Bye.

"The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity."

The year is over. Then again it has been for a while.

I hear the muffled sounds of fireworks and laughter coming from outside.

I just threw up the only solid food of the day, and the nausea is overwhelming. And the night is not even near over yet. 9:30 p.m.

I feel deleted from everything. I am nothing. I am no one. Am I even real?

...

What else. I'm dead, yet still somehow living.

I curled up in the shower today, because that's the only way my body could cope with the violent crying and the gasping for air. Somehow I was holding myself against a wall and hot water beating my back as I sobbed against a wall.

I'm dead, yet, somehow I feel every single ounce of everything in my soul. I have nothing to left to say. Nothing that doesn't involve begging and clinging to you like salvation from this purgatory.

I'll start over tomorrow. I'm sorry I am weak. I am sorry I'm not normal. I'm sorry for everything under the sun and moon.

In this part of the story...

I'm here again.

Mom has lymphoma. Prognosis isn't good. Maybe on Thursday they'll tell her a bone marrow transplant could help. Maybe I'll be a match. Probably not. Even if I were, my own body is shutting down. 

They say man can survive pretty much anything, except the loss of hope. I seldom eat nowadays. If I sleep, the fresh set of nightmares ensure I'm back up in a few hours. 

I'm on Prozac now. Lexapro never worked well. Pristiq didn't work at all. So I'm a Prozac human now. I wish I didn't feel the shame I do, admitting that I'm on that medication. But it's like I can feel others...especially those who I thought loved me unconditionally...looking down at me as if thinking "You're just not trying hard enough to be happy. To move on. To put your 'big girl panties on'. I am human. Maybe I'm not as strong as some of you fancy yourselves to be. Or maybe I choose to acknowledge my shortcomings. To accept my weaknesses. To admit I feel. It was between throwing up all day and night, out of anxiety and staring at a belt in the closet for hours on end...just thinking about how ready I was to tighten it around my neck...OR...seeking help. 

I am sad. I was happy. As happy as anyone can be in a fucked up world with complicated situations to go through. But at least I had something to look forward to in the morning. Something that challenged me to be better, to do better, to take care of myself. A light at the end of the tunnel. Because there's a difference in fighting to stay alive...so that you can enjoy your reward of utter happiness, completeness at the end...and the fight to stay alive so that you can achieve the mediocre life that's ok by everyone else's standards but yours. 

I am sad. But I still get up every morning...and for the first 5 or 10 seconds, I am still groggy enough to not realize what my life is now. So I relish that slight haze of happiness I feel. I am sad, but maybe one day I won't be. Or maybe one day I'll run out of tears. One day I won't wince. I won't hurt. I won't long. I won't be Yari. I pray for the day I am able to not be me anymore. Because at least I'll be able to act okay for the sake of everyone. I'll be the rock everyone leans on again. Quiet. Listening. Offering whatever's left of my heart in advice or caring for family and friends. Maybe I won't feel like half my chest has been ripped away forever. Or at least I'll hide it well. 

But, for now, I am sad. I am very lonely. I miss my best friend, more than anything else. I miss being loved, needed, wanted. I miss smiling. I miss not crying out of nowhere, over nothing. I'll continue to eat whatever I can hold down. I'll continue my medicine. I'll continue working. I'll above all continue trying to make my Mom comfortable and as happy as I can. I'll continue waiting for another sunrise, and maybe that one will make things bearable. Tolerable. I'll read. I'll write. I'll paint. I'll cook. I'll stare at the ceiling. I'll stare vacantly out a window (and yes, my thought will be on you). I'll cry when I feel like it. I'll get back up any time I crumble to pieces. I'll pray the Universe has some sort of pity on me and at least gives me the best friend that loved me and was happy to talk to me back. Because I need that more than anything right now in order to survive the loss of all else I held close to my heart. The way you hold a newborn that just fell asleep after hours of crying. The way you look at him sleep, wondering how he will look like, what his voice will sound like when he learns to talk, imagining his moments in life, wondering how and who he will grow to be. My dearest things are gone. So while I build myself up and patch up the gaping void, I need a hand. A hug. A kiss. A smile. 

I will continue existing. For my Mother. I owe her that much. I'd be a coward to leave her like this. I will continue. Hope is a foreign concept. Which is why I say I'm merely continuing. Not living. Simply, existing. There is no Yari.

Baby It's Cold Outside

Saturday.

Forced myself out of bed.

Forced myself to dress in something other than pajamas.

Forced myself out the door.

The sky was beautiful. The day was beautiful. Wince.

Sat down to eat my first meal other than saltines or soup in a week. Baby It's Cold Outside came on.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Holidays. Pain. Nothing. Pain. Three bites of food. Nausea. Tears. Pushed plate away. Went back to apt.

Back in bed. Still dressed. Stillness.

http://youtu.be/FTNheCEUP_A

Don't Go

Mom,

You're standing behind me drying my hair, as we watch a tv show about dream weddings for people who've had what you call "taste for champagne but a Coca Cola salary." You say, jokingly, that all you remember of my wedding day is my few words and the tears that wouldn't stop as I sat in my room all dressed up, in the dark. I try to laugh...but only a small, dry chuckle comes out with a quiet "heh. Yeah."

Tears have been quietly streaming down my face for about 30 minutes now and you finally noticed, as you brushed hair out of my face. You kissed my forehead and you just look at me waiting for me to tell you why I'm so sad. But, how can I tell you what's wrong? That my heart is completely broken by the past and the present. You're my mom. You've been my best and sometimes my only friend. How many more moments like this do we have left? How can I tell you I'm slowly but steadily losing my dreams...my happiness...my life? Why should I put my sadness on your shoulders when you need me to smile and pretend I'm happy and ok and strong? You want nothing more than to believe I have a happily ever after in store for me in the future. That's what would make you have a good night's sleep. To know your daughter is loved and happy and not alone. That she's just emotional because the dream wedding show is demonstrating that good things happen to good people.

I can't make the tears stop now. And the silence is growing uneasy. So here I go hiding my face in my phone until I can regain composure. Because all I can tell you is that my heart hurts like I've never felt it hurt before...and we've been through some tough crap...yet nothing us killing my soul like this. All I can tell say is that I am afraid of losing you soon and I'm devastated if I lose my heart for good. That I'm standing in the middle of a room asking the different people that make up my heart "Please, don't go?"...but, all I really am becoming is just something forgettable...part of the background. Invisible. Mute. Nothing.

Please. Don't go.

Another year, Erin

My dearest sister,

I started this blog last week, a day before your birthday. I had a lot written in it about fate and friendship and god knows what else. I deleted every single word...and here is what I really want to say.

Happy belated birthday, my beautiful angel. I still remember the roses on your dining room table, when I arrived at your house for my 25th birthday. You remembered they were my favorite color. That whole trip I got lost in your eyes...We got lost in each others silence. You held me as I cried, harder than I ever had in front of anyone, while the rain beat against the windows outside...I will never be able to give you those moments you gave me for my birthday. What's more, you put aside your heart and your grief back then...to heal my wounds. I wish I could do the same for you. It's the very least I want to give you for this birthday.

