I walked hurriedly to meet my friend at a local Cafe' to go over a presentation that I had put together for an event that had my nerves worked up. It was freezing outside as snow fell silently across the city. I held onto my backpack tightly with my gloved hands, my teeth chattering as I fantasized about the hot coffee I would soon be indulging in. Jones was standing outside waiting for me as I approached. "Oh, hey! So, I heard you're the new age immigration writer in town, its nice to meet you ma'am!” He said to me snidely with a slight eyebrow raise as he held the door to the cafe' open for me. I smiled kindly and tucked a strand of hair behind my ears to make a better connection, "Oh, is that what they're labeling me as now?" I side stepped him in a playful manner. He followed me inside the doorway to continue the conversation, "Well, what would you label yourself as?" He shrugged as if it were a simple question with an obvious answer. My smile never wavered as I held my head high and met his eyes, "Nothing. I am not a label, therefor, I don't have one." He chuckled lightly, "Sure you do. Everyone has a label. I mean, I'm the guy who likes to play rugby in freezing temps, which earned me the title of a fighter." Pausing to reflect on the statement made, I lowered my eyes only to find a resilience sleeping in me that I never knew was there. Slowly, I raised my eyes back to his, "See, that's what is wrong in our times today. Society has made us believe that we are all labeled in some way. That we fall into a certain category, and that leads us to be judged based on what category we happen to fall into. Don't you understand? We are not categories or labels. We are people with feelings, emotions, aspirations, and dreams. We don't deserve to fall into a specific category which creates a sense of mental instability for ourselves to believe. No, we deserve to believe in ourselves whole heartedly and know who we are without the world telling us who we are. Labels are outdated and categories are overrated. It's time for us to be true to ourselves and just be who we are. What is wrong with that? And quite frankly, I've never fallen into the “EVERYONE” category. Im not everyone. I am me.” Jones couldn't find the words to combat my thoughts, he only nodded with a smile as he slid his arm around me in a welcoming embrace that made his understanding clear.

I can't remember What's going on the ground? Anywhere I turn around, Real lies, in abound Real lies, all around With this agony, This pain in my brain I am leading nowhere, in a vain Where miseries only rain Enraged to be in this maze As I grow and I age With a bed Where lies are only fed Hoping that The world will soon turn around As I look for the truth in abound Where Lies will no longer be fed But will fade Where Miseries will no longer rain But will be drained

I had sat for 20 minutes without noticing any change. The sun was harsh, and it made most of the others I sat with stone faced. A lot were minding their business while a few were already getting into lively conversations and it seemed like I was the only one still in a certain confusion. How is this process organized? I grew up an inquisitive child. You tend to pick up a mind that's always keen on knowing how things worked; when you are born into a strict home where going to play with others is considered a felony and a conversation with a stranger is a crime, but you also somehow owed everyone older than you a greeting. I always welcomed opportunities to learn and I became more introverted and rebellious with the increasing amount of time I had to spend in my head. As I got older, I got super shy, being able to ask a stranger a question was Christmas, and to keep the conversation was Santa's gifts wrapped and tied with red ribbons, so I was mostly left with one person to always talk to, me. I however mastered the art of soliloquy, which never really seemed to work with the ladies. The things that conversations with myself taught me were patience, optimism and how to tear my toys apart to know what made the car move, and to understand the mechanism behind the water gun. I always felt there was no one I could really ask about what bothered me, the adults didn't exactly think. They never seemed to have any answers to my unending questions. Once, my uncle and I were given a bowl of rice with a single piece of fish and meat. When we were done eating, he took the meat and at my protest, he had to convince me. “Fish is better than meat and has more nutrients” he had said, but after a pause my 4 year old self replied, “If that is the case, then why are you eating the meat and not the fish?”. I had once reasoned that if everyone else brought their requests to God in the morning and night, then it would be smarter to come at a time when many people will be busy. A time when he would be quite lonely and in need of company. I could totally relate with God, he was one person I felt wasn't also allowed to go out and play with others, and they never really cared about his opinion too. So just like me he learnt to soliloquize, like he does so well with the contrasting mixture of mute lightening and deafening thunder. Little wonder why storms never scared me. Like when I lost my dad to the cold bullets encouraged by an assassins' ability to use his index finger. Who for some reasons felt I didn't deserve to have any parent at 19. He must have had the same take on the issue as some relatives, “you are now a man” they said. Or when I lost my mum who succumbed to illness leaving behind a 6 year old. On both occasions though, I didn't shed a single tear. Not because I was a man, but because in my head we had talked and agreed that crying will not help make the situation any better. Living most of your childhood in your head and most of your adult life struggling alone, certain things no longer faze you. So when I got a call from my Network provider that my SIM card which I had registered some 10 years ago was no longer registered in my name, I was not shocked. I mean, you will think that being a faithful customer for that long would at least count for something. “We have reshuffled registration”, whatever that meant in English, and I was told that if I didn't go to their office to repair a damage that they had caused, in 4 days, I would be barred from using any of their services. I had woken up that morning reluctantly but patiently bullying myself through the whole preparations that humans have deemed necessary for mixing with a crowd; Bathe, brush, dress up (I wonder who made these rules) optimistic that by the end of the day, I will own my SIM once again. I had tried to work out the meaning of reshuffling registration in my head for 3 days now with no success. So I put on my face mask, and set out not knowing that life had planned another lesson to teach. As I sat watching people go in and out of their office, trying to connect the dots on what has been happening to no avail; I turned to the lady beside me. She had eyes that reminded me of Angelina Jolie. A constellation that drowns you with a wave of its reflection. Like a sea and with just as much surface tension. Yes, I have a thing for eyes. So since I was confused and she had those galaxies on her face, I tried to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. I will get direction on what to do, and start a conversation. I asked her how the process was organized, to which she chuckled, pointed to a paper and said “put down your name”, after which she turned back to her phone. Being very teachable, I learnt from that moment, that there were simple things of life that even the smartest person can only grasp by gleaning from the experiences of others. So for me today Christmas came but without Santa's gifts.

