Out of the Cave

Last Summer, I set myself up in the basement of a professor’s house in Montana with the intention to write. What, I wasn’t sure, but I was so set on it that spent much of the following days feverishly following threads of writing, many of which never panned out.

Then, I had this dream. It was dark, creepy, sci-fi– nothing like what I usually dream or write. I decided to try and get it down. After some very helpful feedback from lots of amazing folks (including Chris Kluwe who, after being tagged on Twitter, was kind enough to spend some real time giving me feedback), I called it a wrap and sent it to some magazines. It wasn’t published, which at the time I thought a failure, but I thought of it today and was proud that I’d pushed myself as a writer. So, here it is.


It’s the whoosh of the elevator that wakes her.

She hasn’t overslept like this in months, the sound of the elevator a rude awakening to an uneasy night of sleep. She blinks groggily, knowing that if they’ve already started the tours she’s likely missed her chance at breakfast. Normally, she’s up with the sun, and finds the government-issued tray filled with the same tasteless eggs, toast, apple, and cup of coffee (as if they looked up “human breakfast” when planning) outside the Cave. Most days she even manages a few push-ups and a lap around the room to stay limber. It leaves her with enough time to put the panel back in place just as they begin to walk the halls.

Not today, though.

She looks up at the faux-wood grain on the underside of a long table; the ceiling for the makeshift shelter she calls “the Cave” (to herself, of course) for two years now. She stares at it every morning, knows every swirl and crack in it, has lost herself in its lines as she tries to draft plans and figure out her next move. Now, she uses it as a compass to realign herself diagonally from point to point, the only way to stretch completely in the cramped space. She pulls herself long, her muscles thin and lean from shoddy food and a necessity to skulk. 

Suddenly, she freezes, thinking for a moment that she hears footsteps. What time is it? Footsteps will mean the tour has reached her on the 45th floor, and that will mean it’s already 10:45. Half her morning will be gone– unless she slept through the first round of gawking visitors.

She knows she must get her bearings and calculates the risk in her head. After a moment, she  thinks the footsteps are a trick of her imagination, a consequence of disrupting her routine, but there’s no real way to be sure. She quietly creeps over to a corner of the Cave, not wanting to make her presence obvious. She knows it puts her even more at risk.

In one corner, a small crack of light glistens between the panels. She puts her ear to the opening, seeing if she can catch a snippet of the tour, or the soft shuffle all Wreakers move with. She hears nothing. She pulls away from the corner and stares  at the slice of light. Her stomach knots, but her desire to know and the hopeful shining outside outweigh her sense of fear. 

She reaches over and, without looking, grabs the small steak knife she found in the first month after the Raids. One worker had kept it in his drawer, and she had pilfered it to use as… a weapon? Later, after another breathless dive back to the safety of the Cave (this was before they had a schedule), she’d laughed at how silly she was. She knew a knife couldn’t kill them.

Still, it had proven endlessly handy for building, dismantling, learning the quiet and miniscule reshuffling of objects without being noticed. The knife sits in her tiny tool section along with a flashlight, her only possessions outside of her old book bag, its contents now useless remnants of earlier times of a time before the Raids (something she rarely ever thought about).

She gently– quietly, slowly, as she has learned to be– pokes the knife into the gleaming crack between the panel and the table leg. She takes a breath. As she exhales, she gently nudges the panel a few millimeters. She freezes, has a flashback to the Raids, is half expecting to hear Wreaker-shrieking or the sound of their skin ripping back. She holds her breath.


She takes a long, deep inhale, trying to slow down her heartbeat, as if they could hear it (maybe they can? She still has so little information of what Wreakers are truly capable of). On her exhale, she creeps towards the opening, a flower slowly stretching to meet the sun. 

She puts her eye to the crack, blinking as she adjusts to the light, and sees– nothing. Nothing new, anyway. She sees the desks, tables, and chairs in their familiar chaotic pattern, toppled over and strewn across the office. The blood and bile stains– long since dried black– are spattered across everything; the crude artwork is unaltered. The scene is still a frozen testament to everything that happened two years ago and, once the Wreakers settled in, they have kept it both as a memorial and a curiosity.

Well, the furniture is a memorial. She is the curiosity. 

She scans the room and instinctively looks towards “her” desk. It’s one of the few still upright, with minimal matter painted onto it. She sees the cord going into the drawer and breathes a small sigh of relief. The laptop is still there.

