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“Di papa w!” my mother yelled dismissively at me in Haitian Creole, “Tell your father!” “Leave me alone!” I yelled. I ran into my room, slamming the door with such force that it made the room quiver. I stomped around until I finally collapsed into bed. I cried. I cried so much that I would cry myself to sleep. I was always aware of what was happening around me. I had to be; it wasn't obvious growing up that my parents didn't love each other. Although they never got into verbal arguments, the animosity was there. When they communicated, which was rare, it would be brief and followed by a petty comment behind the other's back. One of the things that would cause tension was transportation. I was always unsure who would bring me to and from school—would it be my mom, siblings, cousin, or a family friend? I never thought that it'd be my dad, as Mom made it clear that he “was busy playing dominoes with his friends” and that she would never ask him to pick me up. It was something I'd always have to do alone: be the messenger between two warring sides and I would grow up to mimic their behavior. Some of the ways they dealt with their issues with each other rubbed off on me, as I would often avoid conflict, ignoring the feelings building up within me until I would finally implode in a fit of rage and tears I couldn't explain. At school, this manifested in intense anxiety and reclusiveness, as I kept to myself and didn't share any parts of my home life with anyone. I can now say that I was heartbroken over the fact that my parents weren't getting along. I was confused as to why my parents, who were unmarried and clearly not in love, were still living together. I'd think to myself “What's keeping them here together?” and my subconscious answered back, “Me.” I began to blame myself for their hostility towards each other. I came to realize that I needed stability and affection, but I knew at that moment I wouldn't get those from my parents, so I looked towards a hobby that would help. Quilting became a way to create something meaningful and practical. This expensive hobby was made possible by a $500 grant that I earned and the rewards are invaluable. Quilting taught me how to adapt. For example, I used an old bed sheet to create the backing for my quilt, in doing so I also lessened the mental clutter I was struggling with. With every thread that connected and endured, it became something deeper than just sewing. As I would work on quilts, all of the emotions I felt overwhelmed by could be stitched into art I controlled. Quilting also became a medium to express my Haitian roots as well as be able to provide a little warmth to someone in need. As I made more quilts, my confidence began to build. At school, I no longer felt like a recluse who would walk around, hanging her head in despair. I would now hold my head up high with pride. At home, it has brought me closer to my mother, who's offered to help me sew. Now I hear “Moutre papa w” when I complete a quilt, and the tension in my home is eased knowing that she's saying “Show your father.”

I stared at the rain gushing down through the windows of my room as I sat on the edge of the bed. The white curtains were swaying along with the cold wind coming from the open-air. I closed my eyes and slowly put my hands outside the window reaching the tiny drops of the fall. It suddenly felt nostalgic. As the raindrop touches my bare hands, the image of a little girl, running through the green meadows befall my mind. I suddenly felt a stinging sensation in my head and my breathing gradually ragged. I opened my eyes and my vision became blurry. A dark terrifying image that I can't seem to fathom appeared on my sight drawing nearer. I wanted to run but my feet were glued, unable to move from where I was sitting. As the image came closer, it became clearer and vivid. Doppelganger. It's my doppelganger. We look exactly the same. She was holding a knife and whispering words that are inaudible to my ears. My doppelganger came nearer and as she stood in front of me with her blank, horrid eyes that contrasts the devilish smile plastered on her face, I finally understood the words she was trying to say. Words that will forever be engraved in the chambers of my soul. She held my face and whispered those words into my ears and before I could even speak, she abruptly stabbed my chest with the knife she was holding. And carved on that knife were the words she whispered to me. “Will you love me now?” Since the quarantine were imposed in our country, my life was sort of paused. It was both overwhelming and terrifying. Four months had pass since it started and it has been the most challenging months I had in my sixteen years of existence. It is during this time that I came to realize the most essential thing I needed in this lifetime. And that is self-love. I grew up in a place where how you look is important. The color of your body, the texture of your skin, the features of you face and the way how you look is being judged. People will always have a say on what you wear and whom you associate yourself with. And sometimes, often times rather, it sucks. It sucks to pretend that you are something you're not. It sucks to follow the same path that many people took for they are afraid to journey a new one. It sucks to do things without meaning. You know that kind of feeling when you do something without having the joy or fulfillment. It's like as if you're only doing it to survive and thrive. That pretty much sucks, right? However, during the quarantine period, my perspective and mindset about the mundane things that ‘sucks' was totally changed. It is this time that my eyes were opened to the reality of life. I learned how to appreciate the smallest thing in front of me and I learned how to give utter importance to each and every living thing on Earth. And most importantly, I was able to teach myself the most beautiful art I have ever seen and felt which is self-love. Before the pandemic started, I have always been criticizing myself for the way I look. I doesn't feel good because