I'm sitting in my empty, cold bed with only the glow of the laptop illuminating the room. I'm sure I don't have to say a word, but you have felt how I have been the last couple of weeks. You've done what you always do...give me space. Even though you know I am plugging holes left and right...but the water keeps flowing in...and I'm going under. Your best friend, one of them, and here I am selfishly wallowing in this indescribable pain and loneliness...I couldn't even send you a message. I loathe myself at the moment that much more. I am sorry, for everything that has happened. I'm sorry you loved for so many years, and waited patiently for him. I'm sorry you gave him everything...you and the girls both gave him so much love...but in the end, love isn't enough. You did one of the hardest things any human will ever have to endure: Look at your true love in the face, and close the door. Not because you didn't need love like air, or you became bored and wanted to move on. Not because you hadn't given it your all and would've given even more if it had just asked you to, with a look. You did it so you wouldn't die. Plain and simple. It was killing you. To see it get colder, distant...to see it slip away, being happy without you by its side. No words needed to be said. Don't we always know, my beauty? When we are being lied to? When details are being omitted? Don't we see beyond what's not being said or what is...and know it's bleeding in our arms and we can't save it? You did it to save yourself. And even though you are submerged in pain now...even though you may be dying without it, anyways...at least now it's your choice. You have the control. You're not putting your love and light out there, only to get a small fraction back. 

So if there's anything I can say right now, aside from quite possibly the saddest birthday blog post ever... is that I love you. That I'm sorry I haven't seen you in so long. I'm sorry I am not around much, even though you know in your heart...where I am currently. Like you said last time we spoke...it always seems like we are at the edge of a storm, waiting for it to hit. The taste of vomit in my mouth (I threw up my soul and 4 boots about 30 minutes ago) and the weight of the universe's heaviest silences crushing my chest are proof of this. Of the wait. But like you said...we hold on. For that tiny break...those three words...that insignificant loving gesture...and there it is. We are fine again. A lifetime of neglect and pain and sadness completely erased by a hit of our favorite drug: Love.

I hope for a better year. Love and light, sister. Let's get through winter in one piece. I hope your birthday was filled with family and friends. I hope our eyes meet again soon, and we can tell each other "I love you. I need you. I'm here." with a glance, once again.

Damaged, but eternally yours,

Shaunee

How A $1 Book Trumped A $50 Shrink Visit

I was at my local grocery store earlier today, grabbing the essentials to make chili. It's fall. It's Cowboys football. The cold and melancholy are settling in for the year. All sorrows are less with bread, no? Bueller?

The store has a special running, where you get a book for $1 with the purchase of selected food items. So, when I bought some shredded cheddar for my Frito Pie, I started looking at the basket of books to see what I could grab. I was just going to grab a book and give it to a friend, for her kids. Under the endless pile of Winnie The Pooh, Sesame Street and H-E-Buddy books, a pair of own eyes with the words "Don't Worry!" over them caught my attention. I flipped through it and the pages landed on this image:

The sight of this page, both made my heart overwhelmed with sadness and anger. Last night was a long, long night. The kind of night that you fall asleep completely spent from crying for hours. Where you go to sleep knowing no one really gives a shit how you are feeling as long as you're there for them when needed. I grabbed the book with the intention of writing a post about that single image. I wanted to be cynical, to demand that we stop teaching children lies like this. Having them grow up believing in love and truth and fairness. To stop feeding them crap like you can be happy if you try hard and do right by people. That everyone has their someone and because of that, they'll never be alone. I know. I may have had a rough night even after I went to sleep.

When I got home, I was putting my groceries up and my mom called again (she had called last night). She wanted to see if I was still "off". Last night she was forcing me to talk instead of cry quietly on the phone. She demanded to know, even after I said I didn't have the words to explain my grief. "You have the words, you do. You just don't want to say them. TALK." The call ended when I broke and told her to just leave me alone. This morning she was calmer, but I could still hear the tension in her voice, the worry... Would I do something stupid? Why am I not saying what's wrong? She was also relieved I didn't hurt myself, apparently. The call was short and when I hung up, I felt heavy. I opened the book and flipped through it...

This was no ordinary book. I kept flipping through the pages and reading, waiting for the happy-go-lucky bullshit message, but it never came. This book had a specific, Yari'esque nudge to it. A page showing a group of nervous, cautious penguins read ..."We must move with the times, as soon as the times are sure which way they're moving." Another one showed a frog hanging from a crocodile's mouth, and in beautiful script font it said "Some days are better than others. This, unfortunately, is one of the others." The next page greeted me with a big brown bear, dragging itself across two pages, with the words "At my current rage of progress, I'll soon be somewhere behind my starting point." I smiled, comforted, as a frog with big red eyes declared "I could try resigning myself to fate - but what if fate refuses to accept my resignation?" Page after page of what some may consider depressing messages for kids. But, halfway through the book, the message becomes clearer. The confused looking crane tells me to not let success go to my head..and if I fail, to not let failure go there either. The cat grooming it's paw whispers "If you take care of yourself, that will be one less person you have to worry about." And the last page shows me the same nervous penguin from the beginning, now jumping off a glacier saying "Do something important with your life: enjoy it!"

I felt calm. I felt comforted. I still felt sad, but not hopeless. I still felt lost, but not forever. The author said that she was born a worrier, but after watching that 'Life After People' series..she realized 3 big things:

1. Nature will clean up all or messes eventually; everything will be fixed, everything will eventually be OK.

2. Whatever happens, we are but a tiny blip. We might as well stop worrying about the small stuff, because in the grand scheme of things, even the things we think are really big...are actually tiny.

3. If there is no point in worrying, then we may as well be happy. It is as simple and as difficult as that.

A $1 book was able to calm me down more than hours of self mutilation, days of bone crushing grief and $50 spent talking to a guy with a notepad who solves everything by medicating me. There's nothing wrong with feeling how I do. I can't help things from happening in my life or to me. Eventually, things will be OK. I just have to make it through today. Celebrate my little victories and stop waiting for someone value me how I deserve to be. Only I can do that.

So, I'll make some chili for my Frito Pie now. Something is bound to break, work, happen. I am a good person.

Wake Up

Ester asked why people are sad....

"That’s simple," says the old man. "They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people's ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.”

~ excerpt, The Zahir, Paulo Coehlo

When was the last time you dreamed? When was the last time you stopped to do something that was 100% yours and for you. Geared at your own peace, happiness, life? When you are happy...those around you absorb it. If they don't, they never cared about your happiness or well-being in the first place...yet you let those call your shots? Someone that doesn't care how you feel about choices? None of what I'm saying is a luxury. If making a decision for yourself will destroy the perfect bubble you call life...something isn't right. And you know this. I don't have to tell you.

I may be a hot mess. But I'm not afraid to live the life I am choosing. One choice doesn't determine your whole life...not unless you let it become who and what you are.

I am a hot mess. But...according to who?

Happy Failures Day

Today is National Failures Day. Yes, Hallmark has found a way to take a normal August day and make a celebration out of screw ups. They even have a little blurb on their website about what these "failures" may be...Burning toast...Knocking over a bookcase...

To my intense displeasure, I found no "Hey I'm sorry I killed your cat while picking you up for a date" cards or "Please forgive me for throwing you under the bus at work to make myself look good" posters. Oh Hallmark, you sack of failure. HA! Get yourself a card.

I haven't had many failures, as I only categorize under that label things that have resulted in a permanent black mark in my life card. Things you can't undo no matter how much time goes by. You simply learn to live with them and learn your lesson, hopefully. That's a failure. The rest of the unfortunate situations are merely that. Lessons. Situations. Periods in life. You look back one day and shake your head at how less than brilliant you were.

