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[pointofreturn]

About Me!

I'm a 30-something native Floridian and the beach is my church. I love my dogs more than anything and find myself happiest at home or in my pool.

I have always been a writer, despite my stubborn refusal to accept the title. I have been writing about my life since elementary school. All of my work has autobiographical influences, and I have many goals as an artist interested in multiple outlets. I hope to achieve some of them over my lifetime.

Speaking of my life, it's been difficult. Not a platitude, just a fact. I am working to embody those challenging experiences in a memoir, currently titled Point of Return.

In the memoir, I'm writing about growing up within a toxic, abusive family where I was parentified for over 20 years, struggling with mental and physical illness, substance abuse, and an eating disorder, and encountering several, strange near-death-experiences and undeniable connections with the Other Side.

When I talk to people (even just a little) about my life, they seem interested in the stories I have to tell. I hope to find an audience for my work, if not here, then somewhere, someday. I am trying to believe all of these experiences have returned me to the point of writing this book. This has been in the works for over 10 years--it's time to start sharing!

Thank you for being here! Please say hi!

[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 4

Jane embarked on her pursuit of the professor. She regularly updated me on their many, small intimate moments and how thrilling it was to have a forbidden romance with a coworker in front of her husband. I took all the information she provided as true, even though I knew her to frequently lie. I churned in an internal angry volcano of envy knowing they were spending more time together while I sat on the sidelines. I was frustrated my connection seemed thwarted by Jane’s determination. I was angry that I was undoubtedly in another situation where I wasn’t chosen. And even more, the subtle realization that I wasn’t special after all.

Jane called me one night and said she made out with the professor after having drinks. But when she tried to get him to go home with her, he firmly refused.

Her pride was hurt but Jane was even more determined after that. I stayed silent. I didn’t speak the professor. I didn’t say anything more to Jane about my feelings or how I felt hurt by her actions after I confided in her.

I simply watched as another storm commenced.

*

Jane invites me and the professor to celebrate her birthday at the Renaissance Faire with her husband and their friends. We are finally going to come face-to-face after the seemingly endless separation.

I try to manage my expectations. But I can’t help but indulge in the thrill. I dress myself up beautifully to show off who and what I am. One of my defenses is hiding behind the mask of perceived beauty. I wear a long, flowy white dress with a flower crown and silver jewels. I paint matching silver tears under my eyes, a subtle hint of my secret heartbreak.

I find the professor in a tent of mead horns and weapon replicas. I can’t stop myself once I see him; I run and throw myself into his arms.

He hugs me back, hesitant at first, but then harder. Clinging.

“Well, I do think an angel has befallen us from heaven!” the tent cashier chimes in awkwardly.

“Yes, I do think so…” he replies. Staring.

We walk around in silence for a few minutes. We rejoin Jane and she does most of the talking and I fawn by reciprocating her energy. It’s her birthday and I’m actively working to not to think about the fact that she’s trying to fuck my slow flame.

There was nothing between us anyway, right?

The professor is strangely quiet. When Jane is occupied for a second, he finally speaks to me.

“It’s so good to see you…Two years…It’s been such a long time.”

We chat briefly about our lives. I tell him I’ve changed a lot and have a different vision for my life now, one that’s further from the chaos of society. I order a drink and he snaps a picture of me and Jane with my disposable camera, which he finds highly amusing.

We spend the day walking around, people-watching, and attending some of the RenFest events—a comedy show, jousting, sword fighting.

Jane asks the three of us to take a selfie together so she can post it on Facebook, something she does with every moment of her life.

The professor and I lean in closer to fit the frame.

He slides his arm around my waist, his hand resting between my hip bone and uterus. What were you thinking?

I stiffen. Clench my breath.

Jane snaps the picture. I look happier than I feel.

The professor pulls away awkwardly.

While we watch the jousting, he kneels next to me. I sit on the floor, entranced with the horses. He moves closer and I gently lean my head onto his shoulder. I see him look at where my dress has hiked up, look at my bare calves and high tops, the ones with his name on them. Later, we sit next to each other on a bench and he pulls the classic yawn-and-stretch before putting his arm around me. I fight the desperate urge to fall into him completely and let myself be undone.