I thought to myself “I doesn't look good”. I didn't allot a room where I could grow and evolve into something beautiful. I let the social norms and standards measure the capabilities I have within me. In short, I let myself crumble upon what the society tells. However, I am so grateful that the quarantine happened because I was able to realize my potentials and appreciate the beauty I have. I learned that beauty isn't something that you see on the outside image of a person. It is about the principles and purity of the heart that really counts as beautiful. Self-love isn't an easy journey. It has its own curls and curves and you have to go through all of them to really attain it. Eating healthy, stretch/exercise, watching movies, spending time with the family, pampering yourself with different products, praying and many other more. Sometimes, I feel lazy and procrastinate but whenever I encounter this kind of phase, I always remind myself why I started it. To be better, to feel better, to do better and to harness the best version of myself. And I can say that I am halfway through perfecting the art of self-love. Someday I wanted to dream the dream I written in the first paragraphs of this essay. I would want to see my doppelganger again. If one day she'll visit me in my dreams and ask the same words she asked me before, I'll answer her within the same scenario without getting frightened, without wanting to run. I'll answer her with all positivity and love and I would tell her “Yes, I will love you now, tomorrow and until forever comes to end. I will love your imperfections, past and the whole you no matter what happens.” And once I told her those words, I want her to stab me again with a knife. But this time, I want that the word carved in the knife is “finally”. Because finally, I have found myself full of love wherein pain can never turn my heart ruthless and cold.

Waking up is the worst part. It's all rumpled clothes and hair, which fans over my face like a veil; my sister Maddie would be disgusted. It takes time for me to get up. Most days, I'll turn over and go back to sleep, and only when I wake again an hour later, feeling gross and dazed, disgusted with myself for shirking my responsibilities, do I start the day. By then it's usually around ten-fifteen. Some days, eleven. (Those are the days I hold my breath and hope just to get through.) Breakfast consists of a Pop-Tart, maybe, or Cocoa Puffs, or nothing. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but when you get up at lunchtime, it tends not to seem so important. I try to fill my days with productivity. As I walk downstairs to feed the guinea pigs—hay and water and a handful of food—I attempt to keep my mind on two things: first, what I should accomplish that day, and second, what I'm actually capable of accomplishing. Sometimes the two meet in the middle; most days, though, they don't. By twelve I'm usually deep into a book, trying to ignore the sound of the news or my sisters arguing. If not that, then I'm practicing, viola flung haphazardly over my shoulder, tenor sax pressed against my lips, bassoon resting against my thigh, or maybe my new pink electric guitar, Joni, sitting on my knee. We found her at a yard sale last week; 25 bucks and boom, I'm the new Van Halen. Well, not quite yet. I have to learn the C chord first. (And the rest of them.) I wasn't kidding, about all those instruments. My family is very musical. Between the five of us, we play just about everything, and with the quarantine, there's always some sort of music going on. Usually it's me—I try to practice two instruments every day—but sometimes it's my parents, their voices wrapping around each other as my dad strums an acoustic in the sunlight, or other times it's my twin sisters playing for school. (They aren't really twins. Technically we're triplets, but that's not really the right term, either. I like to call it “twins and an extra.” Mom and Dad like to call it “three for the price of one.”) Like I said, I try to be productive; I try to keep a smile on my face. But it is, admittedly, difficult. Because there are the days that I wake up feeling refreshed and excited—but there are also the days where every question I ask my parents ends in a “What?! I can't hear you!”, and I raise my voice too loud in response, and one parent comes in at exactly the wrong time, and I'm scolded for disrespect. Other times, when my sisters and I are arguing over nothing, more often than not the petty insults tossed around land on my shoulders like blows, and I crumple under their weight. I try not to be in my bedroom around the hours of one to four, because if I am, I'm bound to crawl into bed and fall asleep. Naps have prevailed among everyone in my household since the virus hit—my father will sleep around one, or in the evening; my mother whenever he does; and my sisters seem to exist in a permanent state of sleepy stupor, preferring to spend their days in their rooms, watching TikToks, replying to Snapchats, and browsing YouTube videos. It's not that I disagree with their lifestyle; it's just that I don't understand it. Dinner is a nightmare. Sometimes it's that way only for me, and sometimes it's that way for all of us. I just can't stand sitting at the same table, day after day, discussing the same topics—I thrive off structure, but I guess I hate routine. I can't stand when things stay the same for a long time, and that's exactly what this quarantine has been. All these things have their place, but at this point, they aren't enough. I miss my friends and I'm lonely. I try to go outside sometimes, go on walks, talk to people, but it doesn't happen often. Oh, well—c'est la vie, right? I go to bed later than I'd like: usually twelve to two, because I can't sleep. I lie (lay?) in bed, staring up at my glow-in-the-dark stars, and think about when I'll get to go to school again and what it will be like when I do. I wish I could say I prayed for all the virus victims and their families, but I'm only a fourteen-year-old girl, staring up at the stars plastered to my ceiling, and if I said that, it wouldn't be true.