Moments that weren't my finest:

- Eating a powdered donut I was specifically told not to eat until after dinner, then lying about being the one that ate it with my face and shirt covered in powdered sugar. (Age 4)

- Getting mad at my mother and packing undies, a princess Jasmine nightie, my Smurfs collection into a tiny pink bin...then dramatically telling her I was running away forever...making it 30 feet from my driveway and down the road and running back around crying because Mom said "I guess I'll have to find a new daughter to love and give all your stuff to..." (Age 4)

- Shaving off my best friend Arelys's eyebrows. Completely off. (Age 7)

- Spinning my best friend David around a parking lot, while he sat inside a shopping cart, so fast that he flew out of it and hit his head on a light post...then bribing him with a dollar to not tell my parents what I did. (Age 8)

- Getting an incontrollable fit of loud giggling with my two younger cousins at a funeral, when I pictured me throwing a purple Teletubbie plush I had into the open coffin across the room. (Age 11)

- Learning to skateboard just to impress a guy I had a crush on, and falling repeatedly on my ass while wearing a skirt uniform from school. Dusting myself off from one of my falls and finding him making out with my best friend at the time. (Age 14)

So on...so forth...just moments in time.

Happy Failures Day. Whatever that means. I know what it means. And there's nothing happy about it.

28 Candles

I'm 28 today.

I wish this were a big, elaborate and meaningful post about how my life has changed blah blah. No. Here's my birthday in a nutshell:

I bought myself a strawberry cupcake and put candles on it. I blew them out and popped in The Emperor's New Groove. While I was at Michaels earlier (purchasing my candles), a very frail looking lady approached me in a frenzy. "You're wearing a hat! Just like I am!" Oh boy. Why me? I smiled at her and her green baggy cap sat crookedly on top of multi colored hair. She had huge dangly earrings, beads hanging from her hair and glasses, numerous necklaces and rings and every color in the rainbow on. She yanked my iphone out of my hand and tucked it in my pocket, then stuck her hand out so I could shake hers...I did. "My name is Mary Ann *** ***. Born and raised in Midland, TX". I couldn't help but smile, genuinely, at how I manage to attract characters. "My name's Yari. Puerto Rico." She started squealing about Puerto Rico and about our hats (I'm wearing a baseball cap), then said "I love that whole look you have going on. You look wonderful! So beautiful! Plus today is your day!" I was startled for a second. I didn't know this lady...what did she mean? I carefully said "Yeah, today's my birthday." She asked how old I was now. "28..." "Oh, I wish I could be 28 again...but I'm 49." "It's ok Mary Ann, 40 is the new 20." "YAY! Then I'm close to your age!" "You sure are. You look great too." She shook my hand again and told me to have a beautiful day. Just like that. The whirlwind that was Mary Ann flew out of my life as quick as it came in it.

So, if anything, I leave you with this. Sixteen Candles may have been true to a certain point. Sometimes birthdays aren't an event. Just another day. Oh man, and do they rarely end with you sitting in a dress on the kitchen table kissing your crush over a perfectly positioned, lit birthday cake. Sometimes you buy yourself a cupcake and meet an insane new person who you later realize is just like YOU, only 20 years older.

See you all again next year.

Goddammit: The Starbucks Edition

Today, Saturday July 14th, 2012...will be known as the day I will never be able to look at myself in the mirror the same way. Why, dear reader, have I lost a bit of my soul?

I'm out and about today, you see. Not doing anything in particular, really. I have my Nikkon D60 SLR camera out in case I see something amusing I just HAVE to pull over and take a picture of. I have a bathing suit I need to return at Old Navy, and regarding that all you need to know is that sometimes people do NOT need to see bits of me that should be forever hidden. I have big plans of using the money from the bathing suit (whopping $25) to buy soap, detergent, clorox and a broom. Hold back your obvious envy towards my insanely awesome weekend. I will clean. A lot. Then I'll play guitar or paint, while I answer calls from work. Living large. I know.

That, however, is not the point of this burst of words. Between returning my bathing suit and buying cleaning supplies, I had a marvelous idea. "Why don't I go by Starbucks and grab me a mocha coconut frappucino?" Innocent enough, right? Somehow the drive-thru idea turned into, "Hey, it looks empty inside. I'll just go in and grab it. AC is good in summer. No hipsters or obnoxious teenagers. Just me, my frap and a comfy chair to sink in..." Famous last words.

I brought my laptop inside, in case I got a work call. While ordering my drink, the barista excitedly interrupts and proclaims: "I LOVE your tattoo! It's so cute! Are you a music major?" I smile awkwardly and say, "No. I'm a guitarist." Her eyes get big and she continues, "OMG! ME TOO!". While my mouth and smile are saying "That's very cool...", my mind is screaming "No, honey, I can't afford to study music in that way. I just teach myself and hope for the best." I make my way to the lovely leather seat. To my right, on the very pricey coffee table, there is a rather large bamboo plant. I look up and there's two 15 year olds in almost no clothing, sitting indian style on the chairs and saying 'like' every other word during their conversation about a 'hilarious' trip to Walmart they endured. Behind them a dude with a very, very exotic sounding drink and in full on running gear browsing on his Mac. Behind him, a mildly buff Asian man in a pristine, albeit tiny, pearl snap shirt and Chucks that look like they've been steam cleaned and pressed before wearing. There's at least two guys in line with glasses and beards, identical arms crossed...bored expressions. To my left, a young man watching a Steve Jobs video on his Mac with gigantic Bose headphones on and a messenger bag by his feet that's worth more than my life up to this point (and I'm sure that's a $400 pen neatly tucked in the bag). Then there's me...

Drinking a frappucino...and on my Mac because I thought it would be hilarious to blog about what's around me...until I realized I've become THAT person. At Starbucks. With a MBP. Drinking something weird. Blogging. And while I SHOULD feel comfortable and like I finally "belong" with society's coffee hipster crowd, everything I own and/or am wearing while sitting here (including this device I'm typing on) has been gifted to me by people wanting me to be able to have something nice that I probably couldn't afford on my own. However, instead of feeling like a charity case or like I should try to finally blend in with people that merely look and act a certain way...I'm going to go ahead and give in and say, goddammit. I've become the Starbucks hipster crowd blogger. Just for today.

But I'm shutting this off now and heading back out. Because the sky is blue and the day is young. I want to enjoy the day the ways I always have and see what I can create away from a keyboard. I don't just have to be ONE thing. I'm defined by all my components.

P.S. If I start growing a beard and traveling around wearing Toms, please feel free to shoot me.

Says Who?

Says who?

I find myself wondering that a lot lately. I ask it of many things that are arising in my life for the first time and of things that I've always been told are a certain way simply 'because'.

In a week, I will be 28. I have no children. "Don't you want any? Shouldn't you get on that already?" I answer "Says who?"

I am a 28 year old woman. I enjoy, nay, LOVE wearing bright sneakers or shoes. Jeans. Tees. Everywhere. Unless you request that I dress up, I shall not. I do love boy shoes very much. There is no such thing as boy Jordans. There's simply Jordans. "So, you wear boy shoes? So you wear bright colors and childish attire? So you like comics and toys? Shouldn't you tone it down and start acting your age?" I answer "Says who?"

"I'll never make a living with art or an art degree. You need ambition. You need a career. You need to think ahead. Have a plan. Where do you see yourself?" Me? I see myself in a small house, with what I need, enough money to pay my bills, living my life. Get it? Living? Going out for a gd ice cream cone on a summer's eve? "That's not realistic. I couldn't see myself living like that. I don't see how you don't want more." I answer, "Says who? I want more. Just not what you want."

