Prologue

How does someone go from being a person that is claimed by others for their own

needs to developing a relationship with the self that evokes empowerment and self love,

self valued decisions, healthy and happy relationships? To go from someone who is a

malleable child made for the expectations of others to a carefree person where self respect

is more important than the opinions of others?

First, she must try to be everything that is expected of her, she must lose herself in

the perception of others, she must find satisfaction in the approval of others, she has to be

a miserable person who doesn't have a sense of self who lives in fear of being taken

advantage of but does nothing to stop it.

Then, she has to start acting out pushing away the people trying to help her and let

in the people who make her feel something. She must find herself completely alone. She

has to fight like she has never fought before but not understand what it is she is fighting

for. It is a fight she is fighting on a subconscious level where she is still oblivious to her

own true feelings.

Finally, she starts to reflect on her childhood, her actions, her true feelings, and to

understand herself. She has to be painfully honest with herself and find a way to treat

herself with compassion and love. She needs to set clear boundaries with herself and then

other people in her life as well. She needs to be okay with losing people who she doesn't

value and who don't value her.

But how do you get to this point of strength and confidence? Is every person

capable of this or do you have to hit rock bottom before starting your life over?
 Youth

My mom was checking over her shoulder in the grocery store. I was sitting in the

cart because I was too big for the baby seat. The fear in her eyes disappeared when she

looked at me. She smiled. She could sense I was scared too. I had no idea what we were

afraid of.

My brother wore a swim shirt and trunks. I wore a one piece with pink swim

trunks over it. I still had to wear floaties on my arms. None of the other kids wore floaties.

The other girls my age were in bikinis. A group of four girls were all waist deep

comparing their belly buttons; if they had outies or innies.

I shouted out from beyond their closed gathering “I have an outie belly button.”

They looked at me quickly then turned back into their circle and giggled.

I went to my mom for a snack. She and Chloe were sunbathing on a large beach

towel.

My mom wrapped me up in a towel, “Eva, sweetheart, your lips are blue.”

I sat with them eating Goldfish and watching my brother splashing with his

friends.
 —

My dad had long hair and a trimmed beard. Eric and I watched while he unloaded

bags of concrete from his truck.

Family car rides we listened to Weird Al, our dad chose that. My mom and I would

sing her favorite pop artists from her young twenties. She was young when she had kids;

about twenty-four years old.

My mom and Chloe worked at the same company. My mom would drive to

Rochester and stay with Chloe. They would fly to NYC together and stay in the same

hotel. They would only go when a new project was getting started. They needed to meet

with the art director and author to figure out the design of the book. Chloe was a graphic

designer and my mom was an illustrator.

I would cry, holding onto my mom before she left. My dad had to peel me off of her

so she could leave. It made my mom cry too. She would say, “I know, I know. I’ll be back

home soon. Dad and Mawmaw will take care of you, sweetheart.” This happened about

once every three months. As I got older, it was easier to say goodbye. I didn’t hold onto

her or refuse to let go. But the grief I felt was just as intense when she left.
 She worked from home the rest of the time. She would close herself off in her art

studio, blasting upbeat music for six hours at a time.

Our dad took Eric and I to school, picked us up, and took care of us on the

weekends. My mom made her own schedule for work. She had deadlines to meet. That’s

why she would be locked in her studio for so long. If she wasn’t in her studio, she’d be in

the kitchen. She cooked us elaborate meals. She would blend up zucchini or broccoli that

we grew in our greenhouse in her cheese sauce when she made mac and cheese. She

would cook us desserts made with almond milk and greek yogurt instead of just dairy

products.

She called us every night she was away. Our dad would call for us to come

downstairs because she was on the phone. We would drop whatever we were doing to bolt

down to the living room. Our dad would lead the majority of the conversation. I didn’t

ever trust that it was her on the other end of the phone. Her voice sounded too different.

Maybe it was just because it was traveling through the speaker three hundred miles.

Maybe it was because the stress of work kept her in a professional space the entire time

she was traveling. I didn’t have much to say, I just listened intently. I hung on our dad’s

leg, tall, propped up by the floor as he sat on the couch. Eric talked a lot. He told her

random stuff that only he cared about. My mom was always happy to hear his voice. She

asked me specific questions. I didn’t know how to answer. She felt like a stranger over the

phone. I used blanket responses like, “yeah,” or “I don’t know,” or “no.” I couldn’t

completely comprehend what she and our dad were talking about. It was the language

they used was complex, stuff about her job.

 —

I was never allowed to stay over at friends’ houses. My mom dropped me off at my best

friend’s house, Jessica. We pulled into the driveway, it was a white house with an old

green door. Before we got out my mom said, “Okay, Eva. Make sure you are polite and

make sure her parents respect your personal space.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

“What do you do if someone puts hands on you?”

“Scream loud.”

“What’s my phone number?”

“607-664-6580”

“Good girl. Let’s go inside.”

I sat with my legs crossed on the bathroom sink. Chloe was doing her makeup, I

was watching her in the mirror. I rifled my fingers through her makeup bag. It had a

perfumy paint smell; the powder especially. Chloe leaned close to the mirror when she did

her eyes. She used her eyelash curler, I remember vividly the pinching of the hairs. She

lifted her eyebrow with one hand and held the curler in the other. Her mouth hung open as

she concentrated.

“Can I try?”

She never let me use her makeup.

“Your mom doesn’t want you wearing makeup sweetheart.”

 “Why not?”

“You’re not old enough.”

Chloe was my mom’s best friend. They did everything together. Chloe was always

at our house, they would go out together. Chloe lived in Rochester so when Chloe came to

visit it was for the entire weekend. Sometimes my mom would go to her place. The days

she would come back she would lay on the couch with her feet up and a cold rag on her

head. We had to be quiet those days. My brother and I would play outside and tip toe

when we walked through the house.

“Don’t smile at strangers.”

Maybe it cut out my openness to community belonging, fearful of finding new

people. Made it difficult finding friends and partners. Adults can’t be trusted and kids don’t

know better.

Watching Nickelodeon or any show with young teenagers comments from mom

“don’t ever do this, don’t ever do that” It was innocent to me.

It smelled like brownies. The aroma hit my face walking in. My sense of smell was

so much more intense as a kid.

I sat on the counter and licked the brownie dough off the mixer. The spots where

the brownie mix wasn’t mixed as well were like pockets of sugar that crunching into it

stimulated my sense of taste.

 I was in love with my mother as a toddler. I played with her long, dark brown,

almost black hair. I twirled it through my fingers. Entranced.

I studied my moms hands with calm eyes. Lovingly so.

“Eric, come down stairs,” my dad yelled.

I froze with wide eyes and looked at him. His eyes mirrored mine. He started

going, I followed behind him but stayed hidden on the staircase. Sound traveled in my

childhood home.

“What happened at school today?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

Our mom was chopping carrots in the kitchen. The repetitive chop of the knife

hitting the wooden board, and the momentum cutting through the raw carrots amplified it.

I was about half way down the stairs perked ears holding the railing that came up

to my shoulder. Must've been five of six. So my brother was seven or eight.

“Mom says Mrs. Anderson told her that you are failing and we should have gotten

your report card by now.”

Eric started crying, he was young enough that he still cried.

The chopping stopped. The footsteps of my mom traveled sound.

She spoke to Eric, “Babe, what’s going on? Why are you having a hard time?”

In a stuttered whiny voice Eric said between the breaths, “I don’t like school.”

It always smelled of skunk in my dad’s workshop. A lot of the time I would walk

in, he would be watching TV on his computer with a packed bowl by his side. His garbage
would be overfilled with packaging for all types of snacks, chips and sweets. My mom

refused to clean there. It was his problem, she would say.

The bowl was glass, striped red and back. It was shining and colorful. The burnt

flower inside reeked. When I studied it, I admired its curvatures and tried to comprehend

it in a dimensional way. It was precious to my dad. He held it in his pockets at all times. I

would look and feel the bumps and ridges of unidentified objects in his pockets. He had his

bowl, a lighter, nail clippers, keys, his phone, a pack of cigarettes, and his wallet. He

would pull random things out of his pocket.

I was in the living room, sitting on the carpet when he walked in. “Hang on. I got

something for you,” he would reach in and shuffle things around feeling for this mystery

item. He leaned back slightly to fit his hand into the black hole that was his pants pockets.

He pulled out a small and colorful rock. It was blue with bands of different shades

wrapping around. “I thought we could turn this into a necklace for you. It’s an agate from

the Genesee River. Agates are silica or other minerals found in water that collect in

bubbles of cooled lava. Pretty cool, huh?”

I held it in my hand admiring the shining stripes of color. “I love it,” I exclaimed.

“How do we make it into a necklace?”