Every single day, I write a gratitude journal. I have been writing one since I was ten years old. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was hopeful. But as people close to me tested positive and one of my best friend's dads succumbed to the deadly virus, the virus was not a cold statistic anymore. My little niece, usually cheerful, wrote a story about how she discovered a magic potion that could combat the virus. For the first time, I knew that I was going to be living through a period in the world that would constitute living history. Indeed, anything we write about this pandemic and our experiences of it, will be used as archival research for years to come. How have I being spending my days, you ask? I have been practising strict social distancing, as several people I am quarantining with are immuno-compromised. In my real life, I live and work as an entrepreneur and a tour guide, so tactile presence is important not just to me as a human being, but also in terms of my career. Of course, my walking tours have dried up, but I have spent my time listening to BTS, a Kpop band that I discovered when I was going through one of the worst phases of my life-getting out of a physical and emotionally abusive relationship. The trauma of that relationship continues to haunt me and sometimes I wake up at night in a pool of tears, frightened and startled too, at the person I became in a relationship with a person determined to impede my growth through their abject apathy and narcissism. It has been three years, and I have emerged out of this terrible equation stronger, wiser and post importantly, much happier. During the pandemic when I have some free time, I watch mukbangs and learn about ASMR, play video games with new friends I have made, the pandemic has really helped me expand my community and appreciate all the creative ways in which food bloggers, sustainable fashion designers are using their platforms. I am also very impressed by the way activists are using the tools available to them to agitate and organize. Writers are writing beautifully. I have been feeling very exhausted of late so I have been snapping at a lot of people who are very close to me. I have built an unflappable social media persona online, but I am still the same quiet, unsure and grouchy person I always was. It is so easy to lose sight of who you fundamentally are when accolades come your way. And contrary to popular belief, success does not always make you confident. It can also make you nervous and insecure. With almost no interactions offline, I find myself comparing my own life to acquaintance's lives. He got an award during quarantine. Her business is thriving. She got a book deal. Once you start looking at other people's curated feeds (and automatically compare your unfiltered life to their curated one), it makes you miserable. Rationally, you know that this is only one part of the story and there is so much more to it, but your insecurity and low self esteem gets the better of you. "I still have not finished the book I promised I'd write," I tell myself. But I have low energy and am mentally too exhausted to actually form characters. "I will be disciplined and create a schedule that works for me." But I fail and I fail every single time. Finally, I decide that it is time for a shift in mindset. I am lucky to be alive and healthy and it is really okay if I don't get much done during the pandemic. I am working on my full-time job, and being productive is not really the prerogative at the moment. Finding a vaccine for COVID-19 is. Surviving is. Staying kind and loving is.