Finding the laptop was a lone shining light after the Raids. Once the first major waves died down, she began sneaking out at night to see what she could find. She picked her way around bones and bodies, scavenging anything useful– any edible food, her flashlight, the knife– before she stumbled on the jackpot: a still-functional personal computer. It only worked when plugged in, though, so her research was limited to nighttime, after the Wreakers left the building.

The first time she connected to the internet, she was delighted,  then crestfallen, her searches turning up nothing but cached page after page of old articles. The most recent ones, at that point, were those published directly before the Raids. She skimmed through, reading familiar the news reports of the strange “virus” (later discovered to be a parasite) hitting people first in London, then Norway, slowly spreading across country after country. Then, the science articles and think-pieces on the strange somatic effects– the stretching bones, hunched back, lengthened fingers– came, trying to find reason and logic where none existed. 

It wasn’t until the first attacks happened that the world began to actually fear what was coming. Then came the traditional fallout of disaster: politicians promising safety and restrictions, scientists calling for study, and the pious blaming it on sin. 

Soon the Wreakers (a name stolen from a sermon by the famed Rev. Rawlins, who claimed these “wreakers of havoc” were a warning that all must repent. His insides were strewn across his altar a month later.) were beginning to grow, spreading and attacking so fast that by the time the initial Raids swept the continents, there was no one left to write. There was no logic nor reason to be found. Everyone was running, then dead or infected.

After closing the browser window that first night, she had never felt so alone.

Years later, her brow furrows at the memory. She had been heartbroken and alone, but was she any better off now?

Her eyes dart away from the laptop and up to the large clock near the window. 10:32. She breathes a small sigh of relief. She has time. Gently, she nudges the panel just wide enough so she can creep out. As long as she stays away from the window and close to the Cave, she is safe enough. She slowly slips out and, on wobbling legs, stands.

It feels good to stand. She shakes her limbs out, as if shaking off last night’s dust, and thinks about grabbing her meal, though she doesn’t feel much like eating. She rubs her eyes and looks back at the clock. 10:35. She scans the room and sees the tray, at least twenty feet away, right next to the Wreaker entrance. 

They’re always afraid of getting too close, of somehow seeing a rogue glance of her face or a limb; afraid of setting off their predator senses and, unable to stop themselves, transforming into much, much different beings, intent on only one thing: destroying her, or turning her into another host. 

She closes her eyes, remembering the first time she saw the Wreakers in full effect– the skin ripping off their jaws to make room for the rows of teeth that sprang out, the black claws unsheathing from their fingers, the way the necks grew long and flayed, like the granddaddy of all cobras unearthing itself from some prehistoric museum display into real life.

She is glad they stay away.

At first, Wreakers seemed nothing more than ravaging animals, driven mad by… what? A mad bloodlust? Fear? The instinctive need for the virus to spread? Whatever it was, they seemed driven by nothing more than a savage desire to destroy. Nine months after the first waves, she realized they were something very different.

Late one afternoon in the Cave, she heard familiar shuffling gait and immediately curled into a defensive position to try and cover up the Wreaker-shrieks– knees up, chin to chest, arms covering her ears and head as if fending off physical blows. After a moment, none came. She tentatively put her arms down and heard… words. Halting words, dragged from throats rusty with disuse, but words nonetheless. Wreaker words that echoed in her ears long after their steps had vanished. 

She froze then, utterly still, her eyes wide and her body cold. Were the Wreakers, were they… human? What was happening? She was tempted to move, tempted to see, but stayed frozen in fear.

That night she had gone on her laptop, eschewing her normal visits to pre-Raid archives, her hiatus from the heartbreak of reality, and pulling up a new search. She saw that the Wreakers were… they were writing. They did not remember their pasts, but were beginning to regain the language and cognitive skills they had once had as humans. They were publishing articles– acknowledging the virus, creating a social structure, figuring out their new lives–

And identifying what was left of the old world.

They knew of a few humans (“pre-Wreakers, PWs”) left. A small colony in Iceland, hidden so deep in the forest they were ignored, for now. A few individuals in Kenya, Mexico, and someone in Montana. She had been made, the information posted just three hours earlier, identified as a “young female in an office building in downtown L.A.”