I push back from the laptop, my fingers trembling when I fumble with the edge of the drawer, pulling it open. I twist the cap off of the medicine bottle, shaking out two pain pills and popping them into my mouth. Another headache, my vision spotty from it. This morning there was a doctor's appointment, one where I laid out my symptoms and the doctor assured me they will only get worse. He gave me a sales pitch on chemo, along with a fresh script for pain meds. The chemo I passed on, but the meds I accepted. I'm breaking. I can see it in the rigid grip of my stance, the clench of jaw, the tremble of my entire frame. I can feel it in the air, the rough pain that emits, and this is so much deeper, so much stronger, than my own mortality. In that news, there had been no emotion. In this, I am a raw current. I don't know when it happened, or how, but grief is a song I am well versed in. I'm dying. It's a grim start to any story, but I think the news should be delivered in the same manner as a ripped band-aid. Short and blunt, a stab that burns for a moment, then is gone, the moment over. My doctor tip-toed around the news, showing me test results and citing blood cell counts, CEA numbers, and an MRI that showed a tumor the size of a small lemon. He drew out what could have been accomplished in two short sentences. You're terminal. You have three months left. I should be sad. I should be emotional, my fingers shaking as they press cell phone buttons and make depressingly bleak phone calls to all of my friends and family. Only, I don't have friends. And my family… I have no family. I have only this countdown, a dark ominous chant of days, sunrises and sunsets before my body gives up and my mind shuts down. It's not really a terrible diagnosis—not for me. I've been waiting four years for something like this to happen, a guillotine to fall, an escape door to appear. I'd be almost cheerful about it, if it weren't for the book. The story. The truth, which I've avoided for the last four years. I step into my office and flip on the light. Moving forward, I reach out, my hand trailing over the corkboard wall, hovering over the tacked up photos, the pages of abandoned ideas, jotted notes of a hundred sleepless nights, sparks of inspiration—some that led nowhere, some that now sit on bookshelves all over the world. My husband made me this board. His hands held the wood frame in place, cut the cork, and nailed the pieces into place. He kept me out of the office all day to do it, my insistence at entering thwarted by the lock, my knocks on the door ignored. I remember sitting back in this same chair, my hands on my belly, and seeing the final product. I had stared up at the blank board and thought of all the stories I would build on it, the words already itching for their place. It had become everything I thought it would. I stop at the page I've read countless times, its paper worn more than the others, the edges not obscured with clippings or neighboring photos. It's the synopsis for a novel. Right now, it's just one paragraph in length, the type of copy that might one day be embossed on the back cover of the book. I've written fifteen novels, but this one terrifies me. I fear that I won't have the right words, the right arc, that I will aim too high, hit too hard, and still not properly affect the reader. I fear that I'll tell everything, and still no one will understand. It's a book I had planned to write decades from now, once my skills had grown, my writing sharpened, talents perfected. It is a book I planned to spend years on, everything else pushed aside, my world closing in on the one thing that mattered, nothing else moving until it was finished, until it was perfect. Now, I don't have decades. I don't have years. I don't have the level of skill. I don't have anything. There is no time for perfection; it doesn't matter. I pull at the tack that holds it in place, and set the page carefully on the center of my clean desk. Three months. The deadline is the tightest I've ever faced. There will be no frantic calls to my agent, no negotiation for more time. Three months to write a story that deserves years. Is it even possible?