Friday Night Fright I want to preface this story with one important statement: This is going to be a story primarily about two random high school sophomores that are in no way just me and my friend with names I changed. Ok now that that's understood, those two dumb high schoolers are Jack and Dave. Jack and Dave have been friends for about a year and a half at this point, meeting at the beginning of freshman year. They are very good friends, hanging out with each other and the same group of friends pretty much every weekend. Jack, Dave, and their group got invited to a party for the upcoming weekend and they were all fairly excited as they hadn't been to too many parties since they were still in the first half of their high school career. After all of the anticipation and fantasizing about the party throughout the school week, the weekend had finally arrived. Naturally, Jack, Dave, and friends wanted to secure some “liquid courage” to make the party experience that much more enjoyable. Well, these idiots managed to somehow end up with the worst possible drink for kids who had never really drank much before. It starts with “four” and makes you “loko” and that's all I'm going to say about that. Jack and Dave ended up splitting one or two of these drinks and everything was going pretty smooth for the next few hours. After a while, Jack and Dave had their sights set on some girls that they had seen around school (not in a weird way in a high school, maybe goodnight kiss type of way). Anyway, they began talking to these two girls that they had seen around and had a few surface level conversations with. After about an hour of “deep” conversation with these ladies the time reached 12:00 and the girls had to go home for curfew. They lived right down the street and walked home. Jack and Dave didn't have a curfew as they were sleeping at the house the party was held at because they were at least smart enough not to drive and made previous arrangements. All parties involved, Jack, Dave, and the girls, were distraught at the fact of their time together ending so abruptly. After fifteen to thirty minutes of some intoxicated social media use, Jack, Dave, and the girls concocted a master plan for Jack and Dave to walk to the girl's house and help them sneak out of the window. An important thing to keep in mind for this next part of the story is that this was a wealthier community on the water, so the houses were pretty big with two stories and a backyard. Looking straight at this house there is a big driveway and fences on either side of the house to keep their back yard enclosed. Back to the story, Jack and Dave arrive at the house and see the girls looking out of the second-floor window, farthest to the right. Jack and Dave proceed to climb on top of the fence in an attempt to get onto the roof and help the girls sneak out. After few minutes of standing on the fence and talking while trying to get onto the roof, everyone hears the front door open and immediately everyone's worst fears are realized. They might get caught. The girls close their window and Dave jumps off the fence to the driveway and sprints home. Jack, being the smartest person in the world at the time, jumps the wrong way, into the backyard. This spot of the backyard is a narrow path leading to the rest of the yard with only some tools and a big generator that powers the house. Jack is now panicking and proceeds to hide behind the generator in hopes that no one notices. Then, Jack hears footsteps coming his way and the gate open. At this point Jack is now literally fearing for his life, heart beating a thousand times a second, not knowing what will be done to him if he gets caught. Making the situation even worse is that Jack was raised by a United States Marine who emphasized safety and kept lots of firearms in case of an intruder. That knowledge of what his father would do to an unknown intruder made Jack even more frightened of what was about to happen to him. The footsteps get closer and closer, and eventually pass him. And then the footsteps circle back and come past him again and again, all while Jack is having the scariest (and most intoxicated) moment of his life to this point. Finally, the footsteps stop right in front of him. Jack is shaking and all he hears are the words “you can come out now son”. Jack stands up, puts his hands in the air, and all he can manage are the words “Please don't hurt me, I'm so sorry”. The father of the girls laughs and walks Jack to the driveway where the mother was standing and the father says, “You can just knock next time, but go back home now”. Jack thanks them both and apologizes and sprints the whole way back still shaking have no real grasp of what just happened. After collecting himself he tells the story to all of his friends and they all have a good laugh and go to sleep for the night. In the future, Jack still tells the story all the time of the most frightening and embarrassing moment of his life.

At first, I didn't know what to write for this. I always thought of my life as not that meaningful or noteworthy, but I have a story I want to tell. I had a friend, someone I cherished above many people. At that point, we had been friends for many years, nearly five or six I think. Lets call her Vivian, since I would rather not use her real name. Vivian's parents had told me to stay away from her. I could not visit anymore because of my sexuality. They have a belief that every person is gay or straight. You like one or the other, not both. We found a loophole and still messaged each other when we could. However, I am not a patient person and I really wanted to visit her, to see Vivian and enjoy all her sarcasm and humor. So, I came up with the brilliant idea to message her parents without consulting her first. A stupid and impulsive decision. I gathered my courage and sent a message to her mother from my mother's phone since they were friends on the social media platform I used. I got a reply quickly since she had not yet left for work. I was hopeful that maybe I could change her mind, since I know I really couldn't change the father's mind. At first, the conversation was rather light, not what I was expecting. But it got tense quickly, when I sent her a message she misinterpreted as me being rude. I had not meant to be rude or tell her how to punish Vivian, I just wanted her to listen to me and then decide if I was worthy to mingle with their daughter. By the end of the conversation, both myself and Vivian's mother were upset at the other. And Vivian was beyond angry with me. She told me very blatantly that I should have been patient and waited. All I did was upset her mother before work. I felt bad, I knew Vivian had the right to be upset and scold me a little. My own mother, however, did not agree. She started to argue with Vivian, only making her more upset. At this point, I went to the bathroom to calm myself from the nerves I had knotted in my stomach and veins. Within those few measly seconds, I lost my friend. The only person I really depended on and talked to. My world crumbled. My mother had said some very mean and hurtful words to my friend, which made me lose her. I lost my temper. I screamed at my mother, yelled hurtful words that I knew would cause her pain, and walked away. At that point, I did not care about her feelings or my consequences, just as she did not care in those few seconds. I had lost my friend, my best friend. I lost my two lovely cats, and I lost my will to live. All in one summer. Over time, due to the deep emotions that ran through me, I later experienced an emotional burnout. I did not care about anything. I would cause myself pain to feel alive. I had no will to eat, to get out of bed, to do anything other than sleep. Just when I thought, for a few days, I was getting better, my depression and anxiety started pumping throughout my body. I could not stand to be in public or I would start to cause self-harm to relieve the stress in my body. I would scratch and bite my arms and twist my fingers nearly to the point of nearly breaking. I could never stay in class because that alone would cause me to panic. My depression caused me to loathe myself. I hated my very being. If it were not for my therapist and medicine. My friends and family. I don't know if I would be here. I have a different cat named Stella, who is pigeon-toed on her back feet. I also have a guinea pig named Brutus, from Julius Caesar. I am on a different medication. I am finally starting to feel better. I am starting to feel alive again. To everyone else like me, these feelings can be handled. It is not easy to deal with these feelings, it won't just go away, but over time, you will feel better. So just keep marching through the dark, you will find the light.