"You can't start over?" Says who.

"You are not being fair to others by putting yourself first. That's not reasonable." Says who.

"Not everything in life can be fun and relaxing." Says who.

"Life, love, decisions...are all complicated."

Says. Who.

Love Killed The Internet

I woke up from a long slumber, to the sound of your voice calling me through the haze. My bare feet flexed slightly under my every step. Like a fawn taking its first wobbly steps into the world around it. Instinct drove me. I was off and there was no turning back. 

In my newfound awareness, I decided to write you a letter on every single leaf of the trees surrounding me. Each one a tiny, green papyrus for my heart to speak to you...words. So many words, big...small, all different; yet, they all might as well been a four letter devotion. Love. But I got so busy writing, so busy...Fall crept up on me. Leaves turned yellow...tawny...maroon. Like an falling army of love letters on fire...dead on the ground. Never to be read. You would never know.

I stared at the naked tree trunks, and decided to carve my passion. I drove our initials in with a knife, copying them from my heart onto theirs. Over and over, tracing each curve on the letters, until the lines ran as deep as my adoration of you. I heard laughter around me, noises, music. I felt people come and go. I never looked up from my task, this time it would be permanent. This time you would know. But a silent nudge made me look over my shoulder, and over every heart-wrapped love spell...the world had come and gone...leaving thousands of messages of its own, covering mine with urgency. Dozens of "Come see our band", a handful of "Reward for missing dog", a single "Have you seen this man?", hell...even a "For a good time..." My message buried. You would never know. 

The night was sprinting past me. Out of time, I found a big, empty wall...high up on the side of a forgotten building. I climbed, climbed...with cans of paint and a brush hanging off my belt. The city sped by, the stars traveled across the sky, and I? I painted your eyes. Open, deep, loving. I painted mine, peering up at you softly from where your chest would be. The sun signaled the new day's arrival, tinting my image in goldenrod. I stumbled back across the street, on to another rooftop and sank on my heels. Your face looked alive on the wall, and the worship in my eyes...for you...was unmistakable. Loud beeping pierced the morning stillness. The ground rumbled. The crowds gathered. A giant wrecking ball with the word "Life" graffitied on it delivered a single, devastating blow to my mural. It crumbled bricks and eyes and peace and cement into a fine dust, that settled down below. A pile of feelings and history. You would never know.

So. Here I am. Writing Love on a corner of the world wide web. In a place only I can control what's said, where it's displayed, who reads it and where I can pretty much guarantee you will read the message tonight, tomorrow or 100 years from now. If you wake up tomorrow and the whole internet has somehow collapsed onto itself and humanity finds itself at a loss as to what to do without this wonderful mess of messages that connect us...

Well...You will never know, I guess. And I apologize for breaking the internet.

Be Still

The ice on the surface is thin,

Don't move about. Be very still.

The quicksand swallowing in

Don't fret, think, Be very still.

The world may grow louder

Listen to peace, be very still.

Storms making skies darker?

Wait for the sun, be very still.

The old bridge creaks underneath

Wait for help, Be very still.

Your mind is the hunter, don't be its prey

Stand your ground. Be very still.

You who refuges in panic

And reverts to the comforting fears

Break your chains, have faith

Don't give away, be very still.

Be that tree under lightning

Be that forgotten field

Be alive, be chaos,

But always be very still.

- YIP

What To Do?

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore."- Neil Gaiman

Onward.

Two For One Special

The first one...

I was walking around a city at night...it looked like SoHo, Lower Manhattan. Tall, brick buildings everywhere lit by rows of white Christmas lights. I walked by a few cafes where couples and friends sat with their glasses of wine and coffee cups...they looked like a scene from a movie. The air felt cold, crisp...like that week after Thanksgiving up in the Northeast. Sirens started blaring, and the wind picked up. People started shouting about a tornado headed our way...and I lost my grip on your hand. The sea of people running down the street, as if they could outrun whatever was coming our way, trapped me against an alley and I just saw the back of your head as you ran the direction they were headed. I called your name, screamed it...but there was just darkness and when I opened my eyes again...we were in a forest. We left a nice hotel for a walk. You, my parents, my aunt, a few friends. We stumbled upon a big lake, that had a violent whirlpool in the middle that spread almost to its edges. We tip toed around the edge of the water, careful not to get any deeper than our calves. The sirens started blaring again, and I remember thinking "What's going on with the world? Storms everywhere...Where can we go?" In my musings, I noticed I was the only one that had made it to the hotel. By then, they were evacuating all the guests into the basement. I shouted your name...always yours first. Nothing. I called out for my parents, aunt...any one of our friends. No one I knew was in the group of people. I feared the worst...that I had run off and left everyone I loved behind. I ran back out and instead of a tornado, I ran into a blizzard that had dumped 4 feet of snow all around me. In some places I took a step and was up to my neck, digging myself out to keep running. I called everyone's name. Just the howling wind answered. As I was about to turn around and head back to the hotel, I took a step and broke through ice...slush...and felt an incredible force pushing me away from some trees and into a clearing. The whirlpool. I started swimming as hard as I could, but I kept getting pulled under...the edge of the lake looked farther...and I just let go.

The second one...