Weeks passed, then months, and every night she read, her stomach dropping, the intense debate about her right to exist at all. Some felt that, while Wreakers were now in the majority, those who had managed to stay human should be allowed to do so. They (almost nearly) posed no threat, and had a right to exist as much as any other “creature” (They actually wrote that! She thought). Plus, they could be “useful” later on. The current, blossoming Wreaker government currently mandated that all non-combative PWs be safely kept and cared for.

Some, though, argued that PWs had no right to exist, and certainly not on the government teat. Who did the PWs think they were? They were an inferior species, and the only way to keep the Wreaker majority was to destroy everything else.

This, in truth, was also what kept her up last night. This, too, was the reason she was not hungry this morning.

She looks over at the laptop, then at the clock. 10:37. Does she have time to read the message once more? Her heart quickens. No. She has to trust herself now. She knows the plan. She knows what she has to do. And she knows how to do it now.

Because now, she has Paco Salazar.

He’d been a high school teacher in the Central Valley, but when the attacks started, had immediately hightailed it to Yosemite, hiding amidst the pines and rocks, reasoning that if large groups of people were morphing into unknown monsters, then it was best to be away from large groups of people. 

He hadn’t been wrong. 

More importantly, Paco Salazar knew how to kill Wreakers. No one knew how. Once he had been designated a threat, teams were sent to eliminate him, but no one came back, and Salazar lived on. She read this in a Wreaker op-ed; the author wanted to kill all PWs left, saying Paco Salazar was proof that PWs needed to be exterminated. The rhetoric was shifting, becoming harsher. More violent. This op-ed was one of many she was beginning to see more frequently. 

After she finished reading, she knew where she needed to go. 

And now, after more than a year of searching, writing, dead ends, and long nights– she had finally gotten in touch with Paco Salazar. And he had helped her plan her escape. And that was the final reason she had not slept well– she would likely have to kill a Wreaker tonight.

She had certainly never killed anything before. The entirety of her life before the Raids had been school, her mother, their apartment, and the office her mother worked in. She had barely seen a dead animal, much less killed anything. 

She shudders at the thought. What will it be like? Will she be able to do it? 

She looks at the office– the one she had spent most afternoons in while her mother finished work and was now, in fact, her prison. She remembers the people her mother worked with, who spoiled her with treats most afternoons while she did her homework or read books. She closes her eyes for a moment– remembers the cool, lilac-powder smell of her mother, her straight black hair, the feeling of a gentle hand rubbing her back as she fell asleep. 

She also remembers the terror in her stomach as she ran through the office, running from Wreaker-shrieks, shrieking herself for her mother, who she was desperate to find. The desk chair and favorite sweater she had found ripped apart, that she buried her face in, sobbing, the first night she left the Cave.

This, she hopes, is what will help her do what needs to be done.

Suddenly, she hears the elevator whoosh– she is sure of it this time. She looks– 10:39? They’re early. Strange. Inconceivable. The Wreakers hold tightly to their schedule, and in the year since they began the tours, they have not deviated once. She dives back into the Cave, and closes the panel just in time to hear them shuffle into the office. She puts her ear to the crack in the corner.

“And this,” she hears, “is the 45th floor, which you’ve of course heard a million rumors about.”

The other says nothing, or is so quiet the response is inaudible. 

“Well, nothing to fear. This PW is harmless. We don’t know a lot– just that she hid from the initial Raids by staying in the air ducts–”

She closes her eyes, remembers the cold metal on her body, the feel of her fingers in her mouth to stay silent while she watched as those she knew below were torn to shreds. Remembers their screams, the vomit in her throat as she saw limbs leave bodies–

“But by the time we noticed her, she had already made her little… space over there. So we leave her alone. For now.”

“For now?” She hears the other reply. Something inside her pricks. A woman? She rarely hears female voices.

“For now. There’s much debate– we spend quite a bit of time feeding her, caring for her– why? What makes her special? Why is she not turned like the rest of us?”

There is an uncomfortable pause. The first continues. “Of course, it’s whatever the bosses decide. For now, we just leave her be. Hmm.” He takes a moment. “It seems like she didn’t eat today. Maybe we need to up the iron content– their physiology is quite strange–”

“Do I have to do anything about–”

“No,” the first laughs. “No, your only job is to walk the floors occasionally, ensure she hasn’t moved anything, make sure nothing has been touched, and don’t eat her. Our focus is on running the tours on time and keeping the memorials safe. The bosses think it’s important, remembering how we came to be.”