A drum circle finishes the evening. Jane dances uninhibited in a crowd of beautiful strangers letting loose as their weirdest selves. Of course, she comes over and shakes her tits in his face. Good for her. The professor and I smile together, laughing at the general mayhem. He stands closely behind me. The beat of the music pulses through us all.

“Look at that guy over there, in the grey shirt. He’s the best of them all.”

He puts his hands on my hips again, in the same place, guiding me to see the grey shirt man. My body stiffens. Not fear, desire. It had been so long since anyone touched me and you had no idea. The professor’s hand lingers a moment too long. I feel his chest on my back, a puff of his air on my neck.  

The beat stops.

*

Jane asked the professor to take her home that night. I knew her true intentions the whole time she set the scheme, but her husband was blind. Though even later that night, Jane’s entire pursuit with the professor would come to light and nearly cause Jane and her husband to separate.

She told me how it all played out a couple of days after RenFest. The professor drove her home, where they were alone and she was ready. She asked him to come inside and fuck her three times. He refused. Refused. Refused. I have no idea if they did eventually fuck; Jane’s recently languid poems make me think not.

The outer bands were strong. Somehow, I was caught as an extension of an inter-departmental triangle relationship that was altering people’s lives. Still, I watched. I stayed out of the drama as much as I could. I didn’t allow myself to feel the hurt from the betrayal Jane or the professor committed against me. I told myself they owed me nothing. No one was beholden or loyal to me. They were free to do as they pleased. I accepted the circumstances and let the storm unfold.

Despite the personal complications, my career at AU was finally stabilizing. Jane and I continued to work well together as long as I kept hidden my disdain. I had spent over 5 years working in the university writing center at this point. Jane was my boss, and our boss Jack(Ass) was getting ready to retire. Jane and I both expected to be promoted accordingly.

Jane and I conjured up all of the ways we would improve the writing center once Jack(Ass) was gone. He’d had a long history of racism, ableism, sexism, and downright abuse of his employees and had faced virtually no consequences. We’re excited about the possibility of making an enjoyable work environment and thriving together as we both access job stability.

But of course, Jack(Ass) had to go and ruin everything.

[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 3

The next semester, I signed up for the professor’s literature class. Several of my friends were in the class. We were loud and silly and everyone was trying to impress each other with their opinions on the texts the professor built his career on. But he had that special ability to make us feel comfortable enough to be our weird, nerdy selves. The class was a real-life Dead Poet’s Society, at least for the few weeks we were together.

He seemed unable to hide his focus on me. If I leaned my head over to rest, he’d lean into my ear to ask if I was okay instead of listening to the student speaking. During a guest lecturer’s speech, I got up to excuse myself and he followed just after, prompting an intimate moment translucent to the entire class, pressing to make sure I was okay. He gave me a box of Thin Mints and walked me out to the parking lot late when no one else was around and my car smelled like weed. He always held the door for me and never failed to provide a chivalrous hand to help me. One day, I remind him about something he forgot to send me, and he earnestly promised to be better to me, better for me. Surely, he’s naturally a gentleman, and all of these happenings are little things that happened to every other woman he had eyes for, but there was a slow flame burning between us.

And I’m not the only one who felt it.

Two of my friends approached me and asked what was going on between us. I don’t say that anything is, but I don’t say that anything isn’t either.

“I knew it! He treats you differently. It’s really noticeable.”

“I’ve never seen him act that way with anyone. I can’t even get him to answer an email.”

I wished I’d been more willing to see the warning signs. But as always, I was intoxicated with his obsession with me. I couldn’t help but continue to provide the temptation, continue playing the chess game.

Just before spring break, I borrowed an expensive book of his for a prospective project. It was March 2020. COVID destroyed the world overnight. I stayed in Florida and he went back to the Midwest. We didn’t see each other for two years.

Yet, we kept in touch, even though there was no reason. He remembered texted me each year on my birthday and Thanksgiving and even early on Christmas morning when the last thing on his mind should be a student. I have a distinct memory of him saying he didn’t do things like that because he too often forgot. We talked occasionally about my thesis and Ph.D. applications.

He started texting me late at night. But no boundaries were crossed, yet.

We talked about seeing each other when he came back. I decided to stay at Another University for another degree, hopeful I’ll be able to establish a long-term career and finally achieve job stability. I take classes and teach online, staying concerned and vigilant about COVID long after the rest of the world decided to leave it behind.