I was laying in bed, in a tiny apartment on top of a hill. I just remember the breeze coming through the window, playing with pale yellow curtains. There was a knock on the door and a little girl dropped off some plush toys for me. They looked used and some where broken. She didn't say a word, just put them all at my feet and took off running. I put them all on my bed, and got dressed in a black, laced up dress. I walked down cobblestone streets into town, and met up with other people that were also dressed up. We all headed up into a coliseum, dressed in our finest, but with a somber feeling...scared. In the middle of a coliseum there were torches lit surrounding a pool of black water. In between each torch there were throne like chairs with shackles where the feet would go and spikes where the wrists were to be tied onto the chair. I saw everyone ease into the pool, methodically undressing and wearing only a white robes. Everyone acted like it was a single's mixer...I didn't recognize anyone...so I limited myself to watching what everyone was doing. Couples found each other right away. Boys were boys, picking on some girls. I was terrified...the place was too quiet...only our voices echoed. The water was too dark...I couldn't reach the bottom. We were all the same age...it was unnerving. A tall, tanned guy with curly hair down to his shoulders swam and held on to the edge of the pool next to me. We both looked at people, in silence and he whispered "So want to kiss?" I shook my head, looking up at him confused as to why a complete stranger would ask that. He said "You have to pick someone...or you'll be killed. People that aren't picked or end up with someone are killed off..." My heart started beating fast and my eyes searched the whole coliseum, pool...surroundings for your face. You were there, I felt it. The way I know you're never far off. I couldn't see you. Still, I took a gamble and said "I'm with someone here, he'll come forward when the time comes." The guy shook his head and swam off to find someone else. Just then a horn signal blared and I saw everyone jumping out of the pool and picking a chair. Girl, boy, girl, boy...that's how we sat. Then, a man came out wearing a black robe. Strong. Tattooed with markings. Teeth that were sharp...shaven down to look like fangs. He had a cynical smile, eyeing us all one by one. He walked past me, grabbed my chin and let out a small chuckle. My stomach balled up. First he asked for everyone that already had a partner beforehand or had found someone that wanted to be with for good, to get up, grab their hand and leave the room. Out of almost 100 of us there...only 17 of us were left. 17 of us that hadn't been picked, or hadn't picked someone else. The man in the black robe asked the guy to my left to pick someone. The young man refused, said the woman he loved wasn't in the crowd and he was faithful only to her. The man in the robe let out a dry laugh and said "Everyone, pay attention, our friend here says he doesn't want anyone here..." in a mocking voice. Some of the people left laughed nervously and in a fraction of a second, I saw the young man being kicked into the black pool. Except he had been lit on fire and the water did nothing to turn it off. I ran to the edge of the pool, screaming at him to sink in the water to see if that helped, telling him to swim towards me so I could pull him out and help. But his blood-curling screams drowned my own and soon he was just floating in the water, still on fire. The man grabbed me by my shoulder and it burned, his fingertips were fire. He shoved me back on my chair and said it was my turn. I looked around desperately, and still couldn't find your face...I was running out of time. The guy to my right grabbed my hand and plead, "Please. Pick me. I'll love you and be good to you. We can be happy. Please. Hurry. I don't want to see you burn." I looked at him...handsome, bright blue eyes, pale skin and black hair slicked back. He meant it. He was beautiful, and looked like he had a sweet heart...and he was pleading for me to kiss him and choose him. To save us both. I looked back at the man in the back robe again, his grin fixed in place and dead eyes drilling into mine. Then out of the corner of my eye, standing behind him, I saw you. I felt my chest burst in relief and happiness. I turned to the young man to my right and said "I'm sorry. I pick him. He's mine. I'm his. I love him. I pick him." The young man looked broken and said "Please. Are you sure? Are you really sure?" I looked back at you again, and you had an unreadable smile on...almost arrogant. I fought away the feeling in my stomach...warning me to think it through. "Yes. I pick him." The man in black said "Once you pick, you cannot change. That is your final choice. It doesn't matter if your love is not returned...you cannot go back and pick anyone else. Are you sure?" I nodded, let out my breath and shrunk back in my chair. The man moved out of the way and turned to you, behind him. He asked you, who was your choice. You pointed at her, next to you. She gave me a smirk, then turned to kiss you deeply. You both kissed, and I don't remember much but saying No...screaming it...over and over. You both walked in front of me, hand in hand, and the rest of the people in the room were full blown laughing at me and calling me names. Stupid. Naive. Burn. Stupid...I had been blind. I couldn't turn around. I made my choice. You had made yours. I saw you both walk away, kissing and I kept screaming your name. But you didn't look back at me once, almost like you couldn't hear my voice. All of a sudden it was like I was watching you guys walk away but from wherever you were headed. Both your faces. I could also see myself screaming your name in the background, on my knees, as my clothes was being torn off and the man in black lifted a sword to bring down to my neck. The last time I screamed your name, I saw a flicker of life come to your eyes and you wake up from a daze...shaking your head and recognizing my voice...finally...and horror showing in your face as you turned around only to find the door being closed behind you. It was too late.

Two nightmares a night is becoming the norm...and they all tell the same story...I'm waiting for the sun to start shining again. It has to. Maybe.

I Tried.

I lit a candle and watched it burn down to nothingness. I listened. I tried. I fought. I cried. I laughed. I hugged. I loved. I simply, waited. Now, I bow out.

It's Cold...

A friend texted a couple of days ago and said "I wish you'd write more on your blog. I love reading your words." I told her I had nothing to say, really...

But the truth is, I have too much to say and no strength to. There is a constant threat looming over me...I'm already withdrawing again from everyone. I know what comes next. It's happened before...

When I first moved to the US, it was almost too much for me to survive. Yet, I did. I was a freshman in HS, it was December and my mother was really sick. She had several complications from a routine surgery and coupled with her severe anemia, her blood levels dropped to the point that the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for her. They gave me those news at the hospital on a Thursday after school. I looked at her...she looked so full of life yet...tired? I wanted to break everything in sight or crawl on her lap and cry. I had lost my grandmother not that long before...why was this happening to me? I went to school the next day, no one knew anything and I didn't want to talk anything about it. It was Friday. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy, island day. I spent the day laying under a tree in the schoolyard, sharing headphones with a friend as he talked about Dragonball Z. Dad picked me up after school and told me on the way home we were leaving for Pennsylvania that night. To pack light, because we were going to Allentown to stay with his sister while we tried to save Mom.

I arrived at Newark, NJ...Saturday at around 3 a.m. Mom being pushed on a wheelchair, and two feet of snow on the ground outside. I've hadn't seen snow since I was 4. I couldn't even experience the giddiness a person gets when they first play in the snow...I ran to my aunt's van, still wearing my flip flops and light tee shirt I left with from Puerto Rico. We sped off in the night. That's when I first felt that pang of homesickness that would never go away. Even in the middle of a dark night, nothing felt like home outside. Nothing felt like home inside the van either. Silence, tension, uncertainty. The next couple of weeks, I struggled to adjust in more ways than any person, at any age, should. The relationship between my parents and my aunt was strained, and we were constantly reminded we were there as a favor. No compassion. No warmth. This wasn't the aunt I remembered from my childhood. Maybe the US changes people, I thought. But we ate when told to, bathed when told to. Everything on a schedule, on the dot. Everything rationed and portioned, even though my dad got a job immediately and was buying the groceries for the whole household with enough food to spare. Daily visits to doctors, me sitting in waiting rooms by myself. I was kept out of everything. Dr. Matta's office became my hang out 4 times a week. A 14 year old, reading Highlights magazine for children and making friends with the little kids that came for pediatric visits to the doctor that shared the office.

Two weeks after arriving, just before New Year's, my parents come out of the doctor appointment and into the waiting room. Dad pays the copay, and helps Mom put on her coat and we walk in the usual zombie haze to our little beat up Horizon hatchback. I cram in the back seat, all 5' 9" of me, and sit sideways, shivering and wondering if it ever gets warm in PA. The silence in the car tells me that once again, a bomb is about to be dropped on me...and immediately my stomach churns...nausea. "We are staying here longer than we thought, Yari. Mom's treatment is going to take months. Probably until April. So we're going to have to enroll you in school...", my Dad said. Panic. Panic. Cold. Panic. I wanted to dart out of the car and run. Run away. I can't stay here. Not that long. I need to go home. To my family. To my house. My bed. My life. They wait for me to process the news, and I look up and notice Mom is staring at me from the side, rear view mirror, studying my face. She looks so much better already...and she looks apologetic. So sorry that she is the reason this is happening to us. How can I let her think she's a burden? No. She comes first. How could I have felt so selfish for a couple of minutes? I'll just go back home in the summer. I can do this. I force a smile and say "I want to go buy new notebooks then...", and the mood in the car immediately relaxes. That same afternoon I am sitting in the counselor's office, going over my classes and already they're trying to bump me to an English as a Second Language class. I calmly explain I'm fully bilingual, I can manage just fine in regular classes. He looks reluctant, and decides to bump me back a grade because "Puerto Rican schools are slower than US schools...You're probably in elementary school math and science." I feel my anger rising. I feel judged. I feel labeled without even given a chance. So, I tell him I'm in advanced English, Math and Science and have a 4.0 average. Just give me a chance. He sighs and does so, arrogantly. I'm given an ID and a locker number. I'm given books and I begin classes in two weeks.