Ah, she thinks inside the Cave. This is a new security agent. Perfect. All the easier to confuse and kill. She looks over at her knife. As Paco told her, all she needs to do is catch them unaware, get the knife into the nape of its neck, where their primary nervous system lives, and–

“Does she…“ the new guard, the female, starts hesitantly. “Does she talk to us? Do we know her name?”

“No. No, we don’t think so. We thought it might be Maya–” inside the Cave, her stomach drops, her mouth goes dry, just at the sound of her name, “from some papers we found, but she never responded, so we don’t think so. We don’t even know if she understands us.”

There’s another uncomfortable pause. Inside the Cave, Maya shudders. Something is off– something… she cannot place her finger on it–

“I wonder if I’ll ever see her…” the new guard begins. And that’s when Maya’s eyes go wide. Her whole body goes cold. 

“I would hope not!” the first laughs. “Killing without orders is prohibited, sets off the bosses, leads to all sorts of paperwork. Don’t worry. Anyway, we have a few minutes before the first tour gets here. Take a look around, familiarize yourself. Meet me in the lobby when you’re ready.”

Maya hears the door open and the elevator whoosh away. She hears the new Wreaker shuffling about. Her mind races. She knows her best chance of escape is tonight. She knows this is her one chance to stay human, to get to someone who can protect her, who has promised to keep her safe from the Wreakers. She must kill the guard to escape. But how? How can she do it? How will she be able to–

“Maya?” She hears the new guard say tentatively, quietly, to the open air.

Tears spring to her eyes. She cannot help herself. Before she knows it, she is sobbing like she has not done since the Raids– fingers in her mouth to try and stay quiet. She cries as silently as she can, her gut wrenching as she remembers the sound of her own shrieking voice the night the Raids came to the city. 


She cries harder, her whole body convulsing. She takes her hand out of her mouth; she cannot help herself. She sobs out the word as she looks at the crack of light in the Cave.


She hears a sigh, deep and heavy, and the footsteps shuffle closer.


Sleep, Now.

I once had someone jokingly ask if I was a vampire.

“How many hours of sleep do you normally get a night?” The question comes from everywhere– doctors, coworkers, my parents. “Eight” is always the preferred response, most people respond that they six to seven, with a sad sigh and a wave of the hand, a universal symbol that says, It’s not enough, but it is what it is.

I, however, was always proud to respond, “Oh, four or five. Six if I’m lucky, but I’ve never slept more than eight unless I was sick.” I would smile, proud that my body seemed to need less rest than other’s, and nonchalantly shrug when people seemed surprise. Maybe my internal processor was just churning too fast to rest much; maybe I just recovered quickly. Mostly, I just enjoyed the small sense of self-importance.

Cut to the last month, where it feels like I’ve been doing nothing but sleeping as many hours as I can. I nap often– wrapped in a blanket on my couch, after working for an hour on a weekend morning, curled onto the tiny bench in my classroom between classes. If I can find a spare ten minutes, I’ll turn into myself, let my eyes go soft, and shut down.

I’ve been trying to understand what’s been happening to my body, since I’ve always struggled to sleep, including a two-month bout of insomnia a year ago that knocked the life out of me in a powerful way.

Since overcoming that insomnia, I had still never become much of a deep sleeper. I’d get my six hours, normally waking up midway through, to the dismay of my partner. Recently, though, my body has been in a perpetual state of sloth, as though I am trying to recover from some kind of illness.

Maybe I am. Over the past four months, I have reverted to many of the same, problematic behaviors I had a year ago. I move so fast I forget to breathe. When I finally am forced to sit still– on a long flight, for example– the air whooshing into my chest hits me like a bucket of ice has been emptied over me. Without warning, events that I had moved through as quickly as I could wash over me, and I am left sitting stunned as I review the tape of my life over the past days or weeks. Was that really me? I ask myself. Did that really happen?

Of course, it’s not as dramatic as all that. I’m known to need a little storm to settle me down sometimes. There aren’t any huge problems in my life, and generally, the process of settling into my seat and reviewing my life has been overwhelmingly positive.

I suppose, if anything, my descent into a week of rest has allowed me to enter into the dream world of my subconscious that I had left untended for too long. Sandra Cisneros, when asked about writing when she presented at my school, said that we need to take solitude to sleep, dream, and look into our own imaginations to be able to write.