“I was thinking we drill a small hole right here,” he pointed with his rough rounded

finger tip, “then we can just string some twine through it.”

My mom chimed in, “Maybe it would be better if we get a metal holder for the

stone. Those come with a hole already, then we can use a small chain instead of twine.”

“Do you know how to do that?”

 “No, but I can research it. Or I can take it to the jeweler and get it set there.”

“That’s going to be too expensive. Why don’t we just do it my way?”

I rubbed the stone with my thumb, following the voices back and forth with my

eyes.

“Wait, I have a better idea. We can use the gold wire I have and wrap it up then

attach the metal loop for the chain. Maybe use epoxy to make it extra sturdy? I just don’t

want it to look trashy only using twine.”

“Whatever works.”

I was in the playroom upstairs, on the colorful circle carpet. I had these stuffed

dolls that my mom and I designed together. We sewed on yarn for hair. My dad sewed the

clothes. Simple dresses, shirts, and pants with velcro in the back to take them on and off.

My mom and I decorated the clothes with gems and glitter. She painted on the faces. They

were realistic colors with stylized cartoon-like eyes. They had beds, couches, and a table

with chairs made of wood that my dad built in his shop.

I heard this repetitive banging that vibrated the house. I dropped my dolls and ran

to the window. Everything looked normal. I ran downstairs.

“Mom?” I called for her over and over again.

“What? What? Is everything okay?”

“What is that noise?”

“It’s just Dad working on the roof.”

 I ran out to go see. Eric was standing at the base of a ladder that reached all the

way to the roof. He was looking up.

“Where’s Dad?”

“On the roof.”

“I don’t see him. What is he doing?”

“He’s fixing it.”

“Dad,” I shouted up.

“Eva, stop. He's working.”

The banging stopped. Our dad approached the edge. He looked down at us with a

big goofy smile.

“What are you doing?” I yelled to him.

“I’m fixing the roof.”

“Be careful,” I was terrified of the edge he stood on.

He wobbled his body and arms yelling, “Woah.”

“Dad,” I screamed out.

He kept his balance and laughed. “I’m just kidding, guys.”

Eric and I looked at each other and laughed along.

“Why don’t you go play? Or you could go feed the goats and get them fresh

water.” He walked back from the edge, disappearing. The banging proceeded.

“You go get water. I’ll feed them.”

“Eric, no. I hate getting the water.”

“Sucks for you,” he ran down the hill toward the goat pasture.
 I sat down where I was in a huff. I picked the tall weeds and braided them into a

crown of grasses.

“Fucking Christ,” my dad cursed. The hammer came flying down in the grass next

to me. He started down the ladder.

I stayed sitting watching him descend. He walked past me and toward the front

door. I followed him.

My mom always loved a cloudy day. She would tell Eric and I about growing up in

Northern Minnesota.

“It was a winter wonderland. In the morning all the trees would be covered in a

shimmering ice that would catch the light of the sun. Or if it had just snowed. The snow

would weigh down the tree branches so they were touching the ground. Your dad and I

would go on walks at the old cabin, he would shake a tree branch and all the snow would

fall on top of my head and in my coat,” she said all of this with a smile and love in her

eyes, “The snow would pile up so high. I have a vivid memory of one of my classmates

and his brother, climbing a snow pile up onto the roof of their parents' motel. I was just

driving past. The snow would gather up so much that people would gather it with big

construction equipment. They loaded it up in the park and people made snow sculptures

out of it. It was the winter festival. The sculptures were so enormous. Some were for

looking at, but others we could climb on. Once someone made a cabin out of snow, another

time they made a car. At recess kids would work on snow forts all winter long. They
became so elaborate. With different tunnels to crawl through and fake living rooms

completely under the snow.”

Our mom’s eyes glazed over as she laid on her side on the couch. My face matched

hers in height.

“Mom?” I pawed at her face. Touching her soft cheek. Her eyes shifted to meet

mine.

“Yeah, sweetheart? What do you need, baby?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just resting.”

“Why?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“Are you sick? You need the doctor?” I kept petting at her cheek.

“No, I’m okay.”

“Mawmaw is coming to stay for a while.” My mom and dad had sat Eric and I

down at the kitchen table to talk.

Our mom elaborated, “She is going to move into the guest bedroom. She can’t take

care of herself very well anymore and she needs help. I’m going to Minnesota in a couple

days to help her move. I’ll be gone for about a week, packing up her stuff. Your Auntie

Katie will be there too helping pack her up.”

 “Is Auntie Katie coming too? Is she bringing Elliot and Candace and Matilda?” I

never got to see my cousins on my mom’s side unless we went to Minnesota.

“No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Auntie Katie isn’t coming to New York, just

Mawmaw.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier for Mawmaw to move in with Auntie Katie since they both

live in Minnesota?” Eric had a habit of bringing contradictions to the conversation.

Our dad was the one to respond to his comments, “Eric, they don’t have the space

for your Mawmaw. She is moving here. End of story.”

“I’m not mad about it. I just thought it would be easier.”

“What you need to realize is that the adults have already discussed this and

thought about all the options. This is our decision.”

My mom couldn’t help herself from comforting, “It's okay, Eric. We appreciate you

trying to help. But like Dad said, this is the best option.”

“Baby, it feels like you don’t trust me.”

I listened to them through their bedroom door.

“That’s not true. I do trust you.”

“Why aren’t you telling me what’s going on?”

“I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“Then be honest,” my dad’s voice was strained. He seemed angry, but I could tell it

was just fear.

 “I can’t talk to you and be vulnerable with you when you get pissed at me all the

time. You wonder why I’m scared to tell you things, well…”

“Yup. My fault again.”

“Oh my god,” my mom let the words drag out. “There’s no winning with you. I’m

just trying to tell you how I feel.”

“You’re dancing around it. You’re not saying anything. You’re leaving me in the

dark. What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“There’s nothing I’m not telling you. I said what I said. I’m not happy. This is

incredibly hard for me to say. I don’t ever stand up for myself.”

“You say that. You say you don’t stand up for yourself. Stop making me the bad

guy. Just say it.”

“There’s nothing to say,” my mom’s voice got higher pitched and louder. “I’m

trying to tell you how I feel and now we are fighting. What is happening? I can’t. I can’t

do it.”

My heart raced with every indignant word. Why would my mom do this to my dad?

I thought of her as an imposter. I was suspect of her, as my dad was.

“Mom, are we Christians?”

“Well, your Mawmaw is and your Pops is. But your Gram is not and neither are

your dad and I. You can be whatever you want to be, sweetheart.”

“Can I go to church with Pops on Sunday?”

 “Yes, of course.”

My mom was boiling noodles and making a sauce. It smelled of garlic and onion as

they simmered in the buttered pan.

“The pastor said there is only one God. And we need to be loyal and faithful to

Him.”

“That’s what Christians believe, yes.”

“So why don’t you believe it?”

“I love seeing you get older and start asking these philosophical questions.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I was still waiting for her answer. She

took her time thinking.

“Well, I believe everybody is right about religion, including people who do not

follow a religion. Does that make sense?”

“No. How can everyone be right? What other religions?”

She used a fork to pick a long spaghetti noodle out of the steaming pot. “In

Judaism and Islam they believe in the same god that Christians do, but not Jesus. In

Hinduism there are hundreds of gods. In Buddhism there are none, but they look

internally for enlightenment.” She bit into the pasta, made a dissatisfied face. “While

those all have major differences in their foundations, they all share the same morals about

how to treat your fellow humans. They all look for answers to their suffering and have

faith in the world. I believe we are all our own gods, in the unidentified definition of the

word. It is the same god that is in everyone but it is unique to every person.”
 What I heard at the time was contradicting itself. She told me everyone is right

even though everyone believed different things. I didn’t have a response.

“Is that confusing?” She glanced up, made eye contact shortly, and returned to

stirring the red sauce with a wooden spoon.

“Yeah, I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to understand it all right away. All you need to do is be open to all

ideas right now. Don’t close yourself off too quickly by writing yourself off as one thing or

another. You are only eleven, you have a long time to figure this out.”

I hated being called a child. As if my experience was minimized by my smaller

number. That number degraded my intelligence somehow. I thought if I was able to

question it, I deserved answers.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Baby?”

“Don’t call me a baby.”

“Okay. What do you need?”

“I have a question about religion.”

He paused his show and put down his nail clippers. He swiveled in his chair to face

me.

“What’s up?”

“Well, Mom says all religions are right. But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Everyone gets to have their own opinions.”

 “What do you think?”

“I believe in the cycle of life. We are born, we die, another is born.”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

He said with a breathy laugh, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Jesus was a real person who existed in history, but Chistians use religion as a

way to attack other people.”

“But Pops is Christian and so is Mawmaw.”

“I’m not talking about every person ever. Just the institution is corrupt and you

can’t trust people that make Jesus their entire personality.”