By New Year's we have our own apartment and I spend my days dreading the upcoming school semester. I write a lot of letters (no computer...no emails...) to my best friends in PR and I get so many replies back...asking when I'm coming home, if I like it, that the teachers were so sad that I was gone, that my chair was empty, that my house looked so sad with no one living in it, that my dogs were given away to the pound, etc. With each letter and bits of news, I felt a part of me die. One of my best friends, Rebecca, happened to be visiting her family in Patterson, NJ for New Year's...and just like that she had someone bring her to my house in PA to stay the weekend. For 3 days, I was alive. When I opened the door to my apartment and saw her face, I just hugged her and cried until we were both spent. It felt nice to be missed...remembered...loved. We saw the ball drop in Time Square on the little tv in my room, and huddled in my bed under several blankets with a tiny heater keeping us going. She left on a Monday, and another piece of my heart crumbled right along with her departure.

School started. I had no friends. The news from home, my old school, my family...became too much to carry...so I stopped writing letters and answering them. I stopped calling my friends. I started avoiding their calls. The letters slowed down...stopped. The phone never rang anymore...and I was walking 17 blocks in frozen temperatures to school in the mornings. Ate lunch alone, took notes in class, looked at my feet when I walked the halls, got bumped into and was pretty much non-existent. By the time April came by, I didn't even bother asking my Dad if we were going back home. He was so happy with his new social worker job and a newer car. "I'll never go back to PR to bust my back for money." Mom got better, so at least I had that. She tried talking to me, but I just spent most of my time in the room reading old books I'd find at yard sales or listening to music. Days, weeks would go by without me talking to anyone or opening my mouth to say anything but Yes, No, Excuse me, Please and Thank you. I even refused to call my grandfather, the light of my life, to see how he was. I couldn't stand to hear anyone's voice. I hated myself for being far away. I hated my dad for leaving us here. I hated life. I withdrew. I shut down. I disappeared. The only thoughts I had the remaining time I lived in PA was "It's cold..." Everything else, I forgot.

To this day, anytime something starts hurting me or when I'm feeling homesick...when I hear news from home or my friends try to reach out to me because they miss me, I just retract...hide...because I cannot handle the pain in my chest and stomach of having so much to say...but no point of saying it.

Tonight, I'm homesick for more than just home. Tonight I'm lonely, for more than just company and friends. Tonight I feel the pull of that quite, safe cave where no one can hear from me and I can be away from the world. The peace. The detachment. The throwing in of the proverbial towel. My white flag is ready to fly desperately through the air. Surrender. Leave me be.

Tonight, it's cold. I miss you.

Pride

Pride. Such a double-edged sword. We know when we are right, so it's understandable to want to defend our point at any cost...any cost. Do we ever sit down and calculate the cost of being right? Are we but products of a life in which any self love and sense of pride have been beaten out of us? Now that we have a chance to have our voices heard, our feelings exposed to someone who gives a damn about them...are we more preoccupied with having the control we were never able to achieve with anyone else?

What happens when pride is overrun by pettiness...selfishness? Part of getting the last word in a confrontation is being aware of the price you're paying for getting your way. You may just be making somebody pay for someone else's mistakes. Maybe someone else mistreated you...and what are you doing now, if not making this new person pay for other issues that lie somewhere out of your relationship with them? This is how you're repaying a brand new start, an opportunity...by becoming the very thing you loathed about others and how they treated you. That's how you're treating them. So, great, you won the battle. But you lost the war.

The point is that, sometimes, it is more than just pride or winning, even if you are on the correct side of an exchange. Everyone has a breaking point...that last straw that makes them realize that maybe they have been naive. That they too can be proud if they choose to, and they can cease to apologize or take the blame. No one wins. Pride wins. So, maybe Pride can sit with you and provide you with dinner company. Pride can tuck you to bed. Pride can fill the silence. You can love your Pride, but the Pride will only love itself. Rather expensive price to pay to prove a point that never existed, wouldn't you say? If you swallow your pride for those who aren't worth it or even thank you for doing so...why can't you do the same for the ones who need you and treat you with love and like you're worth something? Those who want to be in your life because, well, they just want to...not because they need things from you?

What's worth saving, when it's all said and done? We all will lay in the bed we made for ourselves. How do you want that bed to be?

"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine." ~ Elizabeth Bennet, Pride & Prejudice - Austen

Open [Hearted] Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

It is 2:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, January 24th. The year is irrelevant, since years float by like the fragment of a leaf being carried away swiftly in the turbulent current of an ageless mountain spring. I hope that, no matter where you are when you read this, you are happy and in relative peace with yourself. Life is short, many say...but have you really opened your eyes to see what this means? It means second chances only come once. It means every day is a clean slate...sure...we carry some things from the previous day with us or previous months...but technically, as soon as you open your eyes when you wake...that new day is completely in your hands. How will you choose to live those next unique 24 hours?

Me? I just got done giving my fishies a much needed bath. I spoke to each of them, as I they waited impatiently in their little measuring cup while I washed their bowl. Like you would talk to a child that won't sit still through dinner...so you promise them dessert or a reward if they just wait. A 27 year old woman, talking to her fish at 2 o'clock in the morning, while the rest of the world seemingly sleeps. Alas, the reason for this letter is not to dissect the many ways I am dysfunctional in a society that embraces even the most absurd of behaviors. No...

I write because, lately, there are words that have taken new meaning or perhaps regained new life. Love. Loss. Need. Lonely. Us. Promises. Dreams. Life. In a myriad of love songs created or poems written about the beauty of our surroundings...I never once felt that burning grip around my chest, tugging it down towards the pit of my stomach...longing. Not once did any word read compare to the bottomless abyss I found when looking in your eyes as you spoke of a long lost memory...your hands moving fast, accompanying the description you carefully laid before me. I write because I should be sleeping, but when I close my eyes...all I see, hear, feel...remember...is your beauty, your freedom, your words. Is this reason enough for a letter?

How else can I explain that when I think of you, my mind is overcome in an aurora borealis of heartbeats? That while you are off sailing seas of possibilities in a dream land where anything is possible...I am laying sideways on a cramped couch, with my toe uncovered and frozen, but with a huge grin on my face (albeit heaviness of the heart) thinking of when I'll get that jolt of life ... that breath of air again?

Time is all there is. Time both crawls by and speeds past us in a blink. But certain things, although evolving in many ways, keep their core. My heart remains untouched. My words may look the same, but imagine me reading this to you in a place where only we belong...and you'll see the words are non-existant...or not important...

But, for tonight, they had to find their way out into the universe. They cannot be contained or diminished. The fight will continue and the rewards will be worth every single thing that shows up along the way.

Life is short...But let's make it long.

Counting my heartbeats...or the ticking of Love's clock,

Yari

Goodnight, Stimpy (Uncle Edwin's Story)

I scrambled out of my parents' beat up Mazda hatchback, slamming the door forcefully behind me. Mom's voice broke through the squeaking of the window of the car, making its way down slowly.

"Don't go to bed late and don't eat with your eyes, Yaritza!" She looked up at the grimy apartment and yelled, "EDWIN! EDWIN! Open the door! La nena is coming up!...EDWIN!"