During the time the professor and I were separated, I met my friend Jane. We quickly became close, she moved to Florida, and we started hanging out regularly.

*

In the spring, the professor returns.

I still work remotely, but Jane sees the professor often. She tells me they talk about how wonderful I am, and how we should hang out with her and her husband. I told her nothing about the seemingly endless slow burn.

She comes over to my house one night, gushing.

“Isn’t he so cute? And single? I almost can’t believe it…”

“Yeah, he’s a mystery! No denying that.”

Jane pauses, lighting another cigarette and sipping on a condensed glass of wine.

“Have I told you I’m in an open relationship?”

I’m caught off guard; I don’t expect this.

“Oh…that’s interesting!”

“Yeah—our rules are ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ unless it’s important or an emergency.”

“And that’s worked for you?” I already knew it hadn’t, or it wouldn’t forever.

“Oh yeah! Being open makes the marriage so much better.” She has that devil look in her eyes. “I’ve had a few boyfriends since we’ve been married. And now, I might have my sights set on a new one…”

“______?” His name burns on my tongue. I’ve always hated saying it.

“Of course! If I can ever figure him out. I think he’s flirting back at me, but I can’t tell if that’s just his personality.”

I smile, not really wanting to continue the conversation but trying to look unbothered.

“What is it?” she drags the cigarette stub. “I can tell there’s something you want to say.”

At this moment, I trust her, I think she’s my friend.

And in a lapse of judgment, I tell her about our flame.

I explain the situation to her with as much ration as I can. And that’s what it is—a situation between a student and professor quickly nearing sticky territory. I tell her the situation is confusing for me and there’s something unexplainable about the connection. I tell her I can’t deny my attraction to him and I’m not sure where this will ever end up.

“Hmm,” she says after I finish. She holds herself in that way I’m unsure of. “Well, I wouldn’t take him too seriously.” She finally puts out the cigarette, burnt through the filter.

“But I’m still gonna try to fuck him anyway.”

I should have known at this moment to cut her off.

[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 2

For the first three years, the professor and I were just in each other’s orbit. I don’t take any of his classes for one reason or another, but we saw each other often and always said a cordial hello with the slow burn unextinguishable between us.

I start to involve myself in the AU community, joining the literary magazine and inquiring about graduate school. I began to picture my life as an academic, researching and writing about the books I loved to read. I became editor-in-chief of the magazine senior year and got a taste of teaching for the first time. I began to picture my life as a professor, and I decided that was the path I was going to pursue. It seemed the solution to the issue of what to do with my life. And what could be better—talking about literature, writing and teaching.

I kept my admiration for the professor silent. It was just a fun, innocent crush. Nothing that would ever impact my life in any real way. I graduated with my bachelor’s and was accepted to the master’s program. I joined committees, led the graduate student program, presented my work, attended events and networked. I was determined to show my worth to AU. The community seemed what I had been searching for my whole life.

I started working in the writing center in the evenings and ran into the professor often beforehand. I started learning about where he was from and a little bit about his family. His defensive armor appeared impenetrable. Even as he was unwilling to share information about himself and his life, even though he seemed desperate to do so.

I was surprisingly open with him about my struggles, some of them anyway. My personal experience naturally began to overlap with my academic work and I felt safe talking with him, opening up in ways I hadn’t even been with Seb. When the professor did speak, he would frequently apologize for oversharing, or muse that he shouldn’t “reveal so much to a student.” Yet he kept opening up to me, bit by bit, chips were coming off of his armor. We eventually exchanged phone numbers because he was notoriously difficult to reach. And then we started texting.

The texting started sporadically and gradually became more frequent. The professor and I got closer as he became the primary advisor to my master’s thesis, but there was always something underlying when we were together. There was an energy between us, one that was both familiar and deeply unnerving. It burned more intensely the more time we spent together.

*

I sit in the cafeteria, filling out a tedious administrative form to approve a memorial event for a graduate student who died recently in a tragic car accident. As graduate student president, the responsibility of organizing and hosting the memorial falls on my shoulders.

I drink a chai latte and feel a watchful energy before noticing the professor in my peripheral vision. He and a friend sit at a table across from me, but he faces me directly, unable to look away. I pretend not to notice him. I drink my latte, finish the damn form, and gather some courage before getting up to walk past them.

I couldn’t ignore the intensity of his gaze if I tried.

He says my name.