“Eric, do you believe in Jesus?”

“That’s a stupid question. Did you come in here just to ask me that? Get out of my

room.”
 Adolescence

The experience of a young teenager is unique. Life is romanticized. A lot of what

you’re doing is for the first time. The events that happen seem more important than ever

before. You’ll look back on them for the rest of your life. I noticed more of life around age

fifteen. The houses on the streets, the minor details in the neighborhood. Things I had

been looking at my whole life started looking different. Like I was seeing them for the first

time. I would stare at the bowls and cups and spoons that we had since being young. The

memories I had associated with them and how I perceived them, they seemed strange. I

was able to go between the idea I had of them and the new sight. It was like one of those

illusion illustrations where there are two images hidden in one. You see one at first glance

then without control your mind shifts to the other image. It was out of my control, but like

an illusion it kept me curious.

I went on more walks. The trees were much taller than me, I had gotten used to it.

Once I looked up and took the moment to acknowledge the trees I was stunned by their

towering height. I was but an ant in a field of grass. I could identify most trees in the new

york region thanks to my dad’s passion for environmental biology.

“That’s a black walnut. You can tell because …”

“Look at all of the mature sugar maples here!

“Check that out, dogwood. A flowering dogwood.”

“These Hemlocks are beautiful don’t you think? Tsuga canadensis”

“That's a white pine. Pinus strobus.”

 —

A man’s arms are objectively stronger than my own. So my mom taught me how to

fight dirty. Eyes, the keys in. To pull them closer to you. Most people try to push them

away but that leaves your arms out in front of you, vulnerable. If you can pull them closer

to you or get closer to them you can bite them. Anywhere, anything you can reach with

your mouth. My jaw is strong. I’m stacked out with objects that could be used as

weapons. My sturdy metal water bottle with the handle makes a good grip to swing. But if

you're swinging something at someone there's a chance they catch it and then they can

use it against you. This is what I thought about laying in bed.

That and Jonah. He embarrassed me. Every time I saw him my stomach was

unsettled. The aversion I had to him was sickening. I never had a solid reason to not like

him. He was kind. And he offered a hand. He was polite all the time but that freaked me

out. What was the side of him I wasn't seeing? Who was he really?

I started wearing baggy clothes. I was more comfortable being draped in cloth,

unrecognizable what was beneath. I knew my mom was happy my body was covered but I

could tell she was worried about the sudden change. I only wore my hair in a bun. It

wasn’t as noticeable when my hair was dirty. I stopped caring if I was cute.

Even though she's acting out she doesn’t want to be seen by her mom she’s worried her

mom will see her as the object she thinks others see her as.

—
 Fall was so comforting at fifteen. The ability to wear thicker layered clothing

without sweating … the cool air transition, the smell of the leaves, the cloudy days, the

apple trees ripe and dropping their fruits red, bitter sweet, the thick skin of a true apple, it

was unbeatable. The fresh breeze blew onto my face, chilling my cheek and lifting the

aroma to my nose. Going into a warm home from the cool air, opening the door greeted

with the hug of the heated room drew me in.

The schedule of school was comforting as well. I set my alarm for six in the

morning to have the almost ceremonial routine of brushing my teeth, showering, drying

myself and hair, and putting on a clean well crafted clothing set. I poured my bowl of

cereal and sat at the kitchen counter to spoon the crunchy sweet and let the cold of the

milk wake up my tired mouth. I drank a cup of black tea and packed my school bag. Sit out

on the front porch steps and wait for the bus to pull up. I had my regular bus seat toward

the front where no one else sat. I placed my headphones in my ears and let the rhythm and

beat of the music and bouncing of the loud bus bring me to school.

My Mawmaw sat at the piano, filling the entire bench. Her body swayed as she

went from key to key. She sang the notes while she learned the new songs.

“And then we go back to E. E, E, E.”

She had a constant dialogue with herself. Her mind never stopped. She tapped

away at her phone, narrating what she was doing and letting out any thought she had.

“How do I get to messages? Click this button. Oop. No, I don't want that. This stupid

phone.” She had a thick Minnesota accent. Those long Os. And her laugh came from her
belly. It was a new laugh every couple seconds, a deep honking inhale or a snort always

followed a deep chuckle. My dad made her crack up laughing. He made the whole family

break out in laughter. He had a way of letting go of any worry of judgment to act or speak

in a ridiculous way. Mawmaw made him laugh too. She made him laugh unintentionally. It

wasn’t her trying to make a joke, it was just her. It was the lack of logic she exhibited

daily. They were closer friends than he would’ve ever admitted.

Eric was off on his own thing. I didn’t have that tight knit group of friends he did. I

stayed home after dinner to do my homework when he went out. Mawmaw was a school

teacher until she retired, so she helped me with my assignments. She taught English and

music. When I was reading the Great Gatsby, she would be my personal book club. She

asked me about the social class dynamics between the characters. She helped me to

analyze the title of the novel. She brought up the role women played in the novel. This

ended up being my topic for my essay on it.

I wrote about how women symbolized materialism. I cited Tom using Myrtle for

sex, while Myrtle used Tom for his money. My thesis was that even though this was set in

the 1920s, this is still a social trend today. My English teacher, Mrs. Boyd, encouraged

me to submit it to a literary contest. I couldn’t bring myself to agree to it.

I walked in from basketball practice to my mom calling my name from the kitchen.

Drink in hand and a counter between us she said, “Mrs. Boyd called me today. She

said you wrote a wonderful essay on the Great Gatsby and wants you to submit it to a

literary contest?”

“I can’t believe she called you. Yeah, she wants me to, but I’m not doing it.”
 “Why not?”

“It’s not my thing.”

“What isn’t your thing?” She held eye contact, she was invested in the

conversation.

“Contests, the competition.”

“But you play basketball?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, she seems to think it is something really special, that you have a good

chance of winning.”

“I don’t want to win. I don’t want to submit it at all.”

“Can I at least read the essay?”

“No way.”

“Then tell me what it’s about.”

“It’s just about the Great Gatsby.”

“Yeah, I know that. What was your thesis?”

“That women represented materialism.”

She returned to her simmering pan of garlic and onions, “I’m raising a little

feminist, aren’t I?” She looked proud.

I felt ashamed.

—
 My mom drank gin or vodka. She made mixed drinks with seltzer and ice. She was

clumsy in the kitchen because of it. She would be on her second by the time we sat down

to eat. She had her third while doing the dishes. Her fourth, relaxing for the evening.

Mawmaw was sober for ten years. She used to have a problem with alcohol. She

was a lot better in her older years. She would have a glass of wine at night, but stop

there. She was always goofy, so when Mawmaw drank it was just more fun.

When I was 15, my mom started talking to me as an adult. She would drink too

much. It would be her, Mamaw, and I at the round tea table.

Mamaw would go to bed earlier than us. I’d still be working on my homework and

my mom would still be on her laptop with a glass in hand.

“Your father and I,” she scoffed.

I looked up from my moving pencil. “What about you and Dad?”

“He can be a real asshole sometimes. But I love him.”

“Okay, harsh.”

My mom gasped then covered her mouth, “Oh I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t

have a filter. He’s a sweet man. He just-”

“Mom, I’m trying to focus.” Her words replayed through my head as I scribbled

through my geometry problems.

—
 A sound in the back of my head. Me. My internal mind, screaming unintelligible

words.

My sophomore year was the first time I had a male teacher. My mom warned me to

never be alone with him. She said to stay with a friend or another teacher. Mr. Mast, was

the coach of the football team. He lectured like he hated his life. It was more boring to him

than it was to the students. Mr. Mast had a growing gut and a bald head. I enjoyed

reading the history textbook but hated his lectures. He lectured like he hated his life. It

was more boring to him than it was to the students. We had an upcoming test on Friday;

it was Tuesday. We were reviewing ancient civilizations. I was one of the couple students

who would raise their hands in class. Not because I wanted to but because the silence in

the classroom after Mr. Mast asked a question that was unsettling.

Jessica was just as smart as me, but she was barely passing. She did the bare

minimum to get by. She changed once we got into high school. She started wearing heavy

makeup, dying her hair bright colors, and using an attitude with our teachers. She didn’t

care what people thought of her. For that reason I envied her. She stopped talking to me

as much, we never had an actual falling out.

“What was the difference in agricultural invention between ancient Mesopotamia

and China?” Mr. Mast called on Jessica.

“I don’t know.”

I knew she knew.

 “Then guess.”

“I also don’t care.”

That was true.

The guy behind me was on the football team. He would extend his legs out under

my chair and hook it around the legs. I noticed when I dropped my pencil. I leaned down

to the right to pick it up and saw his high top Nike shoes linked around the foot of the

metal chairs. I found it odd. He didn’t care if it was my chair and my space. Most people

avoid others at all costs so as not to be perceived.