So, this is just a reminder to breathe, to rest, perchance to dream. As I prepare to board another long flight home, I am immensely grateful for the week to be surrounded by so much love and care, and look inward. It was, then and now, the time to sleep. Tomorrow is coming too quickly, and I need to get ready.


The Last, Best Thing

I’m on the second day of the OnBeing Gathering, and I am already in awe of the number of connections, spiritual fulfillment, and pure grace I have gained here. Every time someone has joined me at a meal or started a conversation, I have been so grateful to be pushed outside of my introvert zone and made some truly fantastic connections.

One of the benefits of this has been the space to refocus and start clarifying my own purpose and desires. I’m beginning to realize, very quickly, that I really love writing— poetry, prose, short, long– I want to write more. 

So, beyond giving up coffee, I’m going to write a poem a day for the rest of Lent. I have some making up to do, but I’m excited to push myself in this way. It won’t be perfect, I know many of them will be bad, but I know I need to start rehabilitating and rebuilding the muscle.

Anyway, here’s the first.


When the last, best thing
spills forth from
your lips, what will be
the image that you paint?
The story that you tell?

You have lived a life on
the cusp for years now,
so carefully dipping
that funny toe of yours
right the buoy marked, “SAFE.”
You have reached around
that barrier trying to
find some sign saying to “GO.”

Can you see beyond yourself?
Can you find the place
in you that is pure
movement? That bubbling
red blood in your gut
that fuels the body
to movement, to action?

Can you ride that river
to the sea that called
your ancestors, as it
once did to you? Can
you find comfort in
the raging currents,
see the beauty and
not fear the white-foamed
wave that swallowed you?

See your rabbit-heart as
the paddles of your ship,
the curve of your hip the
rudder of riding the current.
Know that the last, best
thing you say or see will
be found on the side of a buoy
or ever be the safest route.

Go, now, knowing the best
thing will be to set out
and find yourself home

The Magician

I’m going through a month-long healing phase after my body has finally shut down from a two-month manic period. With that time, I’ve discovered the writing I created but was too scared to edit and publish. 

She has been practicing her sleight of hand for years now.

It’s almost second nature, at this point. She smiles, catches their eyes with a snap and a whip of her fingers. It appears all flash and no substance, but then she makes the card appear when it seemed impossible The audience is astonished. Bamboozled, really, because they were so sure they could not be fooled. That there was no way she’d actually get the right card.

It doesn’t really matter, though. She’s moved onto the next trick.

What they don’t see is the hours of practice that goes into the moment where the Magician makes something out of nothing.  They do not notice the red-rimmed eyes, tired from staring into the mirror and watching the same trick over and over again. The Magician is trying to make sure it is perfect for the audience. It has to be perfect for the audience.

They do not hear the ringing in her ears from years of listening to cries and catcalls instead of the sound of her own breath. They have failed to notice her skin, dull and red, from the make-up she wipes off in streaks each night, slumped over her dressing room table, barely able to move. They do not care that there are times where she is unable to focus her eyes before going on stage– she knows the gauzy film between her brain and the world it should be perceiving is problematic, but she also knows that she has to go out and perform.

The audience needs its show. They must be entertained.

So she goes out, night after night, honing her “craft,” learning to read the room. When she feels like she’s losing them, she slap-dashes something together and throws another coin into thin air, pulls another rabbit out of her hat, changes the mark to a more forgiving body on stage with her. It doesn’t matter what it takes. Stand on the back of the bucking horse? Sure! Swallow swords, eyes watering as she wide-grin-smiles toward the crowd? Of course! Anything so that she does not lose them. She cannot lose them.

Because she knows what happens when the crowds go home, and she is left in the dressing room, alone.

She sinks, slowly, into the chair. The table is in disarray– make-up is strewn, long smudgy splashes of color on a faded, white, wooden top. The makings of a face finger-painted on to a splintered canvas– the metaphor is almost too painfully obvious, even to her, who has lived without subtlety for years now.

There, in her solitude, when the memory of the crowd roars in her ears like the ocean, there is no one to distract her, no one to look at, no one who she must bamboozle. She is in a standoff only with herself. There is nothing to face but her own existence in that moment.