I am the story and I am the truth...the truth spoken but with a shade of twist ain't no truth. It's feigned righteousness and that's bullshit in its entirety!!

Alcoholism does not only affect the alcoholic; it mentally (and sometimes even permanently) damages their loved ones. It usually impacts children into their adulthood. Today, I recognize that I am mentally fractured from nearly two decades of neglect. Here are my honest feelings; from a child of an alcoholic and how it has impacted me. Honestly, I knew she frustrated me. Oh my God did she ever make the volcano erupt. Yet, I didn't clearly recognize she was an alcoholic until about a year ago. I don't remember a night where I wasn't isolating myself in my room, or throwing picture frames at my bedroom wall, or ripping apart her “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say all of the cruel things that I did. I love you. Will you forgive me? I'm sorry Rayne. I love you so much” letters into shreds as I would stutter out the words; “If she was sorry, she would have stopped saying such disgusting things.” I was aware of the fact that she was drinking every night. Merlot would flow down her throat, and after the bottle was spotless, another one would appear. As the wine soaked into her lips, her personality changed. Her uncomfortable presence grew into a mellowed woman. It should be the other way around; but she was constantly hungover, so she never was calm. I tried avoiding personal topics. It never turned out that way. She would always pry. I had no interest engaging in conversation, because it was never a happy ending. I didn't realize it then, but looking back, she had tangled me up in a fucked up routine. She would drink herself stupid, then she would get agitated because of how I answered her questions; to which I had answered a handful of times. “Yes Mom, I use protection. Yes, I know what condoms are.” “No, I'm not self-harming anymore. Yes, I'm sure.” Her eyes were always attached to the television or her cell-phone, so it really didn't matter how I responded to her uncomfortable questions, she wouldn't listen. Most of the time, I ran off to my bedroom, followed by slamming the door behind me; immediately locking it as the stomping became noticeable. 95% of the time I was ordered to remove myself from hiding. I wouldn't even be three feet away from the outdated sofa before she would yell at me; “Come back here when you're ready to act like an adult. Stop being a bitch.” My face was flushed, and my eyelids were half shut from constantly crying, I was at stage one of having a panic attack. How inconsiderate of me, I'm such a bitch for having valid emotions. (This is part 1 of this blog. I am not yet finished. Stay tuned for the rest!)

You've got a letter. I ran as fast as I could down the stairs in my house with my birthday crown falling off my head, I had an idea of who the letter was from. I took the letter in my hand and held it close to my heart and took a deep breath of air. I looked down at the brown envelope and there it was my birthday letter from dad. I opened the letter to see pink and blue balloons as the background on the card. I felt the butterflies fluttering up my throat as I read… Overwhelmed with emotions and confusion I ran into my room and cried, not understanding why things were the way they were. As I drifted into a fitful sleep, I remembered the story of my father's cry. February of 1993, while traveling, the car was stopped and searched by police officers. The officers found weapons and drugs. My father's life as well as mine would never be the same. My mother received a phone call days later from him where he explained the occurrences. The trial lingered on for weeks; the verdict came back, and he was sentenced to 52 years in prison. Being able to understand what happened was not difficult, but being able to talk about it was the hardest thing. I grew up knowing the most caring man in the world, and to think he was in prison, was mind blowing. I was ashamed that my father was in prison. I hid it or avoided talking about family because of reactions. I felt disappointed and angry because of his position. He made a decision that cost me the relationship that I crave for now. I wondered if he thought about my mom and me? I was 11 when I sat down and really talked about this with my mom. She told me it was okay to talk about my dad's situation.To me, this situation my mom and I were in just made us stronger together. My mother was both parents. My mother's sacrifice and ability to provide for me was a great achievement. She took care of me, worked, went to school, and loved me all at the same time. When he calls, we talk about anything and everything; he teaches me what I need to be taught like boys and making the right choices in life. Despite of my dad's position and what he did, I still love him and no one can change that. My mom also promotes our relationship. She knows that I am the only thing that keeps him going in prison. While my mother is supportive, I have encountered many people who have said hurtful things about him. Some even said I should turn my back on him. How would turning my back on him benefit me or him? I do not love my father because my mother says so or because that is the right thing to do, I love him because he has done a lot for me without him actually being here. I realize that he made a bad choice and is paying the consequences for it. I am proud that my father keeps his head up during his ordeal. I know that his arrest and imprisonment has changed him for the better. He will be a changed man and father when his time is up. Before I visited my father in prison, the thought of going to a prison freaked me out. Going to see him was so hard for me, I kept thinking, I could not face him. Before, I did not want to look at him I give him sympathy or make him feel worst about his situation. I knew that was selfish of me but it was a hurdle I had to get over and I did. In 2009, I drove deep into New Jersey to see my father. I was never this afraid ever in my life. I cried all the way there. For some reason I could not get it together. When I walked into the prison, I had to get processed and checked. During this time I think I took about 100 trips to the bathroom trying to get myself together. Looking around everyone seemed calm and content as if this was easy. I sat in the chair waiting for my number to be called. The door open and I knew that was him, my daddy, my father. I rose and hugged him and he kissed my forehead, I felt relieved. We sat for almost four hours talking about anything. I studied his features and realize I looked just like him. I smiled to myself. I love my father. I felt rejuvenated, like a new person. I was happy that I made him happy. He has not seen me in 17 years and I finally made that happened for him. My heart smiled. I was a new person. As time passes and I continue to grow and appreciate my life, friends, family and my freedom, I still keep in mind that life is a journey and my journey has many obstacles. I am determined to overcome my obstacles. Throughout my journey, I can say that I have parents that have loved me unconditionally. My father's incarceration has had a positive impact on my life. I feel that his presence in prison helps me stay on track and focus in everything I do; knowing he only wants the best for me. I do suffer as I wish he could start his life over and have him spend every day with me. I believe that life's obstacles can either make a person stronger or weaker. My father's incarceration has provided me with the motivation to be triumphant and look at the position I am in as a reminder of the meaning of life and the cries we all have.