On Friday, the day of the test, he came up to me while I was eating school

breakfast.

“Hey,” he said, like I should have known how to respond.

In a questioning tone I replied, “Hi.”

“Can I have your notes from history?”

“Um, sure.” I started rifling through my backpack. I felt his eyes watching me. I

put my notebook on the table, flipped to the section for the test, and ripped out the pages.

When I handed them to him he said, “Goddamn there are like ten pages here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What is going to actually be on the test? I have to get at least a C.”

“Well, I don’t really know. That’s why I took so many notes.”

—
 “Your Mamaw is a good grandma. She is always helping you with whatever. She

never treated me like that. I raised myself. I did the cleaning, the cooking, the shopping.

You’re lucky you don’t have to do all that, you know?

“Yup, Mamaw is a good grandma.”

“And you’re lucky. That’s the point, is: you’re lucky.”

“I’m just going to work on this upstairs. I can’t concentrate.”

“Okay,” she said like ‘go ahead, do whatever you want.’

He stood behind me in line as we followed the proper procedures of the serving of

lunch. One foot after another, shoulder to shoulder, scoop after scoop of mini corn dogs

then baked beans then curly fries. I always loaded my tray with assorted fruit; a canned

variety of peaches, pears, grapes all soaking in a light syrup giving it a dull color and

concerning texture. I spoke to the servers with quiet respect, he spoke with brute

confidence.

I let him lead us to a spot to sit, it was more isolated from his normal group of

friends we sat with. It was the end of a more empty table. Some people, less socially

conscious than most, populated the other end. When I placed my tray I glanced at them,

they glanced at me. We both shared a look of anxiety and confusion as to why we were

sharing a surface for our meal.

“Why are we sitting here?”

“My friends are pissing me off,” James revealed.

 “Why? What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid. They like to fuck with me.”

“Oh. Okay,” hesitant, I said, “I’m sorry.”

He changes the subject, “Have you ever seen Superbad?”

“No.”

“What?” He exclaimed, with a cheeky open smile, “How have you never seen it?”

I feel the humor in my chest and face. “I don’t know,” I smile small, “I just

haven’t”

“Well you have to watch it. Jonah Hill and Michael Cera are trying to get booze for

these babes. Their buddy, what the hell is his name? You know that dorky ass looking

dude with black hair, glasses?”

“I need more info than-”

“Fogell,” he shouts. “That’s his name in the movie. Oh my god, it’s so funny. He

gets a fake, but on the ID his name is McLovin.” He was so expressive.

His passionate energy and entertainment in his eyes was flattering to me. His body

shifted as he got more invested in telling me the plot. I laughed along with him.

Anticipating each word he said.

I ate my fruit. The light syrup seeped along the plate intermingling with the juice

from the baked beans in a disturbing way. The sight of the greasy seasoned fries upset my

stomach. I ate one corndog. The breading was undercooked and the meat was

uncomfortably soft.

“Are you going to eat your lunch?”

 “No, it’s honestly grossing me out.”

He thought I was flirting when I wasn’t. He was a friend in my eyes. Well, I could

feel the lust. He complimented my eyes, somewhat in a casual way, where I didn’t expect

it.

“Um…” My heart sank. I felt the pull of my cheeks in a natural frown. I swallowed.

“Okay, then.” I hoped he could sense I was uncomfortable. I didn’t want him thinking he

could make a move.

When Mamaw retired for the night, I found myself doing it too. I was gathering up

my papers and book when my mom spoke up.

“Why do you always go up to your room right when Mamaw leaves? You spend so

much time in your room.”

“Well Mamaw helps me with my homework, and then I go upstairs just so I can

focus. Keep all the stuff she said in my head while I finish.”

“Your brother is always out with his friends. You’re always up in your room. Dad

is in the garage. I’m sitting here all alone every night.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No, do whatever you want, Eva.”

I spread my homework back out on the round table.

The bell rang. No one was left in the halls.

 “We’re late. We should go.”

He leaned in with his hand on the locker by my head. “It’s fine. No one is here

now.”

His face got closer to mine. I was scared to look at his eyes, they were charging me

like a bull. He pressed his lips on mine. They were wet and unwanted. Mine pursed

inward, my chin reverted in toward my neck.

He pulled back in confusion and anger. He stepped back. He took a deep breath and

then chuckled to himself. “Are you kidding me?” He started in on me saying I was a tease.

I ran away to class.

“Yeah, get the fuck away from me,” he yelled at the back of my head.

Everyone looked at me when I walked in the room. Then they looked away. Mr.

Mast paused and then kept teaching. I pulled my shirt down to make sure my hips were

covered. As I sat in my chair I let my backpack slide off my one shoulder. The chair

behind me was empty. There was a loud bang of a locker outside the classroom. I flinched,

people looked at each other confused. Mr. Mast excused himself to check it out. He

exasperated then shut the door behind him. His words were angry but muffled through the

door.

“Office. Now.” We all heard that one.

People made hushed comments. Some laughed slightly. My heart was racing. I was

relieved he wasn’t going to be sitting behind me for the rest of the hour.

When Mr. Mast walked back in, everyone silenced in his presence.

—
 Chloe crashed at our house. She was in the bathroom when I was trying to leave

for school.

I called to her through the door, “Dude, I’m going to be late.”

“Girl, cool your tits. I’m out,” she opened the door. She eyed me down in a way I

knew she was frustrated but wasn’t taking it personally. She was taller than me: maybe

5’10” I didn’t grow taller than 5’5”

Eric and I sat in the back of the car. Our mom and dad were arguing. Our dad

spoke with emotion in his voice. Sometimes sad, sometimes mad. Our mom spoke in a calm

monotone way, very careful and cautious. Until she reached her limit then she yelled our

dad’s name in a begging manner. It was the silence that followed that burned us. Eric

would look at me, I felt the rays of his eyes on the side of my face. I couldn’t look at him.

If I met Eric's gaze, I would’ve broken into tears. Instead, I would hold my thumb tight

with one hand and squeeze. The pressure of blood would build up in my thumb and I could

feel the pulse. It emptied my head, no thoughts passed. Eric knew this was something I

did, but he hated it. He pulled at my arm to get me to release my thumb. It never hurt, it

just felt. When I didn’t let go, Eric unbuckled and urgently shifted to the middle seat and

grabbed my hands.

“Eva, stop.”

My mom looked back at us, “Eric, get back in your seat. Buckle your seatbelt.”

He ignored her, “Eva, seriously, stop.”

 Out of frustration, I lifted both of my hands in the air. “Fine. Fine. Just leave me

alone.”

“What is going on back there?” Our dad called out.

“Nothing,” Eric and I both said in unison.

The silence returned.

My dad’s arms were comfort. I settled in with my cheek on his shoulder. He kissed

the top of my head, I knew because I felt the warmth of his face contact, his beard hair

linked in with my roots in a gentle way. Like a gentle velcro.

“Sorry honey, I just need to have the freedom to move right now. I’m sorry.”

I slinked away, knowing the importance of personal space.

I was moving hay bales from storage to the goats’ pen. Jonah jogged up to me and

started lifting the bale of hay already in my arms.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help. It looks heavy.” He walked backwards as we spoke.

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“I do this all the time.”

 He let go of the hay, the weight dropped with his release. Trying to balance the

shifting weight, my booted foot slipped in the mud. I fell forward into the rough sturdy

bale.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Eva.” He reached his hand out to help me up.

“It’s fine.” Embarrassed enough, I refused his hand. I picked the hay back up and

walked on. I assumed Jonah believed I wasn’t capable, at that moment, I thought I proved

him right.

“Dude, she’s a bitch. Just break up with her,” Eric was with his friends in the old

bus our dad had turned into a temporary home. Now it was just a hang out place. I was

trying to catch our cat, Curtis, to give him his eye drops. Curtis had run under the bus so I

was crawling under it with treats just trying to grab him. I didn’t intend to overhear their

conversation.

His egotistical buddy, John, had been dating this girl for six months. She was

gorgeous. She was one of the girls at school that made me lower my head when she

passed by me because she made me ashamed of my own body.

John said, “I have to keep her around in case I get bored.”

All of Eric’s friends burst out laughing at that.

“Bro, that is not a good reason to have a girlfriend,” Jonah had morals.

John, completely cocky, said, “Yeah, I know. She’s crazy, but she’s got that grip.”
 An uproar of laughing shook the bus. The door squeaked open suddenly and

slammed shut.

I was laying flat on my stomach hoping no one would notice me. Curtis sat like a

bread loaf about fifteen feet away, with his head on a swivel to every noise. It was Jonah.

He sat down on the first step up to the door and lit a cigarette. I didn’t know he smoked.