There is this woman I work for. The most generous person you will meet. She will cook for you, crochet you an afgan, bake you some brownies and offer you everything she has. All for the price of your sanity. I am a part time hair stylist at her beauty shop. The shop is located inside of a swanky retirement community. The proprietor has been at this location for twenty eight years. I have never met a more boastful human. She claims that she cooks better than anyone because she does it the “Greek way”, the “right way”. Whatever that means. She used to bake for the shop guests until one day. As one of our regulars was leaving, she stops at the door on her way out and asks if the owner had baked. What was she thinking ? After 28 years of doing so, how could she ask such a foolish question? “No, and don't ever ask me again!” Alas. That was it. Not another baked good would walk through those doors. Also, don't ever let her hear you “pop” or “snap” your gum. Or bite into a piece of hard candy. Don't ever dare call her by the short version of her American name. She would smite you to the ground and curse you until Tuesday. Don't even think to defend your actions or misunderstandings or ask questions about topics she finds “stupid”. Not a day goes by without hearing the tales of her worthless gambler, abuser of a husband. How her mother sold her off to him at the tender age of fourteen, for a container of peppers. He was twice her age. But she was just another unwanted mouth to feed which made it easy for her parents to agree to the pepper deal. She went to live with her new husband and his parents. She calls them the outlaws. Everyday with the joke about the outlaws. She cackles in her raspy smokers voice as if the joke had'nt been repeated numerous times in a week. She got knocked up by the old husband and remained his wife for over thirty years. Why did she stay married so long? Because she did not want to raise her three sons without a father. Nevermind the fact that he taught them nothing. Forget that he beat her in front of them. Pretend he didn't steal from her and her children. After a lot of begging, he finally permitted her to have a job. She would keep secret money stashed to make sure she had groceries at the very least. She tells the story of how his father raped her and threatened her childs life if she didn't keep it to herself. She talks about her many attempts at her own life. These stories are repeated like a broken record. How I envy the minds of our elderly clientelle. How fortunate for them to be able to either not hear because they dont have their hearing aids on or how they are able to forget from one moment to the next. I have tried to help. I went as far as obtaining marijuana for her to try. She loved it. But like with everything else, she has to find something wrong with all of it. She went on a European vacation with her two sons for ten days. I was looking forward to a happier, lighter, maybe a more peaceful atmosphere upon her return. But no. She came back to complain about all the horrible things that happened. Very little was said about any inkling of a good time she may have had. She believes she has to remember her past. She will not let it go. No matter how beautiful life is. She holds on to her sadness and wears it all over. Not just on her sleeve. I have come to understand that I will never understand her. I can only empathize and hope she finds peace one day.

