaned over her bed.  “You’re awake!  I’ll let your sisters know.  They’ve been waiting for…”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“Are you sure?  They…”

“I’m sure.”  She gave the nurse a tight smile.  As she left the room, Kendall laid against the pillows and closed her eyes.  In her dreams, she saw a woman, standing outside in a sun shining so brightly she had to squint her eyes, alone but happy.  She had a second chance and she wasn’t going to waste it.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/drop/

Bench

Ady

 

I need a break. I’ve escaped to the backyard, lying across the little red bench tucked away in the corner.  Dinner is continuing without me indoors.  I hear the clink of silverware and glasses through the open windows.  The clash of angry voices.  My stomach starts to clench.  My head swims.  I won’t be able to sit upright.  I wonder how long it will be before they realize I’m not in the bathroom.  I’ll never understand a person that enjoys spewing bile and hatred, who favors confrontation over harmony.  How do you tell someone that they don’t fit in your life anymore?  That being around them literally makes you physically ill?

A few deep breaths later and I am finally able to stand.  I hear my name being called inside.  I rush around the side of the house to where my car is parked, thankful I thought to bring my purse with me.  As my turn my car in the direction of home, I realize that I’ve found my answer.

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Mindful Moment – A Domestic Disaster

Structure is not my strong suit.  Since I was a kid, I’ve kind of run around like a chicken with her head cut off, flitting from one project to the next, getting easily overwhelmed, filled with frantic energy, rarely finishing what I start.  I learned after I became an adult that there is a word for that frantic energy – anxiety.  Getting diagnosed and learning through therapy how to live with anxiety has been invaluable.

We’re always taught to finish what we start – your room isn’t really clean until your closets are organized and every speck of dirt has been wiped away, do all of your homework, even if you’re up until the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with any of those things, it’s just that my brain doesn’t work this way.  I only know two speeds – 0 or 100.  I look at a sink full of dirty dishes and think screw it, I’ll wash them tomorrow, or I get frantic and scrub all the dishes, clean out the cabinets, mop all the floors, clean all the bathrooms, do 10 loads of laundry, vacuum…well you get the picture…then I’m exhausted and do nothing for the next two weeks.

Now, I give myself a set amount of time to clean, or tackle any other project I don’t particularly enjoy.  If the project isn’t done by the time the allotted time is over, it will be there tomorrow.  Before diving into housework,  I give myself time to transition from work mode to wife mode.  Me time.  It’s what keeps me sane.  I take the dog for a long walk, or write.  Sometimes I read or wander around Target, or just do some deep breathing.  I allot time to be social, so I can make sure to maintain the friendships I value so much, and of course couple time for me and the hubby.  I’m much happier and much more at peace, knowing that somehow I’m learning to manage my life.   I can do it all, I just can’t do it all at once.

On another note, I hope to follow this same philosophy when I tackle NaNoWriMo next month.  The regularity of my blogging with slow down, but I’ll still be here, hopefully updating you on my progress.  I’d love to hear about your experiences if you’re participating as well.

Serial Scribblings – Zara Zane

LEELAH

I open the Zara Zane app. As I hear the familiar theme music, my head feels cool and quiet.   Zara Zane is famous, but no one is quite sure why.  She’s glamorous, that’s for certain, fashion designers all over the world clamoring to outfit her, clear ivory skin straight from a skin care commercial, sharp angular cheekbones, sea green eyes and wavy, white blond hair arranged in a new avant garde style every time she was photographed.  Which was a lot.  Zara Zane was just another hard-partying no-name socialite until she got caught hooking up with her then-boyfriend on a security camera after they’d taken the liberty of entering an A-list movie star’s home uninvited, a bag of his and his girlfriend’s pilfered jewelry and clothing at their feet.  The movie star was overseas promoting his latest film at the time.

The girl who had everything, breaking into people’s homes and stealing their belongings for fun.  The story had been sensational at the time.    Every entertainment show, every gossip blogger, and even some legitimate news organizations, wanted to know who this girl was. She was a socialite with a sex tape and a rap sheet. The trifecta. She was inundated with interview requests, and after she’d served her very short five-day sentence for breaking and entering, she had a reality show deal waiting on her.  And the rest was history.  The show, Zany Zara Zane, which focused on herself and a revolving door of family members, best friends and lackeys, was a runaway hit, she had a bevy of endorsement deals, clothing lines, perfume, the works.  But why precisely was she famous?  What was her allure? It was something Sunny and I had spent many hours trying to figure out.  We complained about how dumb the show was, yet we watched.  And now we were obsessed with the Zany Zara Zane video game.  A game where you could live the fabulous life of Zara Zane, taking the same pathway to fame Zara had, minus the felonies.  Getting photographed, dating the right people, making the right friends, going to the right parties, wearing the right clothes, they all earned you points that got you to the next level of fame.