He was only seventeen, I don’t know where he could’ve even gotten cigarettes. I watched

his boots and the cuffs of his jeans as he ashed it onto the grass.

The door squeaked again and Eric’s voice greeted him. “He was just joking around,

man.”

“No, he really wasn’t.”

“Well, he would never say that in front of any girl, so what’s the big deal?”

“Eric, the guy’s a dick. Why are we even hanging out with him?”

“He’s not that bad. Take a joke man.”

There's something about a corner that is comforting the known safety that no one

is behind you to your right or left and all that could happen is before your eyes. But

something about a corner is not safe; there's nowhere to go, backed in. if there was

someone directly in front of you, your only choice would be to fight or to give in.

—
 I got reunited with Jess the summer before our junior year. I was at the beach with

Eric and his friends. That was a fun summer. Eric was about to go off to college and he

finally started including me in his friend group. I was wearing a two piece that covered my

stomach and a light swimsuit cover-up.

Jess was at the beach too. Her friends knew my brother’s friends so we all grouped

up. We walked the trail into the woods. We stopped at a campfire ring. Her friend, a lanky

dude with long hair, pulled out his bowl and started packing it without breaking the story

he was telling about his mentally ill step mom.

It was a ritual I’d seen many times before but never partaken in. As he inhaled the

flame of the lighter drew into his breath, sparking the green a glimmering red. He pulled

the bowl from his face. In a voice held in with his breath he said, “And then,” he released

the smoke. “That bitch,” he coughed a little, “came back home after her big scene shit

faced.”

The group laughed with him. He passed it around. When it got to my brother, he

hit it with ease like it was nothing. He knew the steps in the ritual. Once it got to me I

held it but did nothing. I was caught in the headlights.

“You gonna hit that?” One of Jess’s guy friends was more blunt than the others.

“I’ve never done it before.”

“Eva,” Eric exclaimed, “never?”

“No, I don’t know how.”

He chuckled but came over by my side to show me.

 “You just cover this hole with your thumb, breathe in, once you feel the smoke let

go of the hole and keep breathing in.”

I fiddled with the lighter but couldn’t get it to ignite.

“Here, give it.” Eric got it in one try and lit the bowl for me. He talked me through

the steps as it happened.

It was hot, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself so I knuckled under. A chunk

came with the smoke and hit the back of my tongue and throat. I started coughing a

storm. I stepped away to not be in the center of attention and spit out the burnt weed.

“Damn, she got shit on,” the rude guy yelled. The group groaned and awed, like

they knew the feeling and hated it collectively. Eric couldn’t stop laughing, and a couple of

his friends were laughing too. Jonah hit them and told them to stop. Jonah handed me his

water bottle.

The rest of the afternoon into evening was interesting. I stayed close to Jess

because she felt safer than all the boys. SheHer and I laughed together when the guys did

idiot guy things. They ran around the woods like rodeo clowns obsessed with each others’

asses. I never understood highschool boys.

My dad was better with his words than my mom. He taught me how to drive. He

made it simple.

“Put it in reverse, crank the wheel all the way. Start to straighten it out, okay now

crank it the other way. Now, straighten it again. Even yourself out a little. You're too

close to the car in front here. There you go. Perfect.”

 I had nightmares that the brakes wouldn’t work. I pressed into them, slammed my

foot down. The car wouldn’t slow down fast enough. I’d slam into a tree, then wake up.

I got home early from basketball practice. I dropped my backpack on the floor by

the front door. I heard muttering voices coming from the kitchen. The sound of my

mother's strained voice is something that brought me immediately to a place of needing to

protect her. I assess the situation by carefully stepping toward the kitchen. I hear a loud

bang like a sheet pan falling from the counter. A laugh was belted, it was Chloe's. My

stress decreases knowing it wasn't my parents fighting. I push the kitchen door open in a

confident stroll and a relaxed demeanor. Chloe was kneeling, my mom was naked sitting

on the counter, and the baking sheet was lying on the floor. My mom and I made eye

contact, she pushed Chloe's head away from her. I froze for half a second then bolted out

of the house.

I left everything; I had no keys, no phone, nothing. There was no way I was

walking back into that house. I ran for twenty minutes into the forest, not knowing where

I was going. I ended up at our regular party spot. It was spring so the air was warm, but

the ground was wet. I sat on the log by the firepit.

Jonah had to drive me home. He definitely wasn’t sober, I was far from it. Jonah

pulled into our driveway. Put the car in park. He looked over at me. I was comfortable

looking in his eyes.

 He leaned in and kissed me. I didn't stop him. I was flattered, and it was Jonah. My

heart raced but I felt sick in my stomach.

He stopped and we both chuckled. Mine was in embarrassment, his was in

euphoria.

I went shopping with Jess for cuter clothes. All of mine made me feel like a child. I

was stuck in my middle school wardrobe. The shirts fit me better. We picked out skinny

jeans. Some with rips, some without. I liked what I saw in the mirror, she was thin and

mature. Jess was less interested than me. Nonetheless, I was confident, prideful, sexy.

Something I was never allowed to be.

Jess brought makeup to school for me and we would do my makeup in the morning,

skip breakfast, in the girls bathroom. I washed it off before basketball practice. No one at

home saw me wear it. Eric knew, he saw me at school. But he didn’t seem to acknowledge

it or care.

I was at a moral crossroads. My dad, the man who raised me. He had good

character and morals. A loyal man. I saw their relationship through a new lens. My mom’s

quirky cute personality flaws were no longer adoring. Her lack of a social filter in

conversation, her mental health struggles, the drinking. It wasn’t funny anymore. It

wasn’t worth the effort to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was evil in our household.

I learned to define the world through good and bad. What was okay and what

wasn’t. There wasn’t any budging on my part. There were some things that deserved the
judgment. Judgment had its place. It was what helped me to find people I connected with.

It was how I kept myself safe from untrustworthy men. It was who I was.

I decided to tell my dad.

“Dad, do you have a second?”

I went to the garage to speak to him. My heart was racing.

“Yeah, Eva, of course. What’s up?” He paused the comedy he was watching.

“I don’t know if I can tell you this.”

“Just spit it out.”

“Well, its not an easy topic for me to talk about,” attitude in my voice.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

We paused for a moment while I worked up the courage.

“Eva, you can tell me anything. No judgment.”

“It’s mom.”

“Is she okay?” Urgency.

“No, yeah. Mom is fine. I just saw something I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Oh. Okay?” I knew it was killing him to know. He hated when things took longer

than they needed to.

I couldn’t hold it together. Tears poured. He put his arm around me.

“Hey. Hey. Eva, it’s okay. What did you see?”

“Mom was with Chloe. I was coming back from practice and she was with Chloe in

the kitchen. And I think mom is cheating on you. And I don’t know how long this has been

happening. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 He hugged me tighter into his chest. “Are you serious?”

I nodded. His hand was on the back of my head. His torso jerked with each sudden

breath and he kept holding me. I felt a tear on my scalp. I pulled back to see his face. He

wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He pulled himself back together for me.

“I’m so sorry, dad.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. Don’t you blame yourself.” He pinched his nose bridge

and scrunched his eyes. He took a deep breath in. “You are very brave for telling me.

Thank you. I’m proud of you. You’re a good person, and a great daughter.” He took

another breath then looked at me. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this. Is there

anything else?”

I felt stunted by the surge of emotions that transpired. “That was all basically. Are

you gonna be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. This is between your mom and I.” We took a moment in

silence. “Does she know that you know?”

“Um, I don’t know. She saw me see her.”

“See her doing what?” He shook his head quickly, “Don’t answer that. You don’t

need to relive it. I’m sorry.”

Adulthood

— 1st Year —

I went to college at RIT for photography. I got a job as a photojournalist in the

Report Magazine, the student led newspaper. I covered events on campus; such as pep
rallies, special events like latin dance. I worked closely with the artists and writers on

campus. Going to college I met many people I never would have. It's a slew of new social

potential.

I hadn’t talked to my mom since she and Dad moved me into my dorm. I didn’t

want her to come, but my dad insisted. I knew mom was speaking through him. I had

heard the fighting through the walls before leaving.

I’d pulled into this gas station how many times my first semester? I needed new

tires, but I was too fearful to walk into an auto repair shop. As I kneeled down to unscrew

the cap off the wheel pressure pin I noticed a truck trying to pull past me. It was a small

gas station, cramped. I stood and moved off to the side so he could drive by. I heard him

yell, “You’re too pretty to be doing this yourself.”

I was processing the noise into words and trying to avoid his eyes. He was a fat old

man wearing a cowboy hat.

“Smile,” he yelled, no, demanded. He sped off, so I had no chance to respond.