When I was little, I always dreamed of being a rock star ever since Hannah Montana came out from Disney. Every time the opening plays, I would always be on top of the bed and singing and dancing along while using the remote as a microphone. Sometimes my mother would even scold me for jumping on the bed. Though as I got older, I realized I cannot be a rock star since I was not that musically involved as Hannah was nor did I even have the voice to be one. Then when I was in sixth grade, my English teacher noticed that I was quite good in writing, so she encouraged me to join the school paper in which I did. There, I discovered my talent in journalism something that I did not know I possess. It also happens to be that I was chosen to be a part of a contest, the annual Division of Schools Press Conference, a contest that I had no idea was going to be huge and I was assigned to the Sports writing event. My coach for that event would be no other than our principal himself, a wise man that many people including students and teachers alike respect. To be trained under his wing was an honor because despite the small amount of time I had training under him, I learned a lot from him. When I arrived on the venue, I was surprised at the number of contestants. I felt like I was swimming in an ocean of sharks, but I was not going to let these ‘sharks' intimidate me. After witnessing the live sports event that we were going to cover, I had taken the necessary information needed for my article and proceeded to the room where we will have an hour to formulate an article. I applied everything my coach taught me and submitted my article written in the official paper. The results were to be announced later that day and I did not know what to expect, I did not whether I would win or not, but I thought to myself that someone like me would not stand a chance against those seasoned contestants. But the unbelievable happened, my name was called to come up on stage, a surge of joy and pride ran through my veins. The feeling was foreign to me, but I could not help but smile as I received my medal and certificate, who thought that someone like me who lacks experience would win 2nd place? I was so mind blown that it took a moment for me to register that I would be going to Camiguin for the Regionals. From then on, I became confident with my writing skills and continued to expound my vocabulary by reading articles, books, stories and any reading material I could find. Though as time went by, I realized that as much as I love writing, I did not enjoy it. So, as I continue to find my dream, to find what I really want to become in the future, I let my mind wander by watching films. That is when it hit me, filming and theater arts are the things that I am most passionate about which would explain why I would have the urge to re-enact the most intense scenes of my favorite actors in my own bedroom as a kid. Why I would spend hours back then impersonating people and experimenting on my facial expressions and imitate various accents. The reason why I would be in awe every time an actor has wonderfully delivered and embodied their character, as I pay close attention to detail and dialogue as well as search for any sort of symbolism in movies. It was something that I enjoy. It was something that I look forward in doing soon and as young as I am now, I want to practice it as early as possible. I already have experience in both video and photo editing, my photo capturing has also gotten better and I intend on joining as many workshops as I could that would enhance my potential and my passion in film making grow stronger. There is only one problem that might hinder me from pursuing my dream and that is my family. Mainly because film schools are pricey and as much as I want to pursue it, I do not want to financially burden my family. Also, the last time I opened up to them something similar like theater arts, they were not quite convinced. Even my grandfather was not into the idea of me starring in films because he does not find it practical compared to courses let's say nursing. I admit that broke my heart a little but just because they are not in favor of the idea does not mean I am going to stop myself from pursuing it. Which is why I find ways to enter in different academic institutions that offers courses of my interest by looking up and planning to apply for scholarships. I may still have one more year to worry about it since I am still in Grade 11, but I just want to tell that whoever is reading this, whoever you are, that do not stop dreaming. Pursue it if that is what you truly want. I once read a quote from my school's computer laboratory in which it said, “Allow your passion to become your purpose, and it will one day become your profession.” It was a statement that struck me so much that it has instilled itself in my own mind and has become my motivation in life. Because I know one day, we will all achieve it no matter what.