The question sits there, unmoving. No sparkle, no flash. There is no magic trick that will satiate the audience who is witness to her own brokenness. There is no bucking bronco or sword to swallow that will turn her gaze away in the mirror. There is only the heavy question, the ball and chain tethered to her. She sees it reflect back at her in the shine of her eyes, the creases in her skin.


She sighs, tears the question away from the mirror and places her head in her hands. Instinctively, her fingers reach into her chest pocket and pull out a card. It’s one of the few times she can ever answer anyone properly– showing them the card they were thinking of.

She holds it up to the mirror, tries to fake a smile.

Is this your card? 

She flicks it to the floor, reaches in, and grabs another.

How about this one?

She flicks that one away.

She stops mid-reach. Her eyes finally connect back with her self.

Her card will never be pulled.




Photo by Calamic Photography

And The Walls Come Tumbling Down

I’m taking a sick day for the first time in forever, and I’ve spent much of it sleeping.

I wrote this a bit ago after another re-reading of Junot Diaz’s This is How You Lose Herwhich is evident in the style. This is a highly excerpted and edited version of a much longer piece that I’ll probably never publish (though, thanks to Doug, Colin, Leslie, and Lindsey, who gave me feedback on the full reads). But it felt good to get this out.

Oh, and for what it’s worth, story-truth is an interesting thing. Timelines are fuzzy, things get fictionalized, etc.

And I’m sleeping just fine now.


You always assumed your love triangle phase would happen in your twenties. Some youthful lark, you figured, some princesa shit you’d pull on some guys when being young and bitchy was acceptable and you could chalk it up to youth. You’d roll your eyes at this younger version of yourself someday, and you’d be able to blame the selfishness of it all on your twenties and be happy you moved on.

Now, though, you are thirty and the stakes feel higher for everything. You still wear your hair long, your shorts short, and cling to something you cannot yet name. You didn’t spend your twenties being bitchy and pretty like you hoped you would. Instead, you were chubby and awkward and terrified you’d die alone. You nurtured and loved and were so desperate to not miss on the opportunity for “the love of your life” that you ended up letting the brief period you thought could love yourself selfishly slip through your fingers.

So, after kicking the last heartbreak, you figured you finally had all your shit figured out. You knew what you wanted, you told your friends. You were gonna focus on you. You weren’t going to rush anything and you were gonna be patient and wait for the right guy. They nodded their heads hopefully, encouragingly, but silently laughing that you’d fuck up again and end up causing the same internal drama you always do.

That’s what makes your current predicament so fucking annoying. You end up with the same internal drama. Now, you find yourself in a weirdly shaped cage that you don’t know how to get out of.

You have not slept properly for nearly two months— you refuse to admit that the myriad of reasons your friends list (post-breakup trauma, current inner-turmoil, a new job) may matter. You insist to your parents that you are seeing a therapist and that you are fine and that you’ve simply never slept well. These things are all true, but even you quietly admit to yourself that three hours a night for a month doesn’t make for the most lucid version of yourself.

This is the version of yourself, though, that is riding high-octane fuel into each weekend, turning yourself into a woman with a variety of interests that you vaguely hope will not only make you happy, but pique the interest of a dating life that sometimes feels dead inside you. You teach all day, then run three-miles as a coach, then run to CrossFit, then run to Jiu-Jitsu for few hours. You are usually tired, but feel like if you stop, you will be turning your back on things you fought so hard to regain control of in your life. You often don’t come home for twelve hours, dripping with sweat and barely able to stand. You’ve never been in such good shape, and you keep silently praying that putting your body through this will mean that, finally, you will sleep.

But you don’t. Somehow, sleep still eludes you.

So, you have to fill the time.

We’re not talking about anything physical, though. It was never about that. You just miss having a person. The one you talk to throughout the day and night. The one who listens to your dumbass jokes and sends you news articles throughout the day and gets your shit. You have friends who will be there, sure, but you’re consistently concerned that you are bothering them. Secretly, you’re worried that if you’re not repaying someone with love or money, they have no obligation nor desire to listen to your shit.

It’s the nothingness, though, that scares you. It feels foreign, unreal, unfathomable. That night, for the first time in a while, you cancel a second date. You have no desire to go out that night.

It wasn’t the date. It was you.

To be fair, you’ve had another three-hour nap for sleep, and this week you have realized that sometimes your eyes don’t focus properly for a few minutes. Still, you don’t know what is going on. You, who were always so passionate. You, who were always so ready to jump into the arms of the next great love story and open your heart. Where are all those feelings now? Where have they run off to?