A growl grew in my throat. No expression of sound left. I was silenced. I proceeded

to fill my tires with his voice repeating in my head. Smile. Smile. Too pretty? Was it

because I was wearing tight jeans? Was it because I blow dried my hair that day? Why

was I blaming myself at all? It taught me once again that beauty equals inability. That

when I’m appealing, I’m seen as something that can be obtained. Claimed.
 — 2nd year —

Outside of college work, I grew my portfolio as a wedding photographer and

portrait photographer for team headshots. I recorded games for women’s sports mostly.

But I quickly started losing interest in the daily grind of sports. The women’s lacrosse

team invited me to a party after the game. I brought my camera. I found this part of life

much more interesting to capture. The same passion they brought to the field, they

brought to the parties. Except instead of the intensity being carefully planned, it was

chaotic and unpredictable.

I sat in my dorm all weekend editing the film I got from the party. I saw the

empowerment of these women presented with confidence as they stood on tables and

chairs chanting and singing in a drunken slur. They held each other by the shoulders and

swayed together. Their unity as a team was louder than the words they sang.

I showed the final images to the girl who invited me. She held her hand to her chest

and tears gathered in her eyes.

“Eva, oh my god.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, are you kidding me?”

I couldn’t believe the reaction. She was filled with emotion by something I created.

It gave me satisfaction and purpose.

“Will you send these to me?”

I started seeing the world differently after that. I saw potential in mundane parts of

life.
 —

If I objectified myself then I was the one in control of the objectification of my

body. To dehumanize myself, I made it my choice. My decision.

His alarm kept going off. He kept hitting snooze. I was already awake. I had been

since four. I couldn’t sleep in his bed. He gave me a pillow from the couch to rest my head

and only had a sheet, no quilt or comforter. If I went to cuddle up next to his back that

faced me to warm up he would bat me away in his sleep.

I gave up. I got out of bed, grabbed my clothes from a pile on the floor, and went to

the bathroom. There was no toilet paper or hand towels or soap to wash my hands. I ran

my hands under steaming hot water for thirty seconds and dried my hands on my pants.

He was sitting up on the side of the bed when I came out. Just in his synthetic

black boxers, he stood up. He met me where I stood, put his hand on the back of my head,

and pulled it in to kiss my lips. He walked past me to the bathroom, smacking my ass as

he went. I grabbed my purse, putting my phone and keys in it from off his dresser.

The bathroom door opened, I didn’t hear a flush or running water. It took me off

guard.

“You leaving?”

“Yeah, I need to go check on my cat. I usually feed her early in the morning, so

she’s probably meowing for food right now.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.”

“I was just saying.”

 I went to the kitchen, grabbed the last clean glass from the cupboard, and filled it

with water from the sink. I could barely fit the cup under the faucet because of all the dirty

dishes. His roommate, whose room led into the kitchen, came out in a ratty t-shirt and pj

pants. He was a bigger guy, unclean, but really sweet.

“Hey, Eva. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, I got in late last night.”

“You headed out?”

“I think so, but Chris drove me here. I’ll have to call an Uber.”

“That asshole isn’t gonna drive you home?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. He should offer.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how. I just grabbed at my purse handle and looked

to the floor.

“I’ll drive you home, if you stick around for a cup of coffee.”

I couldn’t afford an Uber, so I stayed. He brewed a pot. Rubbing his eyes clear of

sleep and grunting as he did so. He grabbed two cups from the pile of rotting dishes. He

soaped them and rinsed them. The stream of golden brown coffee poured into the cup

becoming a dark amber shade as I looked down at it.

“Thank you, Joe.”

“Oh shit. I’m an idiot. Do you want milk or - we don’t have sugar. Do you want

milk?”

“Sure, yeah. That’d be great.”

 Chris came down the hall, still in his boxers.

“You’re still here?”

“Well-”

“Yeah, dude. You drove her here. How’s she supposed to get home?”

“Fuck off, Joe. Eva, you need a ride?”

“No, Joe said he’d drive me.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, he offered.”

“Jesus fuck,” Chris slammed his fist on the counter and walked out back to his

room. The coffee jumped out of the cup and onto the surface.

“Ignore him. Chris didn’t get enough hugs from his mommy growing up.”

I let out an amused exhale and a smile.

“Alright. You ready?”

He had finished his coffee, I had only a couple sips.

He bent over at the passenger door shoveling the empty fast food trash into the

backseat. I tried not to look at his ass as I stood behind him at a distance waiting.

He knew where I lived, but he took a different way.

“Where are we going?”

“You want drive-through breakfast?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

He ordered two breakfast sandwiches with hashbrowns. He ate his in the car and

insisted I take one home with me.

 —

Once I was in with the lacrosse girls I was going to most of their parties as their

unofficial historian. They partied. These girls went hard. Booze, weed, coke. They used to

get messed up not to get buzzed. And all of them are doing well in their classes, they have

to in order to be on lacrosse.

The high from coke wasn’t like what I thought it would be. The first line was

great. It was euphoric, the sparks started flying in the head. I would talk a mile a minute.

But it only lasted about thirty minutes. As the night went on we kept snorting it. I fell in

love with the drips. The drips started in the nose and ran down to the back of my throat. I

could taste it, I loved the taste. I loved the smell too. The really good cocaine smelled like

a subtle paint thinner. The best stuff was softer and wasn’t so dry.

By the end of the night my nose would be so clogged that I physically couldn’t do

more. The mucus was so thick it hurt, there was bleeding. The end of the night I’d be

cracked out, feening for more. I wouldn’t be able to sleep because of the cravings. I’d be

irritable and annoyed by everything.

The regularly functioning mind doesn’t take more of something when you already

feel great, but this was a dangerous stimulant. The active dose was so close to the

overdose, about one gram. And coke mixed with alcohol was a whole different type of

drug. Combined they are a poison, but they make each other more potent.
 — 3rd Year —

My phone vibrated. It was my mom. She didn’t usually call me during the week. I

let it go to voicemail. It dinged. I played the message.

“Eva, I know you’re mad at me but I need you to call me back as soon as possible. I

love you sweetheart.”

She sounded like she had been crying. I wasn’t ready to deal with her drama.

I called Eric instead.

“Eva–”

“Why is mom calling me telling me to call her back right away?”

“Eva, Mamaw died.”

“What?”

“She had a heart attack in the middle of the night. Mom woke up and she was

dead.”

“Why am I just finding out about it?”

“I don’t know. Just call mom.”

I hung up. I regretted hanging up. I know Eric would be frustrated, but he was

pushing me to call her. I wasn’t ready to face her.

Two things went down that made me give it up. Mamaw dying was one. The other

was one of the lacrosse girls going to the emergency room for an overdose. Her name was

Emily. She was one of the toughest players, she went all in with everything she did.

Honors student, great player, huge addict.

 It was the night of the Syracuse game, so they got destroyed on the field. The girls

partied anyway to lift the team’s spirit. Emily was always the one to bust out the coke,

but she was chasing this high she couldn’t get from the game. She complained of chest

pain and said she was going to puke. She ran to the bathroom vomiting on her way. I

followed her because I couldn’t help but be a caretaker. I held her hair back, her neck was

on fire.

Emily got aggressive with me. She turned back toward me, after retching a load of

pure liquor and mixers into the toilet, and scratched at me and screamed. I backed off, I let

go of her hair, and I kept apologizing. She continued to gag into the toilet. I stepped out of

the bathroom and stood outside the door in a panic. I told people to go away as they

drunkenly approached the door. I stood guard for her. Eventually I stopped hearing the

gagging. I knocked on the door and inched it open. She was on her back, arms above her

head, face turning blue.

The police and ambulance showed up. Everyone left. I ditched too. I wasn’t the one

to make the call. I yelled for help and attended to her the best my cracked out mind could

remember from fourth grade babysitting training. She ended up surviving but she suffered

brain injury from lack of oxygen. She dropped out of college, so I didn’t know what

happened to her after that. I dropped the drug out of fear and shame.

— 4th Year —

Once I started thinking about why other people were acting the way they were, I

started analyzing myself. Or once my friends started talking to me about their childhood
and why they have anxiety or depression or ptsd, the conversation between us bounced

back and forth. One friend who is a deep thinker, she would speak to me in a way that was

analytical but not judgemental. Then I started seeing these behaviors in others. I

wondered about them. Who are they now compared to who they used to be? How did they

grow up? What did they experience to make them act these ways?

There was this girl in one of my classes. Everything she said was like she was

writing an essay. Her vocabulary, the structure. She had an introduction, content, and a

conclusion. She didn’t give space for others to speak in class. What she was saying wasn’t

necessarily bad, but it didn’t give space for other voices. It made me wonder how she grew

up. Did she speak this way because she didn’t have a voice as a child or because she was

never told to be quiet?