Grief. We all experience it at some points in our life. The death of a beloved pet, the death of a loved one. It comes for us all, eventually. How do you explain that feeling, though? If you haven't lost someone yet, how do I explain that hole? How do I explain trying to fit that square peg of their memory into the round hole of the loss in my heart? Especially when that peg is spiked and tainted with negative memories of abuse and neglect. The person who is gone wasn't a saint, they weren't even a good person, but I still miss them! Amanda Palmer's song “The Thing About Things” put it so well. “If you aren't allowed to love someone living, you learn how to love someone dead.” No one stopped me from loving my father when he was alive except me, and it's a damn good thing I did, too. He was toxic. He was abusive. He was neglectful. He was manipulative. He was everything negative that you shouldn't have in your life. And now that he's gone, I'm trying to learn how to love his memory, the GOOD parts of his memory (because, despite all the negative, there WERE some good parts), and it's so damn hard. Every time I think about him, I think about how he hurt me and how he hurt others around me. Every time I think about his memory, I think about his mental illness that he refused to get help for. Every time I think about his presence in my life, I think about how adroitly he manipulated me every time he was in my life for any length of time. I can't extract the good from the bad. I can't just remember the man who was there for me when everyone else bailed. I can't just remember the man who taught me, as a toddler, about life and death by explaining that he couldn't resurrect the dead grasshopper on the asphalt. I can't just remember the times we would talk and laugh and share stories. I can't just remember the man who took me to San Francisco when I was a teenager, for my 13th birthday, because he knew I loved the city. I can't just remember those things, because those memories are constantly crowded out by the bad ones. I write Dead Letters to him on occasion. The irony of doing so now that he's actually dead is not lost on me. I tell him how he made me feel, how he screwed me up, how much I wished he would have been a better dad. I learned the routine back when I was a kid, from a counselor who gave me many tools to deal with an absentee father. So I write my letters and pour my heart out to a father who never would have read them anyway, even before he died three years ago. Now it just feels pointless, and I realized today that somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I was writing them to get my thoughts in order to confront him. I honestly thought, deep in the subconscious, that I would be able to talk to him about these things someday. I don't know what I expected to happen, but I thought it would be… cathartic. Some closure. Release. I hoped for it, since I was a little girl--the chance to confront him about what he did to my psyche with his behavior--and now I am faced with the stark reality that I will never get that chance. I don't like permanent doors closing on me--ever. I've never been good with that. I struggle with goodbyes, I struggle with permanence… let's just say I have “commitment issues”. Even when I was a kid, I was afraid to put stickers somewhere, for fear of finding somewhere better later. Now that anxiety plays out in various ways in my life, all because I'm terrified of something going wrong later. That “future fear” is something I've always been afraid of, and it has led me to catastrophize almost CONSTANTLY about the people in my life. When my father died, one of my biggest Future Fears came true. It was one that was in the back of my mind for decades--I even had nightmares about his death, some in which I even killed him myself--but this time it was really happening. Now here we are, three years on, and I still can't process the permanence of it. I still remember his phone number, and every once in a while I will reach for my phone to call him, to try to reach out one last time. I can't parse in my brain the fact that he is actually GONE. The reality of his death is so much different emotionally. I have lost people before, but never someone that I simultaneously loved and loathed. It has made grieving for him difficult. I swing between missing him and hating him, between wanting to talk to him for reassurance and wanting to confront him for the abuse. I am a strange dichotomy of grief. My grief is an ugly animal sometimes, eating me up inside. Other times it lies dormant, just a hole in my heart. Every once in a while, I smell his smoke in the elevators at my apartment building. When I go out for my last smoke, I try to time it where the light is just right, and it reminds me of him--of the good times with him--and I put on music in my earbuds that remind me of our good times.

Write about myself? Oh, where do I begin. My name is Bella. Some people call me Bex, and some people don't. As much as I wish that was it, it's actually Isabella G. Mulet. We don't talk about what G stands for, because that's embarrassing. I'm your average Cuban girl, born and raised in Miami, surviving every day with ADHD and anxiety. I have no fear in standing by what I believe in or my opinions. I go to a small, amazing high school called MAST @ Homestead. I live with 10 family members, whom I love dearly, but living in my home can be crazy, loud, and stressful. With that, I find myself doing activities that I love as distraction from the chaos I call home. Writing, skateboarding, listening to music, playing the drums, and sleeping are just some of the many things I enjoy. My interest in writing has existed since I was young, and now I enjoy describing emotions, the effects of social media and the twisted realities of our world. Listening to music goes hand in hand with my writing. I dedicate approximately ⅓ of my day to reading and analyzing music, from Ritchie Valens to Pink Floyd to Drake to Gustav Holst; music is my passion, and I hope to continue it into college. I'm probably one of the most ambitious people most will ever come across. I have big dreams. I plan to attend Duke University for college, a school I have loved since I knew it existed. I want to graduate from the Pratt School of Engineering, hopefully leading to a career in designing medical equipment and prosthetics, I also love to build and assemble. I'm just a girl from one of the smaller parts of Miami, dreaming to make it big. I'm not an adult, or a professional writer, or something worthwhile yet. But I'm getting there. It just takes a little passion, perspiration, and determination.