By then I was climbing up the dirty tile stairs up to my uncle's latest apartment. The fifth one in the last 3 months. Tugging on the straps of my overstuffed backpack, I tripped on the final step...just as my uncle opened the door, saying "Be careful, Frijolita". I dusted my knees off, and gave him a hug. Dad honked as they drove away, with my uncle waving them off and grabbing the backpack off my back. I stepped into the hermetically sealed flat, looking at my home for the next few days like some sort of dusty museum of the random. I ran to the balcony and stood on the ledge looking down at the cars passing by the narrow street below, one flip flop falling off my foot as I balanced myself. "Yari! Are you crazy!?", I heard my uncle yell after me as he threw my bag on a corner of the couch and hurried to grab me by the waist, pulling you down from the ledge. I looked up and smiled as he put his giant hooded jacket on me, zipping me up while gnawing his lip...concentrated.

"We're going to grab dinner, pimpollita." Pimpollita means, literally, little bump or boil. I never knew why he called me that. "But tío, it's hot out, I don't need a jacket." "Yari, it's almost nightfall and we're walking a mile to the Chinese food place. I don't want you getting sick when it gets colder at night." So, out the door we marched along...in the 'cool' Puerto Rican eve. By cool, I mean low 70's and me sweating my tiny behind off the whole way to the restaurant for take out and back to the apartment. The whole walk went by with my uncle gripping my hand tight, till both our palms were uncomfortably sweaty...dragging me along the narrow streets downtown. He'd walk quickly, half muttering words to himself or making small noises with his mouth, popping his lips, sniffling his nose like he had allergies, gripping my hand tighter every few steps and tugging his shirt collar over and over. Once back in the apartment, we'd sit quietly on an old dinning room set for two in his poorly-lit kitchen. I'd look over at the sink while we ate, and count the coffee mugs waiting to be washed.

“Tío…”, I’d pipe up from my side of the tiny table. “Hmm..?”, he’d acknowledge without looking up from his plate, gripping a balled up napkin on his left hand, almost like one would hold a rosary while saying silent prayers over and over. “When’s the last time you did the dishes?”, I’d ask carefully, trying to not make him feel judged. He looked up and methodicallyuncrumpled the napkin he had been clinging to, wiped his mouth over and over and pushed whatever ball of food he was chewing on at the moment to his right cheek while he answered. “Those are from today. I felt like drinking coffee. Just used a clean mug every time”, he said looking into my eyes and winking at me. I smiled, thinking he looked like a chipmunk holding his food in one side of his mouth, cheek puffed up. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with my feet dangling from my chair, toes slightly scraping the cool marble floor.

As soon as we were done, he’d grab our take out boxes and throw them in the trash. I watched, waiting for the routine. My uncle was a living routine. At least that’s what I thought…Uncle Edwin sure acts funny sometimes.

The trashcan was already empty before he put our take out boxes in it. Two small boxes in a completely empty trash bag. He’d reach under the sink and pull out the air freshener, bug killer spray and a new bag. He’d spray the freshener inside our trash, over and over. Sweep, spray…sweep, spray. Cover the freshener, check on the lid, check on the lid, smell the bag, uncover the freshener and spray again, cover the freshener, check on the lid, tug on the lid and put the freshener on the counter. Pull the bag out of the trash can, tie it once…twice…three times…tug on the knot…tie it once more, shake the bag, tip the bag, check for leaks, inspect the floor around the trash bag. Grab the bug spray, spray the bag, cough, Yari coughs, spray the bag, ask Yari to cover her nose with her shirt, cough, shake the bag, spray the bag, spray the trash can, ask Yariif she’s ok, cough, spray the bag. Put the bag on the tip of his shoes, so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and cover the bug spray. Tug on the lid, check the lid, check on the lid, uncover the spray, cover it again to make sure it clicks, again…check on the lid, tug on the lid, check on the freshener one more time, check the bug spray again, put both under the sink and announce he was taking the trash to the dumpster across the street.

I ran to the bedroom window, which let you see the stairs and the alleyway he had to cross to throw the trash. I was to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing happened…in this quiet part of town with no traffic or pedestrians. He walked down the stairs, stopped halfway and checked his pocket for his keys and looked back at the door. He climbed back up to the door, tried the key out to make sure it would open it, then locked it again. I felt him jiggling the handle a few times then try the key once more. Opened the door, closed it. Locked it. Walked down the stairs, checked the pocket for keys. Moved the keys from back pocket to front pocket and sighed, calling out my name “Yari…don’t open the door for anyone, oiste? I’ll be right there.” “Okay, I’m watching you. There’s no cars coming, hurry up so we can play Risk”, I yelled back. He shushed me, and headed down the rest of the steps, continuously checking his pockets and pulling the keys. He jogged to the dumpster and threw the bag in, closed the lid. He turned around, walked a few steps…then went back to the dumpster and rattled the lid. He then opened it and looked inside, then slammed the lid. Walked away, looked back...and I could tell he was struggling against his need to go back another time to make sure the trash was inside the dumpster, where he left it. I watched him dart up the stairs and lock the door a few times once he was back inside.

By now, his ritual had taken up most of our night...I looked up at the clock on his grimy wall and it was already 9:15 p.m. I sighed, and waited for him to say the words that would bring our night to an end...a long, drawn out end. "Charito, I'm gonna get the restroom ready so you can shower and we can go to bed. Go get your clothes ready. Your bag is on the top bunk bed". Yes, my 34 year old uncle slept on bunk beds. Anyways, I ran off and while I was gathering my pajamas, I heard the unmistakable sound of a chancla smacking against the bathroom wall or floor...killing a roach. I cringed and waited for him to get the shower going. He came out and told me to hurry up before I used up all the hot water. I went in and gave the bathroom a quick inspection, making sure the deceased was still squashed on the floor and hadn't reanimated to seek vengeance when I was mid-shower. After my shower, I got into my Batman pajamas (yes, they were boy pajamas, don't judge) and climbed to the top bunk to untangle my mane of curls. Through my curls I looked at my uncle do his thing...again.

He looked for his clothes. Stared in the mirror. Took out his contacts. Looked at the mirror for a long time. Opened the drawers, remembering he already had the clothes, closing the drawers. Looking in the mirror. Securing the contact lenses case over and over. Sniffling his nose even though he didn't have allergies. Excessive blinking. Licked his lips, bit his lips, cleared his throat. Look out the window. Look in the mirror. Check his drawers for clothes, look at the bottom bunk and seeing clothes there. Sitting on floor and taking off his sneakers and socks, placing them perfectly against the wall. Sniffling his nose. Biting his lip. Clearing his throat...looking up at me "I'll be right back, frijolita". Once in the restroom, I knew it would be at least an hour before he came out...so I laid in the top bunk, staring at the ceiling that ended up being entirely too close. I scanned the edges of the ceiling for spiderwebs...or worse...spiders. Nothing. Cars zooming by. His throat clearing. The shower going. Clock ticking. Cars zooming. Silence. The banging of him dropping the soap. The sound of him throwing said soap away and opening a new one. Clearing his throat. Mumbling. An hour later, the door opening and the smell of Irish Springs flooding the hallway, into the room.