Chills.

His friend speaks up, “Hi, I’m Jared. Are you in the department?”

I smile at Jared, willing myself to turn from the professor’s electric stare. “Yes, I’m a grad student. Dr. ______ is one of my advisors.”

The professor speaks again, “You seemed very busy over there, very focused.”

“Oh, you noticed? I was. I had to fill out one of those admin forms for an event. I was asked to organize a memorial for Mike.”

They both frown at me.

“Oh gosh, awful, awful thing that happened.”

“Yes,” the professor says, “Terrible. I can’t even imagine. I never taught him, but I know he was a great student.”

“He was in one of my classes,” Jared says. “Good kid, smart kid. Gone too soon.”

“Yeah…everyone is pretty torn up about it. And I guess I’m going to have to speak at this thing….You know, say a few words or something since I’m the host or whatever.”

“When is it?” the professor asks.

“Friday. Two weeks from now…If my paperwork gets approved.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The two weeks pass. As I’m driving to the memorial, I get a call from one of the other students helping with the event, a friend of Mike’s. He’s been particularly shaken up by his passing.

“Mollie, hey, where are you?”

“I’m almost there…Sorry, I’m running a little late. Is everyone there already?”

“Yeah, it’s filling up, but you have some time. Hey, guess who’s here?”

My stomach burns. I already know the answer.

“Who?” I fail to stop my voice from cracking.

“Dr. ______. I thought he never showed up to events. Did he teach Mike?”

I know the answer to this too, but I lie.

“I have no idea, maybe he wanted to pay his respects.”

I arrive and immediately see the professor as I exit the elevator. He meets my gaze. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. That will become a familiar look.

I break the tension with pleasantries.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were going to be here…Thanks for showing up.”

“Of course…I—” he stops himself and surveys our surroundings.

“Is it okay if I leave my purse and jacket with you? I gotta go up there now I guess.”

He’s caught off guard. I’m not sure why he always seems puzzled around me. “Oh yes, of course…I’ll keep it safe.”

I welcome everyone to the memorial and try to speak from my heart instead of my mind. I read a poem written by one of Mike’s friends and nearly break down in front of everyone and then sit back and maintain my composure as I watch Mike’s friends reminisce about his life and their loss. I still can’t let myself cry in front of people or talk about my own pain, so I feel their suffering silently, trying to telepathically communicate that I know exactly how they’re feeling.

They finish speaking and there must be some ending to the memorial. I haven’t prepared anything, but it seems disrespectful to just dismiss everyone to the snack table. So once again, I go up to the podium and fly by the seat of my spirit.

I don’t remember the words I say, but I remember the general message—live every day as if we are dying, a life worth living is a life of authenticity, what makes life worth living is being with people who fill us up and going after anything we desire.

There are few dry eyes in the room when my speech concludes. I’m not sure why my words have such an impact, but they do. Maybe I was infused with the holy spirit for a moment. I receive praise and affirmation from the people I admire most. They hug me and tell me what a wonderful speaker I am. One of the writing professors I revere tells me I have “incredible poise”—a compliment I’ll carry for life.

The crowd finally disperses towards the food, the only reason half of them are here anyway.

I approach the professor. He’s still in his chair and there is a mistiness in his eyes.

Did I make you cry? Did I make you feel something?

“Hey, thanks for watching my stuff—”

He cuts me off and holds out his hand, gesturing for me to take it. I glance quickly around the crowded room, then fully meet his gaze.

I take his hand in front of our entire department. But there seems to be no one but us in the room.

Can I even remember what you said?

He speaks quickly, breathlessly, as if he won’t let himself say the words unless he does it impulsively. “Your speech…You were amazing. Your words…so powerful. You must know, that you have a gift…What you did to these people in this room…Not everyone can—”

He won’t let go of my hand.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

It’s too much.

What were you doing to me? What was that feeling?

Another student interrupts us. He looks annoyed with her but they have to meet so he leaves before profusely apologizing to me.

The first touch. The wheel turns.

[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 1

I was always a model student. Always the teacher’s pet.