You’re so tired and your eyes still won’t focus and you don’t know how to stop your mouth anymore. Instead of the date, you call a friend, rambling and lamenting to him that you’re scared you’ve lost the parts of yourself that wants to want someone else.

He listens. Then, he asks you: what if you’re not ready?

You sit with that for a second. You ask yourself— did you want to bail on the date because you wanted something else? Or did you bail because you wanted a friend and not the work of being someone’s thing-I-got-right?

You tell him he may have a point. He tells you to get off the phone and write.

That night, for the first time in months, and without the aide of liquor or medication, you sleep for six hours straight.

And the walls of the cage come tumbling down.

The Audience

I’ve been looking through old writing, and I found this. In a desperate attempt to stay fresh, I did some editing, because writing is rewriting and repurposing, yes?

It starts by willing yourself out of bed.

I’m not trying to trivialize that. It took what seems like years to get here. You have spent hours wrapped in sheets, unable to get up from the crushing weight of yourself. When you flip onto your back– the first movement you’ve made that hints that, just maybe, you will sit up this time– a rolling pain starts behind your eyes and down your back. It hurts. It paralyzes you for a moment, as you try and breathe past what, rationally, you know is not there.

The expanding of your rib cage hurts. The balloon of your stomach hurts. Blinking hurts. Everything hurts. It hurts enough for you to consider rolling back into the fetal position. You are tempted to throw an arm over your face like a boxer in a losing match– please, please, just stop hitting me— closing your eyes and trying to make the world disappear.

The thing is, depression is the quieter cousin of anxiety, and you’ve been dealing with this pair for years. They have been slipping into your bedsheets and sliding next to you in bus seats since you were an adolescent. They have wrapped your hand around razors and your body in blankets. They have convinced you that the world outside the life raft of your bed has waters far too dangerous to explore and watched as you did not eat, nor sleep, nor talk to anyone for days in fear of it. They have made you think that sitting with them in the darkness while they silently hold your hands is your only option.

And, years later, you have learned that this is a lie. You know, deep down, that staying with them only begets nights much darker than the one you are in right now. Wisdom teaches you that you have to get up. The rational part of yourself– a minority voice in the chorus of your aching mind– grasps desperately at that wisdom: You have to get up now. You have to get up.

You take a deep inhale, and sit up, a body rising from the grave.

I haven’t been able to stop writing in second person lately. It’s a bad habit of style, I have no doubt. We always teach against the second person; the constant use of “you” can come across as preachy or pedantic, and no audience likes to be told what they feel. It is difficult to do well, and I am no Junot Diaz.

I’ve been desperately trying to break out of the pattern. I start pieces with “I,” feverishly forcing myself to read down a mental list of the feelings I could tell you about, the dynamic verbs my body could be doing, or the thesaurus-long list of words that better describe how I could “say” any of this (‘I mutter,’ ‘I gasp,’ ‘I scream’).

Then, I realize that I have no idea how I feel. I have no idea what I’ve been doing. I am secretly in crisis mode, my brain the burnt out rubble of a war zone at the end of a long battle. I am glassy-eyed and shaken, triaging each moment like a trauma nurse on the field. I am figuring out what needs to happen so I can take the next breath. Sometimes it is stumbling through the motions because it feels like there is nothing else left to do.

And I see myself doing that. I see myself wander through the wreckage of my own being, unsure how to rebuild. At times, I can convince myself that the destruction will warrant whatever new creation I put together.

Sometimes, though, I am so paralyzed with fear that I can’t think through what comes next. Trying to figure it out hurts. Instead, I see myself go glassy-eyed and back away.

So, sure, I am partially writing like this in a desperate attempt to help you understand what I’m feeling. I am trying to unstitch and open myself, let you slip into this world for a moment by narrating what it feels like.

I understand now, though, that my audience isn’t just the reader anymore. My audience is myself, wandering that wreckage shaken and unsure. I am watching this version of myself try and figure her way out of the rubble. I see her sit down and bury her head in her hands, wondering what she should do next. I slam my hands against the screen, desperately trying to get her to hear me. I am writing her letters and stories, telling her that I understand, that it’s okay, that it won’t be this way forever. I want to jump in next to her, throw my arms around her, and then shake her by the shoulders.

You have to get up now. You have to get up