— introduce a new friend

Katie talked to me like she already knew me. She was a stranger. She saw time

differently than I did. She was okay with taking her time. As she __ she fully immersed

herself. Each movement of her hand was precise and calm. Her focus was unturned. I felt

my lips become heavier out of jealousy.

Katie invited me to her apartment to pregame before the bars. I came dressed in

jeans and a tank top, but had her do my makeup. Katie was a dancer, she knew how to

follow beauty standards to a tee. The lighting in her room was elegant. She had many

lamps, and never turned on the overhead lights. She draped the lamps with light fabric so
it wasn’t harsh. Her vanity had a large mirror with LED lights framing it. Perfect for a

photograph. I snapped her in her element. Her jaw hung open as she applied her final

touches of mascara. The click of the camera told her I was there. Her head whipped

toward me.

“What you don’t knock?” She smiled.

“No, this is my house.”

“Oh really? What’s mine is yours, huh?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Let me see the picture.”

I tapped through the setting in the camera and pulled up the picture I had just

taken.

“Oh god. Is that really what I look like?”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“But that face I’m making.”

“It’s real.”

“Really ugly.”

“Shut up, you're a model.”

She laughed at that. Katie screwed the top back on the mascara and dropped it on

the vanity.

“Okay, your turn.”

I didn’t wear foundation like she did. Or fill in my eyebrows into a new shape.

“I’m so jealous of you.”

 “What? Why?” I didn’t understand how someone as breathtaking as Katie could be

jealous of me. She had the body of a dancer: tall, strong legs, flat stomach, perfect

features.

“Your skin is baby-butt smooth.”

“Ew. Oh my god. Don’t say that.” My eyes stayed shut as she brushed the lids with

powders.

“It's true,” we laughed, “I have to paint my face with a coat of makeup to look

presentable.”

“Katie, are you serious right now? I would kill to be as beautiful as you, and you

trash talk yourself like you’re a monster walking among humans.”

“Pretty hurts, Eva, pretty hurts.”

“Whatever. It shouldn’t have to.”

“Rob is coming over before we leave. He’s bringing his frat buddies.”

My silence was loud.

“What’s wrong?” She knew what was wrong, “You’re done.” She dropped the

brush on the vanity and turned to her closet.

“You know I don’t like frat guys. They want one thing.”

“Exactly. That makes them easy to play.”

“Katie, you are twisted.”

She held up a small black dress, “Is this too much?”

“We are just going to the bars, nothing special.”

 “You can dress like it's nothing special, but I want to make every night special. So,

I dress for the occasion.” She dropped her robe, pulled the dress up over her legs and up to

her chest. She lifted the spaghetti straps over her arms then shimmied as she pulled the

bottom down to cover the highs of her thighs. The tight fabric hugged her curves. She

turned to see her backside in the mirror. “Does my ass look fat?”

“It’s smackable.”

“Eva, stop, you’re going to make me fall in love with you.”

“Yeah right. You’d have to drop your little fuck-boy Robert first.”

“Rob is not a fuck-boy.”

“You met him because he broke Cindy’s heart.”

“He can’t break my heart if I don’t give it to him.” There was a loud bang on the

door. “That’s them.” Katie checked her hair in the vanity one last time, then ran out to

answer the door.

I begrudgingly followed her. I stood in the living room doorway, leaning against

the frame. I was not ready to make nice with a group of frat boys. Rob and his two friends

wandered in. Rob was wearing a button up and khaki shorts. One held a glass bottle of

vodka and a 6-pack of beer. He was wearing tight jeans and a t-shirt with a girl on a

motorcycle. I immediately hated him. His hair was just an inch or two too long to be

draped across his face like that. His other friend was in jeans that fit him nicely and a

plain white t-shirt. He walked in, hands in pockets, clearly unsure what to do with

himself.

“You got shot glasses or are we bottling this shit?”

 “What’s your name?” I was uneasy around him.

“That’s Booster,” Rob said once he came up to breathe from inside Katie’s mouth.

“Okay, Booster,” I said his name like I didn’t believe that was his name, “they’re in

the kitchen.” I led him there, pulled out five shot glasses, and motioned him to them.

“Thank you, madam.” He insulted me.

Katie’s roommate, Sophie, bounced out of her room. She was shorter, had small

hips, but a spunky personality. “Be careful, Booster. Eva bites.”

“Yikes. Hit me, Mommy. I’m bad.”

That was my cque to get out of that kitchen. I went back to the living room to find

Katie. She and Rob were on the love seat together, so I sat next to his friend. He was

centered on the couch. I took the arm rest, as close to the arm rest as I could get.

“I finally got Slogan, here, to come out with us.” Rob motioned to the white t-shirt

who was drinking a beer.

“You’re not in the frat?” I asked him.

“Logan,” he shook my hand, “and no. I’m just in a class with Rob.”

I wiped the condensation from the beer to his hand to mine on my jeans. “What

class?”

“Art Through Migration with Dr. Madden. It’s an honors class.”

“Rob, you’re an honors student?” I was shocked.

“Yeah, can’t you tell?”

 Booster walked in holding five full shot glasses in his hands and the bottle under

his armpit, “Yeah, with a fat ass head like yours you’d hope you have some brains.” He

put the glasses down on the coffee table, spilling them as he did so.

Katie spoke up, “Okay, people. Shots.” Everyone grabbed one. There wasn’t one

for Sophie so she drank from the bottle. It tasted cheap, like rubbing alcohol. “Let’s get

some music going.” Katie grabbed her speaker from her room and blasted the party hits.

By eleven, Sophie put on her tallest heels and grew four inches. Katie, Rob, Sophie,

and Booster all walked in front. Logan and I happened to trail behind. I wasn’t as drunk

as the rest of them. Logan seemed sturdy on his feet as well. We walked in silence. I

fiddled with the flip blade I held in my pocket.

“So, Eva, what are you majoring in?”

“Film.”

“Me too. That’s crazy, how have we never had a class together?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big program.”

“This is my last year so maybe I’m just ahead of you.”

“Nope. I’m a senior.”

“Oh, I thought you were a sophmore or something.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem uncomfortable with the

whole partying and going out thing.”

“It’s not the drinking,” he had me explaining myself, “it’s Rob and his random

friends.” I forgot for that moment he was the random friend I was referencing.
 “I get that. Rob is the epitome of a douchebag.”

“Then why are you hanging out with him?”

“He’s been on my ass all semester to party with him. Since finals are right around

the corner, well,” he gestured to the packed bar.

Rob was at the mic singing ACDC with Booster. Katie and Sophie were in the

front of the crowd cheering them on.

“Oh god,” I looked away and hid my face in my palm.

“Can I have your number? So we can meet up in the city.” He was holding out his

phone, unlocked.

“Maybe, but just as friends.”

“Yeah of course. Just friends. I’m not presumptuous.”

I take his phone, put my number in, add my contact name.

“Alright,” he looks at the contact, “thank you, Eva Banks.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just gave him the social protocol laugh. He

clicked his phone off and slid it in his back pocket.

“I can change it if you want.”

“No, I like it.”

Right Away Great Captain played through the old speakers in his truck. We rode

without speaking. The notes trusted each other, no need to rush. They had one note

holding it all together, creating a hypnotic sound. Along with the passing lights and
houses, I was entranced. I didn’t know where we were going and I didn’t need to. Without

my hands being the ones on the steering wheel, I felt in control.

Logan, “I mean yeah she’s conventionally beautiful, but she’s an awful person.

How could anyone consider her attractive? She doesn’t attract anyone but assholes

looking to get off.”

Katie, “You’re not taking into consideration the cultural significance of the

Kardashians in the female world.”

Logan, “It’s not cultural significance, it's a commercial ploy to get you to buy

products or even worse go under the knife to look like them.”

— After Graduation —

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” He hung onto every word I said.

“Not be embarrassed of your,” I thought for a moment, “sexuality.”

“Um, why would I be? Everyone gets horny.” He smiled in a confirming way that

validated me. “Are you? Ashamed, that is, not horny.”

I laughed but, “Well, yeah. Of course I am.”

“But sweetheart, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not talking about looks.”

“Then what? Did you grow up Catholic?”

 “Nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

“I would if I could. I guess I just don’t understand it myself yet.”

“I hope you know,” he gently pulled at my chin so I’d look him in the eyes, “you

have nothing to be ashamed of and you never have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The chemicals that release upon falling in love are addictive.

— well after graduation, they live together

Logan had that expression that I hated. He was pissed off and it was because of

me. I made a comment about his drinking.

“Do you really need a shot of whiskey in your coffee? It’s ten AM.”

He had barely spoken to me the rest of the day. I confronted him about it by the

evening.

“Dude, what’s going on?”

“Me what’s going on? You’ve been distant as fuck all day.”