I watch the screen as cartoon Zara had lunch at a Hollywood hotspot with her mom, Zelda.  Zelda was a fixture on the show, kind of a sad spectacle, with her late-night partying, too-tight outfits and frozen plastic surgery face.  You could almost smell her desperation through the television.  A pop up box appeared on the screen.  I had the option to stage a fight with Zelda in the restaurant and get photographed by the paparazzi, thus upping my chances of making the tabloids and blogs and therefore my level of fame, or invite Zelda along to my next meeting with a designer who’s offered to make my gown for a movie premiere.  I choose to invite Zelda.  Cartoon Zara rolls her eyes.  I guess mom’s coming along with me to meet Ricardo.  Hope she doesn’t embarrass me!  Zara tries on two dresses, one sparkly, eye-catching, a little poufy, with a deep neckline, the other dark, sexy and skintight.  I pick the sparkly one, as Ricardo and Zelda applaud.  My points skyrocket and I move up a level.

Almost famous!  What I’ve always wanted!  Zara exclaims, bouncing up and down on the pedestal.  I play for a few more hours, Zara attends a movie premiere, meets a new up and coming actor, dumps her current boyfriend, and gets offered a guest spot on a new friend’s reality show.

I hear my dad come home with my grandmother and great-aunt. Sunny gives me a hug and I kind of limply fall against her, my arms at my sides.  Then she leaves. My grandmother stands outside my door.  Telling me I should be ashamed of myself for missing my own mother’s funeral.  I should have gone and paid my respects.  To whom?  I wonder, as my chest contracts, my legs dissolving into the sheets as I begin to gasp for air.  I hate her.  I hate her for still being here when my mother is not.  My dad comes upstairs, asks her to leave me alone.  She gives a short grunt, but turns away, I listen to her angry footsteps echoing down the hallway. Then I fall back asleep.

Serial Scribblings – Third Grade

NIC

In third grade, I finally got a teacher with a brain who recognized that I wasn’t just acting out.  That I was different.  Ms. Leitch, my savior.  I’d burst into tears one morning on the playground.  There were workmen all over the place, adding a new wing onto the school.  The other kids were running around the field, shouting and laughing, at me I assumed.  So much yelling and hammering and chaos.  It all kept getting louder and louder until all the sounds melded into one, clashing into my head like a thousand cymbals.  I knelt in the wet grass, sobbing, putting my head against the earth, digging into the dirt, rocking back and forth on my heels.  My nails tore and bled.  It wasn’t until she put her hand on my shoulder that I realized I was screaming.  

“Nicolette,” Ms. Leitch whispered in a tone so tender and soft I thought I would melt as she wrapped me in her arms.  She smelled like oranges.  “Just breathe, honey.”  She breathed in deeply, slowly releasing the air from her mouth like a low whistle.  I imitated her as best I could, until the shaking stopped and my body almost relaxed.  I looked up at her as she let me go, swiveling my body on the grass so I could face her.  She was one of the younger teachers at the school.  Tiny, freckle-faced with short blond hair cut in a pixie style and small brown eyes, wearing an baggy oatmeal-colored cardigan over a blue t-shirt and jeans, she almost looked like a child herself.

“How often does that happen?”  Her eyes squinted as she looked at me.  I shrugged, not sure if I could trust her.  She put her hand on my shoulder.  

“Every day,” I said softly.

She had me meet with the school counselor, who sent me to a psychiatrist, who sent me to another psychiatrist, my mother grumbling about lost wages the entire way, where I was finally diagnosed with anxiety and bipolar disorder.  Mom was furious with the doctor when he told her.

“That doesn’t run in our family!”  She stood nose to nose with the frightened psychiatrist, the crease in her forehead deeper than ever.  She swung her enormous purse as she gestured, narrowly missing crashing it into his leg.  “She just needs discipline.  A firm hand, that’s what she needs.  She likes attention, not this…this…whatever it is…she’s not crazy.  No one in my family is crazy!”

“Nicolette isn’t crazy,” the nervous doctor backed away, wiping the round bald spot on top of his head.  He rounded his desk and took a seat behind it, pushing his glasses back up his nose.   

“Nic, go sit outside!” My mother commanded.  I slowly rose from the hard leather chair in the corner of the office.  I thought she’d forgotten I was there.

I didn’t know what those words meant, bipolar, anxiety.   I wanted to understand.  But I dutifully left the room as my mother watched, I heard her sharp voice as I shut the door behind me and I involuntarily jumped.  That tone is usually accompanied by the sharp crack of a belt.  