We have all had, at some point in our lives, a physics class or an astronomy class. We have all been to a park with our friends, or on the roofs of our houses looking at stars and counting them. And chances are, we've been doing all of this without putting much thinking into it, just doing it for the fun of it. And maybe even sometimes, our heads set the imagination that's trapped inside of it, free and lets it flow. Maybe sometimes that imagination takes us places we've never been before, places that on a normal Tuesday would look far away, even impossible. But if you think about it, if you stop for just one second and think about all of this, about the stars, the sky, your friend laying next to you on that rooftop, the leaves on the trees and the ones on the ground, the little children running around. If you think about all of this and try to find common grounds for this you will find that we are all just one and the same. We are the same as the sky, the stars and the leaves. We all have our own sunrises, our shooting moments, and our autumns. We all start somewhere, only to finish some other place. If there's anything we could learn from nature is that life goes on. You may say that this is a pessimistic way to look at things. But I beg to differ, I beg that for once in our lives we could overlook and ignore the descriptive of good and bad, pessimistic and optimistic, just simply take things for what they actually are and for what nature has made of them. I beg that for once we could accept everything we have been, are and will be. There's a known cycle, of how things start, develop and then end. There's a starting point, an ending one and a process in between. Life goes on, and how wonderful is that! We get the chance to be born into a family, we get the chance of being able to breathe, feel the rain, the sunrays, grow up, grow hair, watch it change colors and then lose it. We get the chance to see our skin as soft as a soap bar then witness it get drained and take up all of life's signs as it stains into darker patches and wrinkles up into soft lines. We watch our children that we love and cherish grow up and learn about life and go through the same process. We get the chance to be part of a world that is as imperfect as we are, as full of doubts sometimes as we are and as hopeful other times as we are. We get the chance to have a voice in that world and to make a difference. We are lucky that we're human and part of this world, that we come from nature and that we are part of a process. What else do we need to happen to us to understand that we are fortunate and that it is up to us and to us only to change the wrong things with the earth? Now instead of grieving the known end of us, the final stage of our lives, take that process and own it. Make that process yours and exist on your own terms. If it is an already settled fact that life goes on then go with it, make it happen. Live as much as possible, live and exist to the fullest you can. Exhaust your life and make yourself crave and work for those cravings. Be the star, the sky and the leaf you are. Shoot through darkness as hard and fast as you can, absorb all the burning afternoon clouds, the cold tears of autumn and the dim of dawn time, be green and flow with the wind, then shrink and turn yellow while your friends turn all sorts of purples and pinks, go all brown and fall to the ground and let it take you in with care. Be what nature has made of you and be proud of it.