“Because I knew you didn’t want to talk to me. I assumed you were just mad about

what I said this morning and didn’t want to hear it.”

“So you make one rude comment then ice me out?”

“This is not happening.”

“What gives, Eva?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing by giving you space.”

“You embarrassed me. I didn’t want space, I wanted some form of reconciliation.”
 “This is me reconciling.”

“Not with that tone.”

I walked out. I got in my car and drove away. I had nowhere else to go. I went to

the store. I bought peanut butter chocolate cups, an energy drink, and potato chips. At the

check out I grabbed a lottery scratcher spontaneously.

He was still in the living room, the same spot as when I left. I handed him the bag.

He rolled his eyes as he took it from me. He sorted through the items and smiled. His

eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he pulled out the scratcher.

“What is this?”

“A lottery ticket.”

“I know, but why?”

“I thought we could take a chance. Maybe something good will happen.”

“Eva,” he gave me a happy frown. He stood up and hugged me. I could finally

breathe again knowing he had forgiven me. He kissed me and held me close by my hips.

“Well aren’t you going to see if we won?”

“Okay, okay.” He used the metal nail file I had left out of the coffee table to scrape

at the latex coating. He exhaled in disbelief.

“What? What does it say?”

“We won.”

“Shut up! How much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

I screeched and jumped on him.

 — *Eva cheats on Logan, haven’t written the scene yet - this is after their breakup

https://www.tiktok.com/@pengusto/video/7235415210947923242

https://www.tiktok.com/@reddits.stories/video/7248344799529405723

Cold was a comfort. I took the breath in deep to my stomach through my expanded

lungs. I let the sensation wash over my spine and along the trails of the nerves release the

instinct to run from the feeling. Instead I accept it for my peace and my soul to settle. In

the shower I stood as the circular falling of pressured water tapped to my crown and

flowed beyond my feet. Soothing rushing water that made my muscles tense the shivering

was a trick of the mind. It is your fight or flight and you can’t fight water you retreat to

the warmth. But what about those nights in the wild that animals huddled. No heater or

blanket. They made their own warmth. Their bodies were designed to handle the cold; it

was a natural regulation of the body. Or created insulation with what was provided to

them. Wolves curled up in the hole they dug. The snow, the thing that brought discomfort

and distress, was now used as a tool to provide warmth. Then the water warms naturally

coming from a transition of temperature my body relaxed into it. I knew the heat was

always coming. When you first turn the shower on it comes out cold, that's when I would

get in.

I went home to my dad for comfort.

“I need to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you stay with Mom even though she cheated on you?”
 He paused the movie we were watching. *comedy where cheating happens* He

looked up like he was thinking of the right answer.

“Well, many reasons. First of all, I’m deeply in love with your mom. Also, things

aren’t always as simple as they seem. Your mom was not the only one in the wrong.”

“How?”

“Relationships have a lot to them. Love, but also hate. That hate and anger makes

us unrecognizable to even ourselves. Your mom is not a bad person. She did a bad thing.”

“But didn’t it break your heart?”

“Yeah it did.”

“And?”

“And we put the pieces back together. We are stronger now than we’ve ever been.

We get stronger every day. You know, I’m not a saint either.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

“No, I never cheated. I just struggled with anxiety, anger, you know, that stuff. I

took it out on her a lot.”

“But ‘taking it out on her’ that’s just fighting. Mom actually did something to you.”

“Eva, words are actions too. I know you and your mom have always struggled. I’m

glad I got this chance to talk to you about it. I pushed you kids to understand the

difference between right and wrong. That made it so you guys are very admirable people.

What I lack ,that your mother is very good at, is empathy. She knows what she did was

wrong, we all do. Nothing excuses it. What matters is being able to fess up to your

wrongs and take on that guilt. We are all human. We make mistakes, sometimes really big
mistakes. We also have to keep going, keep living, keep trying to be a better person. Your

mom and I have been to a lot of therapy, both together and apart. I empathize with your

mom for what she did. She didn’t just do it to be a bad person. She did it because she

wasn’t getting what she needed emotionally from me. I don’t expect you to forgive your

mom right away, but it needs to be a goal for the future.”

I didn’t want to hear any of that, but I asked. And I needed to hear it.

“Can you press play?”

We kept watching, with the air filled with sad and compassionate waves of feeling.

We let the movie play. The plot moved forward, the cheater was construed as the

antagonist. And that was the way it was, for the movie at least.

I woke up in a cold sweat. My shirt was soaked through. My face sunk into itself in

misery. I was confused. I tried to recall what happened. A glimpse of a field came to me

then disappeared. Another setting came to me briefly. The feeling was fear,

embarrassment. I was alone in the field. I was running from an invisible entity. This

overarching deep cutting sense of exposure came over me. I was told it is not the dream

itself that should be analyzed but the feelings you take from them. I was running from

something I couldn’t see or understand. It was something that wasn’t even there, but I

had to run for my life. It was embarrassing. Why? I was aware of my body. I was his. It

left me again.

— Guided meditation into a past life

 “When you can settle the mind and focus on the body. Know where you are in

space, your surroundings. How you feel heavy in your seat or bed and maybe feel tingling

in the toes, up your ankles, into your shins, your knees. Maybe you have the sensation of

pain somewhere. Pain is just a sensation, feel it rather than run from. It is an itch you

consciously don’t scratch. Feel it tingle then your mind settles not needing to solve. Maybe

your leg switches or your foot. Let it settle.

“Up to the hips and stomach. Pay attention to your breathing, your chest and

shoulders. Let go. Let your muscles relax and breathe. Let your cheeks relax. Breathe in

through your nose and feel the air come in. Let go, exhale.

“Go to the womb. You are held tight. You are warm, you are fed. Go to the place

before that. White space. Think back to being a child. There. Look down. What shoes are

you wearing? Exist with this for a moment.”

I saw sneakers, boy sneakers, blue. Suddenly I looked up and saw a field realizing

that I was this body, existing in it. I was a boy, shorter, young. I felt the breeze. The

thoughts came back rushing in as the person I knew myself in that reality. I snapped out

of the memory. I remained in my chair as Eva Banks.

I fought the feelings. But if I actually had fought them none of that would have

happened. I balled my fist, slammed it into my thigh repeatedly. The pain slowed my

breathing. My thoughts cleared.

Stampeding, they came back with force. I thought to myself: How could I let myself

hurt him so badly? You’re just like your mother.

— Therapy
 “Wanting to re-victimise ourselves is a coping mechanism that traumatized people

go through. We spend our entire lives being taught that we don’t own our own bodies. We

have no control over our own bodily autonomy. It becomes a part of our sense of self. It

becomes the only way we think that we’re worth something, or that we can receive love

— to be abused again, the same way the assault had convinced you to rationalize it as.”

“And what I ended up with was using sex as self-harm. to cheapen myself to

physically embody the disgusting whore that I constantly felt like, even as a child. I didn’t

want to have control. I wanted it to be his doing. to be used in any way, shape or form like

the object I was thought of.”

I looked in the mirror and for the first time I saw a woman, not the girl that I

resented. It was like a stranger staring back at me. I saw the pores in her skin and her

facial features in a way disconnected from my familiar face. My heart rate increased as I

became self aware. I tried to convince myself that that was really me. Her eyes blinked

with me. I felt the lag. I could see her as separate from me. I saw her face like I saw

another. I could see her features in a non biased way. I brought my face closer to the

mirror. It felt as though I could kiss her and feel her lips press my own. But the cold glass

of the mirror was not the warmth and softness of a human.

— At a friend’s wedding, both Eva and Logan were invited. First time seeing each other

in a long time.

“Wow. You’ve been doing well.”

“Yeah, well…”
 “What?”

“Sure, work is good, but I haven’t been happy in years.”

He looked down at his drink. Rocked it to let the liquid sway in the walls of the

glass.

So I spoke again, “I’m sorry, Logan.”

“I know you are.”

“No. Not just that I feel guilt, because of course I do. But that I betrayed you, that

you must have felt worthless or angry or completely heartbroken. I don’t want to put

words in your mouth. It was the biggest mistake I ever made. I was stupid and selfish and,

and, you deserved more than that, you deserve trust.”

“I did trust you. That’s what made it hurt so bad.”

I nodded my head and closed my eyes to show him that I empathize with his pain.

A tear slipped and fell heavy from my cheek to the lap of my dress.

“Give me your hand. I want to see something.”

I lent it to him for his moment. He turned it palm up. I felt the smoothness of it and

it moved without tension, it moved with ease. My muscles relaxed into his movements. I

trusted him.

“They look different than I remember them.”

“What? My hands?”

“Yeah. Memory is fleeting I guess.”

—
 The journey to loving yourself is like climbing a mountain looking back on those

moments where you struggled and found the way out are your favorite parts. I have

learned to love my story.