Fourth grade is a confusing time, an interesting time to introduce a child to death. Of course, this wasn't the first time I had heard of him, death had taken great-grandparents and other family members under his arm, but this was the first time his acquaintance had become so intimate. I don't remember the first time I met the boy with dark spiky hair. As I flip through the pages of my memory, he suddenly appears. He's by my side as we wander across the playground, unsure of where we belonged in our elementary school's hierarchy. Friendship between boys and girls was a new idea, one unfamiliar to girls who mastered double-dutch and boys who talked about Star Wars and Harry Potter on the playground. All I knew was that I liked being around the kind Puerto Rican boy with the sweet smile. When I was on crutches, the other kids teased me, but my loyal friend helped me carry my things. He was in my classes, and our friendship was no secret. I will never forget where I was when I heard. I remember hearing the words my mother said to me on that Saturday morning as she relayed the email she had received. They hung around me like arithmetic equations; sounded familiar but I just couldn't put them together in a coherent way. It was just a cold. That's all it was, a harmless cold. How was his mother supposed to know that he was allergic to the cold medicine she gave him? The allergic reaction was too much for his young heart to handle. Could you really die at ten years old? My teacher sent me to the counselor's office. It was just me and his best friend, two kids sitting there in the small room as we were asked to share how we felt about Ricky's death. I didn't know what to say, I didn't even know how I felt. I did not yet possess a vocabulary capable of conveying the confused and sober thoughts of my young and troubled heart. Suddenly I was introduced to the fragility of life, and the ground beneath my feet was replaced with thin ice. When would it break; submerging me under the frigid waters of death? Were we all just floating in an ocean of tears waiting for a wave to swallow us whole? There was a memorial in his honor, and I was shocked at the tear stained faces of kids who hadn't even known his name until he was dead. Where did this large group of mourners come from and where had they been when the counselor bombarded two kids with questions about grief? There were no tears in my eyes, my mind was still struggling to comprehend that he would never against sit next to me in class. I saw his Catholic mother with her blood-red rosary and tear stained eyes as she mourned her Ricardo at the memorial, surrounded by people who would never know the sting of watching their child slip through the veil of death. I don't even remember what we were supposed to write about, but I took my thoughts and watched them bleed on the paper. When the writing assignment was returned, my teacher squeezed me against her large body and told me about how my paper had made her cry. She let other teachers read it, and they had also cried. I have often thought about the boy with spiky hair and chocolate brown eyes. I have often thought about the time I learned about death's sting, and how I have continued to become more acquainted with it throughout my life. Fourth grade is an interesting time to introduce a child to death, an acquaintance who will always be near.

I don't know remember exactly when and how it started. Perhaps it never had a beginning but had always been a part of my soul. Books had captured my attention since infancy and stories lived on my tongue from the moment I could string a sentence together. The exact day I began jotting down poems in my school notebooks, doesn't matter. I was only releasing the steady current of words from my mind and watching them trail across the paper as they came to life. I can't recall how old I was turning the birthday that I received one of my favorite gifts. My grandma had given me a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. I had never heard her name before, but her words would lead me deeper into the literary world. I was young and couldn't understand every poem, but I often got lost in that thick book as Emily taught me her own rules about grammar, romance, and life. As an English major, I would later learn a lot more about the immortalized poet. I wondered about her life in her room, peering from her window. Did she know what impact her words would have on the world? Who would have guessed that a recluse would play such a big role in helping a little girl grow in her love for writing and reading poetry? When studying Emily in college, I felt as though I was being reunited with an old friend. The taste of her words on my tongue brought back the musty smell of the book pressed against my face as I laid on the floor of my childhood room. Long before her words had really made much sense to me, they had awoken the poet inside. Not a skilled poet by any means, but a poet who understood the depth of life by giving breath to her thoughts, concerns, joys, and fears. Like the poets of English classes and beloved anthologies, my poetry was a showcase of growth and the evolution of a woman. They started out as descriptions of nature sceneries from the eyes of a child living in the suburbs. As an early teen, they grappled with life and the confusions of adolescence. When waves of depression came, my poems matured and darkened with themes of death, suicide, and a heartbreaking desire to be loved and understood. I continued to grow, and my poems became museum exhibits of old loves. As I became a wife and mother, they talked about the struggles and joys of marriage and motherhood, supporting me during the hard days and preserving the beautiful ones. I will forever be in debt to the shut-in who opened me to the world of poetry. The woman who opened her mind so that other could see what she saw from her bedroom window. The writer who planted seeds of inspiration. I wonder if she's wandered through the gallery of my poems. Did she too witness the evolution of a girl to a woman through words? Was she able to see traces of herself in my works; able to trace my progress back to the anthology of her works, that sat near my bed for many years? I will watch my poetry continue to evolve as I do. It will carry the years, hardships, and blessings of my life until we are buried together. While my poems may not be analyzed in lecture halls or studied by scholars, they once lived, and that's enough for me. They lived because Emily awoke them within me, and together we breathed life into their lungs.