He was dressed in jeans, a Lacoste polo and a belt. It made no sense to me...any of it. He was going to bed...so why dress up? But it was my uncle Edwin...who always had something "off" about him. We were taught to just accept it. It is who he is and he never harmed anyone by being himself. Either way, he stood in front of the mirror...nose sniffling, clearing his throat and grabbed the hair brush. I counted...he had a pattern, of course. He'd hold his forehead skin while he brushed his hair roughly 15 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then put gel, then brush it roughly 20 times to each side, then run his fingers through it, then comb it to the front...then to the side...then to the other side...then his fingers through it...then his bangs...then comb it back...then brush...(you get it). After 15 minutes of hair brushing, he'd put clean socks and his sneakers back on. Why? Why? Don't ask Yari, just watch. He looked in the mirror...and at my reflection from the corner of the mirror and make a funny face. I giggled, eyelids heavy...exhausted from watching him. How did he do this every day? How did he ever get anything done? He fixed his polo collar, tucked in his shirt and fixed his jeans to cover the top of his sneakers...and pulled his jeans up and spent 10 more minutes rolling up and pulling down his socks until they 'felt right'. Then jeans back down, over his sneakers, then brush his hair...look in the mirror and gnaw his lip. Finally...Lord...finally, he crawled into the bottom bunk bed and turned on his cd player with T-Rex or The Beatles on. I smiled, tapping my toe on the wall to the beat..and waited for it.

He would yawn in an exaggerated way, clear his throat loudly and say, in a goofy voice "Goodnight, Ren". I grinned in the dark and, in the same voice, said "Goodnight, Stimpy".

...If you've followed me this far on this post, I commend you. It exhausted me to think of his ritual, and utterly drained me to type it. But, hang on. There's a point to the back story, and its this:

When I was a bit older, I went on a trip to visit my family in Pennsylvania, and my uncle Edwin came with us. If you haven't guessed by now, he has severe OCD and slight schizophrenia. Manic depression. Name every possible mental health issue, and he probably has it. He hadn't traveled outside his hometown, since he moved back there from NY when he was 7. He only left his house for work or a quick errand. He never slept away from his house. So, needless to say, this trip to PA had him more on edge than usual...but with much persuasion from my grandmother, my father and other aunts...we managed to get him on board.

We were scheduled to stay for 2 weeks at my aunt's house in Allentown, PA. It was my parents, my grandmother (dad's side), my uncle Edwin and yours truly. We arrived on a Tuesday evening, around 10 p.m. and after the typical 'catching up', everyone trickled to their rooms for some sleep. I was sharing an empty bedroom (my aunt had just moved in, didn't have furniture) with my uncle. We were in sleeping bags and a tiny heater in the corner...it was winter. I woke up at around midnight, to quiet crying. When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped a few times when I saw my uncle, knees cradled against his chest and leaning his back against the wall...mumbling to himself and kind of crying. "Edwin...", I whispered. He looked over at me...but didn't really see me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever experienced. I didn't know if he had snapped...what do I do? I'm 10.

I slowly slid out of my sleeping bag, and walked out of the room. I got my Dad, who was incensed that Edwin (whom he teasingly called "Sassy") couldn't just be normal and let us have a decent night's sleep.

"Leave him alone, Carlos. Be soft with him...", my aunt whispered as she walked behind him to go help defuse the situation.

Dad barged into the room, I was leaning against the hallway wall outside. "Sassy. What's wrong? Why aren't you asleep?"

"I can't sleep unless I'm in my bunk beds. I can't sleep. I want to go home. Take me home. I don't want to be here. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds. I want my bunk beds...", my uncle cried over and over.

"Edwin, you freaking idiot, you don't need your bunk beds to sleep. And why are you sleeping in your jeans and sneakers? How are you supposed to relax with all that clothes on? Who the hell do you think you're going to meet at night that you're dressed like that?", Dad barked. "Millie, are you seeing this? He still sleeps with his shoes on. This is Mom's fault. She never made him take them off as a kid. Edwin! Stop crying!"

"Carlos, don't be so rough with him! If he wants to sleep dressed like that let him!", my aunt Millie yelled.

"Don't call me Sassy in front of the nena, Carlos!", my uncle Edwin whined back...referring to me.

"I will call you Sassy. Because you're a Sassy little girl. Pansy. Why can't you just go to sleep? I'm not taking you home. You're here for two weeks. Get used to it! Shut up and go to sleep, Sassy girl", Dad snarled.

"Don't call me that!", Edwin yelled. "Carlos! Leave him alone!...Edwin do you want to sleep on my bed? Is that better?", my aunt said softly. Edwin started mumbling about his bunk beds over and over and over. Non stop. Rocking back and forth.

"What's wrong with Edwin...?", my grandmother's voice came from down the hall.

"Nothing! He's being a baby. This is your fault, Mom. Look at him! You let him do whatever and indulged his weird habits and look at him now!", Dad yelled.

"Carlos! You're worse than he is making this scene! You're supposed to calm him down!", my aunt yelled.

"Well does anyone need coffee and a sandwich? I'm already up and in the kitchen making one for me...Edwin, quieres cafe?", grandma screamed from the kitchen. "Yari, here have a sandwich and coffee..."

"Mom!!! Stop feeding her all the time! It's 1 o'clock in the morning and you're giving her coffee!", Dad said while coming out to the hallway...face red...eyes agitated..."Yari! Don't you dare eat that sandwich this late at night! Your Mom's gonna kill me for giving you food all the time! Mom! MOM stop making sandwiches!"

"Carlos, please lower your voice I'm getting a migraine...", my aunt whispered.

"I'm leaving. I can't sleep here. I want my bunk beds. Carlos take me to the airport right now!", cried my uncle from the doorway.

And in the sea of finger pointing, resentment and coffee...I spoke up.

"Edwin, do you want to sleep on the couch? I'll lay on the floor next to you and it'll feel like bunk beds. You'll be higher and I'll be lower, right next to you...", I asked carefully.

Edwin paused for a second...and smiled. "Okay, frijolita. But be careful that I don't squash you".

So...the crowd dispersed...and I brought my sleeping bag to the living room floor, next to the couch. My uncle settled on the couch. The lights turned off. The apartment got quiet. He twist, he kicked, he turned, he sighed...The digital clock in the living room now read 2 a.m. He twist, he kicked...he was having a hard time. I reached my hand up and rubbed his forearm and said "Goodnight, Stimpy". He sighed and I could almost hear him smiling..."Goodnight, Ren". Sleep.

The next morning my grandmother, aunt and parents left to go sight seeing. Edwin, the hermit, refused to go...so I stayed with him. All day...

My family got back to the apartment at around 4 p.m. that afternoon...my dad slowly opening the front door into the living room.

"Oh..my...EDWIN! WHAT DID YOU DO?!", Dad yelled.

"Oooooh myyyy GOD. Edwin...are you insane?! THIS IS MY LIVING ROOM! Oh my God Oh My God my head...Oh My GOD!", my aunt said...a pained expression on her face...grabbing her head.

"What's wrong?! Is Edwin ok?? What's wrong?!", asked my grandma, still outside and unable to look into the living room.

"YES, MOM, Edwin is FINE. Look! Look at what he did!", Dad screamed. "Are you freaking crazy, Sassy?? You bought a BUNK BED? You bought a bunk bed and set it up in a living room?? Of someone else's house?? Edwin what were you thinking?!"

"Ay Dios mio, Edwin but where did you get a bunk bed?? How did you set it up! Yari! Why didn't you stop him from buying it!?", my aunt sighed.

"I'm going to make coffee...I can't handle this right now...", my grandmother sighed, making her way to the kitchen and taking in the scene:

Edwin and I, sitting on the top bunk. Both of us in pajamas and eating a huge bowl of Cheerios...watching cartoons...

My aunt walked away. My dad stared at us, shaking his head..."Yari, eating a huge bowl of cereal? Your Mom's going to kill you...or me. God dammit, Sassy."

...It's 3:13 a.m. Goodnight, Stimpy.