The jumpiness in my stomach began to subside as I entered the luxe waiting room.  There were plush white couches, the aroma of lavender in the air, classical music playing through the speakers.  I sank into one of the sofas and put my head in my hands.  She’s not crazy.  Maybe I was.  It was what the kids at school already called me, in addition to weirdo, psycho, possessed, freak, disgusting…I felt the heat rising to my head and started to breathe in and out slowly, like Ms. Leitch taught me.  My face cooled, and I leaned back into the couch continuing to breathe.  My heart rate slowed.  It was this room.  Everything, from the soft blue hue on the walls, to the music, to the luxurious seating, was calming.   I closed my eyes and drifted away.

When my mother burst through the door, her face like stone, I’m not sure how long I’d been asleep,.  I felt the energy of the entire room shift.  She grabbed me from the couch and pulled me into the hallway where she knelt in front of me, gripping both of my arms so hard it hurt.

“You listen to me,” she said in a rough whisper, her face so close to mine I could feel the heat of her anger.  “You aren’t crazy.  Do you hear me?”  She gave my body a gentle shake.  I nodded, because what else could I do?  “The women in our family are strong.  Powerful.  My mother, my grandmother, my sister.  We had the world on our shoulders, raised children, held down two and three jobs, all on our own.  We don’t need anyone or anything but ourselves.”

I dug my long nails into my palms.  My head cooled again.  I nodded once more.

“So this nonsense,” she held up the two prescriptions the doctor gave her.  “Is going in the trash.  You don’t need it.”  She tore them in half and violently threw them in a nearby wastebasket, before dragging me by the arm to the car.  She muttered to herself on the way home about white people and pills and doctors.  I laid down on the backseat and looked down at my arms.  There were bright red fingertips up and down the milky brown skin of my arms where my mother had grabbed me.  I opened my hands and stared at the bloody scratches from my nails.  I tried to remember the melody that was playing in the lobby when I first fell asleep, but it was lost.

Dumb Happy

i’m not like them/but i can pretend

Inspired by If Sadness Was a Person by Huckleberry Friend

https://huckleberryfrienduniverse.wordpress.com/2015/08/08/if-sadness-was-a-person/

In my comment on this blog I mentioned the song Dumb by Nirvana.

I know music is open to interpretation, but in my mind, this song is about a person who can’t be sincerely happy without help, meaning some sort of mind-altering substance.  I don’t know what kind of substance to which Kurt Cobain was referring (or maybe I do, unfortunately), but in my case, it’s antidepressants, or what I refer to in my mind as my bottle of happy.  Without my happiness in bottle, I can’t work, or think clearly, or be creative, or hold a conversation with my husband, or friends, or play with my dog, or really do anything besides sleep.  Even with my prescription of happy, I can still have bad days.  Like today.   The clouds in my head are finally starting to clear and at least I can write again, but it’s already 3 pm and most of the day is gone.

There are some days when I wake up happy, like a miracle.  Practically leaping from bed, going outside to get pictures of the sunrise, cleaning the house, taking the dog on a long walk. planning outings with my husband or friends.  I wish I could hold onto that feeling everyday, even if it’s just dumb happy and not authentic happy, because it’s something.   Once I know what that feels like and then the same feeling eludes me for days it makes me wonder, what did I do differently that day?  Did I eat something especially healthy the day before?  Did I have a great endorphin-releasing workout?  Did I accidentally take the wrong dose of something?  But I have to accept maybe it was just a fluke and wait for it to happen again.  I make sure not to waste those days.

hiking at sunset on a good day

Most days my personality is pretty even-keeled.  I look forward to small moments that will make me laugh or smile or feel peace, quiet reflection in prayer and meditation every morning, a wise-cracking co-worker, my brother’s daily phone call where were reminisce about childhood shenanigans or the daily craziness that is his life, (he’s just one of those people who was born happy and I love him for it, my opposite) my husband’s funny stories on the ride home, the silly, goofy movies I play on a continuous loop in my bedroom and living room at home, private jokes with girlfriends shared over text or in person. I try and make the effort to see them as often as I can.  Not to mention spending time with children.  My friends’ kids never fail to get a giggle out of me. Plus, some of the things they say are so poignant and sweet and they don’t even realize it at the time.  And they aren’t shy about telling me how much the love me, nor I them.

I may not leap out of bed everyday, but I do look for little pockets of happy in small moments.  I am not sure sometimes if those moments are dumb happy or true happy but sometimes being happy is all that matters, even if you need a little help from a bottle.