Intelligence was my earliest form of worthiness. People told me over and over how smart and well-spoken I was. In second grade, I was placed in a third-grade reading class. Gifted for fourth grade. I read books instead of playing with the other kids and spent middle school lunches with my nose between Edgar Allan Poe poems or Faulkner short stories. I aced every advanced English class, received praise for even the shittiest papers, and received perfect scores on state writing tests. I completed both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English with a focus on American Literature. I was accepted and offered full funding to two prestigious Ph.D. programs at famous southern schools. And I would have finished my doctorate if not for this dreaded tale I’m about to tell you.

Naturally, as a reader, I am also a writer. Mother saved all of the stories I wrote through grade school. I won an award in fourth grade for a story about a purple hairbrush. I wrote and illustrated a children’s book about squirrels with family conflict. All of the creative stories have one thing in common—they are infused with bits and pieces of my life.

I’ve always been one to speak from experience.

Writing was always something I enjoyed and I was objectively good at it, but my internal doubt ruined my ability to properly see my potential.

*

His name surrounds me months before I ever see him. He’s one of the more popular professors, and I’d come to learn that was for good reason. I started taking classes at Another University because I was determined to finally finish my bachelor’s. I started talking to people about the research I was interested in, what I liked to read and write.

“You have to meet him,” they say.

“You two will really get along. You’re so similar!”

“Have you talked to ______? He might be interested in picking your brain.”

I’m accepted to the honors program where I’m tasked with writing my first thesis. I settle on a comparative study on F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald’s tandem novels, This Side of Paradise and Save Me the Waltz, arguing that Scott’s patriarchal plagiarism and creative control directly contributed to Zelda’s mental and physical disabilities. It wasn’t profound, but Zelda’s novel is my favorite book ever, so I had to write about it. All my professors and peers tell me I should get his input on my work.

How I sometimes wish we hadn’t been pushed to cross paths.

How I sometimes wish I’d never met him.

*

After I decided to save myself, I finished inpatient treatment and figured the best way forward was to go back to college. I’d gathered a handful of credits from the two schools I’d been to previously and even though my heart was originally called by a music or art major, my head determined that I should be practical. English, I thought, was a path that could lead me to an attainable career in teaching or editing but would still allow me to engage with my creativity.

And given that it was my best subject, it made sense.

Several of my English professors had a profound impact on my life. My first creative writing teacher was at the local community college I said I’d never go to but have my associate’s degree from. He was in his early forties and kind of looked like Jason Bateman if you squinted the right way. His class was nonfiction-focused, so we spent a lot of time writing about ourselves. Easy enough. During our final meeting, he told me I should keep writing about my life. I’d had other people tell me to write a book, but he was the first to suggest writing a memoir, the first to suggest that my chaotic life was worth talking about.

I had an English professor in Tampa who assigned the book that taught me the truth about chattel slavery and the Native American genocide. He looked like a mix of Albert Einstein and Eugene Levy, always smelled like stale cigarettes and coffee, and was a notoriously hard grader. He was the first to give me a C on a paper, but he let me revise it and pushed me to be a better academic writer. Later, he awarded me a coveted A- on a paper about southern high schools teaching intentional misinformation on the Civil War and slavery. His only criticism was that I was too emotional, that I brought too much of myself into the subject.

After another health incident, I had to move back home, once again, but I was impatient to finally finish my bachelor’s degree. It had been nearly five years since I graduated high school and I was starting to feel behind in more ways than one. I transferred to Another University.

I grew up going to classes with Mother at AU. Another school I swore I would never go to and now have two degrees from. I distinctly remember a class she brought me to when I was four or five years old. We did a taste test—bitter, salty, sweet, sour. Each flavor was on a toothpick and we had to place the wood on a different section of our tongue to see where we got the strongest reaction. I have no idea what it was supposed to prove. But I loved the classroom, I loved watching the professor, I loved the feeling of belonging with the other students.

Another University birthed and destroyed my academic life.

*

I sit in an office with Josephine, my honors seminar professor. She is youthful and beautiful, blonde with a full, bright smile and spring-water eyes. Josephine will come to be one of my favorites over the years, one who sticks with me through my master’s thesis.

We’re waiting for her to introduce me to him.

“I think your project has a lot of potential,” she affirms. “I’m really excited to hear what he has to say. You have aligned research interests and I’m sure he’ll have some source recommendations for you to take this further.”

I smile and nod. I’m always nervous about meeting new people, but he responded politely enough to my email asking for a meeting. I was just getting in my head.

Josephine shuffles some papers around on her desk to break up the awkwardness. A figure passes outside her door.