When I picked up the book 13 reasons why at a book store many years ago I had no clue it would change my life. I didn't know that I was fixing to read my story written by a stranger. A noticeable difference is that I am 31 and still alive. I lived Hannah's life but I made it. When I was 15 years old a friend called me one Friday night. She was intoxicated at a party with all males. She wasn't comfortable and asked if I could walk across the street to where the party was and stay with her. I thought nothing of it and told my parents I was sleeping over with the neighbor (just not the neighbor they thought). I cared for my friend and got her to bed with no issues. I locked her in the room and made sure none of the males present went near the room. We had all been friends for years with the exception of an older guy there. He was very attractive, rich and popular. As the early morning hours approached the friends all started to pass out. I was given my own room and soon found myself fast asleep. I woke up to the guy I didn't know asking if he could crash in there with me because the rest of the beds were taken. I remember hearing the door lock and even telling him that was a fire safety issue. I wasn't nervous because I was in a house full of people I had known for several years. I must have fallen back to sleep quickly but that wouldn't last. I was awoken to him on top of me, forcing himself inside me. I was a virgin and scared truly to make a noise. I think I may have whimpered but that only made it worse. I don't know how long it lasted. I remember he left the room and didn't come back in. I was scared to leave the room. When morning came I practically ran home. I can remember my friends calling me the next 2 days asking what had happened because the male was saying things about me that were not nice. I realized later that he immediately started saying things about my character so people would believe him when he said he never touched me. I had no intentions of telling anyone but made sure no one would believe me if I did. Something I didn't realize was that he was already 18 which made what he did statutory rape. I can remember that first day back at school how all my friends shunned me. People I had known since elementary school treated me like I did something wrong. I never told my parents. I quit cheerleading and the school newspaper. I didn't talk about it with my childhood best friends. They knew something was wrong but I shut down anytime I was asked. Things moved on and I finished the year barely passing after having been an straight a student. I thought for sure the next year would be better as junior but I was shocked the first day of school to find that my attacker had been held from graduation and would be back at the school for another year. Not only was he back at school but would be in some of my classes. I told myself that I could handle this by just pretending he didn't exist but he seemed that he needed to make my life hard. He would say things under his breath when I talked, he would loudly make comments about my reputation and would try to turn my few peers in the class against me. After a few weeks of this abuse I started taking sleeping medicine to get past the nightmares. One day he seemed particularly nasty towards me and called me to his table during lunch. He had some of his female friends call me some names and tell me how he would never have touched me. I took enough sleeping pills that night to never face him again. People wondered how I got the pills. I asked an older neighbor friend to get them for me. That moment of survival changed my life. I still didn't speak out of the attacker mostly out of fear. I felt like I was having a heart attack when I saw in the local paper that he been arrested with trying to pick up a 14 year old girl in a sting when he was 30. My first thought was he may have hurt other girls. I was so scared to tell and that may have left him able to harm others. I have dealt with the ptsd of the attack for years. Sometimes are better than others. Everyday I am glad that I didn't die when I wanted to so bad. I I am so happy that I got to meet a great man who understands my cold days. I am so thankful I got to be a mommy. When I hear people say that Hannah Baker from 13 reasons wanted attention I want to scream that she is real. She is me. I never asked for his bullying. I never asked for the whispers. I never wanted the sympathy. I just wanted to make the choice of my first time being with someone I loved not a stranger who prayed on virgins.

The mini bus came to a halt. This should have been a relief after five whole minutes of it jerking backwards and forwards beyond the driver's control. Yet the ever so present darkness lingering outside intertwined with the sudden moment of silence did not make it any better. This very factor completely debunked the idea of walking home no matter how close it now was. The two men got out of the vehicle with the driver sliding underneath it as the conductor directed the torch for him. That's when the song began to play; as I sat isolated, the only remaining soul in the bus. I was five years old when I began to hate the song, twelve years later and I still do. Did I mention it was raining quite heavily that evening (the five PM light made non-existent due to it being winter)? It was really the perfect desolate scene for that song and although it could have only been between three and five minutes it felt much longer because up to now I cannot remember any other song that played before nor after that one. The radio must have been jammed, that's the only explanation, jammed by the universe. The song blaring through the speakers was ‘lonely' by Akon. I'm sure back then my fiver year old intuition noticed that something about that entire scenario did not make sense although I have only begun to really think about it recently. Why would that song heighten my fear in that moment so drastically it caused my hatred of it. Was I really afraid of being left alone in a bus on a dark and rainy day with two possible monsters outside, or was there more? That ride back home from school was not the main issue. My being alone in that bus as the song played was part of it. I was afraid indeed, afraid of being eternally lonely. Somehow my fear became a more evident reality as I grew up. From being an outcast to being included yet still feeling alone a line from one of my favourite musician's songs comes forcefully to mind, ‘If lonely is a taste then it's all that I've been tasting.'~ NF real music