“Oh! Dr. ______!”

I turn around to catch a glimpse of feathery blonde hair and the tail of a tweed coat. His body backtracks a few steps and stands in the doorway.

The world goes quiet.

Who are you? Did I know you from somewhere before?

I now completely understand his popularity. His looks alone are enough to tempt any of the academically needy English girls. Who wouldn’t want to sit alone in his office, listening intently to anything and everything he has to say about what you’ve written, all while secretly hoping for a hint that he’s interested in more than just your paper. His charming personality and hospitable mannerisms were just the cherry on top of a seemingly perfect package.

Josephine speaks again, beaming between the two of us stopped in time. “This is Mollie Steven, the undergraduate honors student you’re meeting with this afternoon.”

He opens his mouth and honey whiskey comes out.

“Mollie.”

He says my name and I don’t know if I’ll hear anything in the world ever again.

He leads me to his office and we sit down to have a conversation about my thesis. I can’t remember a single detail of the conversation but I will always remember the way he looked at me. I’ll always remember the way he shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair, obviously nervous. Despite the gossip I hear about his effortless confidence and charm, able to flirt with a light pole and all that, he stutters over his words and lets me lead the conversation. I think he asks a few questions about my personal life—where I’m from and went to school, normal things like that.

I knew immediately that there was a mutual attraction between us. And what was worse, some kind of instant, magnetic connection. Sticking your finger in a light socket and all that. I was still dating Seb, but this was the first man I’d felt something for in years. He felt something for me too, however fleeting or insignificant.

Our “story” spans over six years. It doesn’t have a happy ending, but why would I have ever expected it to?

[pointofreturn]

always my sign that the universe is looking out for me

✷ blue jay ✷

[pointofreturn]

father pt. 2 (tw)

I didn’t attend his funeral. Mother told me he had to be buried quickly because of Muslim religious traditions—just one of the white lies she convinced me of regarding his death. I still seethe in the bitterness. Lack of closure, sudden goodbyes, and unexplained abandonment scrape at the deepest wounds in me. Father had been in the ground for weeks before we even knew he was gone. Another part of me is glad I was spared the extra pain of the funeral—the shock of his passing was enough to last a lifetime.

I was left with only a handful of his belongings—gold Persian jewelry, birthday and holiday cards with his lean handwriting, a dozen framed photographs, an annotated copy of Oh, The Places You’ll Go, baggy t-shirts that still smell like him after decades. And of course, some remnants from his funeral. Everyone who attended the ceremony wrote me messages in a little black book that I’ve kept carefully hidden away. I don’t read it often, but during my recent move, I pick it back up and feel the full weight of their words, all inscribed in gold ink, for the first time.

He was someone who always made people laugh, a very soulful person. He inspired me with his strength and appetite for knowledge. When he believed something was possible, it was. He will live with my heart forever.

His presence gave light and warmth to everyone around him. I wrote a poem about our friendship, and I refer to him as my genuine sunshine. He made everything as bright as can be. I know now what it means to have ridden upon a star.

Change is powerful but growth is painful. He is not just forcing us to adapt to change without him, but to grow because of him. He was placed here on Earth for a higher cause.

He would always show me pictures of his you and was always so proud. Nothing put a special sparkle in his eyes like talking about you. I hope when you are a bit older and less angry at him you will pick up this book and truly feel what a wonderful person your dad was.

His kind words and inspirational voice helped me live my dreams—that’s what he did, he helped his fellow man realize their dreams. I will forever be in debt to him. Our dreams are now a reality. His intense passion will live on. He will live on. Our conversations about God lets me know he will be waiting for you someday in a better place.

He was blessed to be able to have a piece of himself left within you. You are the light to carry on his torch. Know that your father affected many people and you are destined to do the same. Your light will never die. Strive to be like him. He lives through you every day. Even though he no longer inhabits our physical world, his vibrant and beautiful presence lives in all of us. 

*

On a summer day before 9th grade, Mom and I go to lunch at our Chili’s. She sits across from me in a booth that says it fits four, but only fits two comfortably. I am almost fourteen years old, and I only care about my physical appearance and shrinking the space I exist in. Mom has never been good at hiding emotions; she always wears them on her face. I suspect some kind of “talk” is approaching. I dread it, thinking she is finally going to confront me about the weight loss, the skipped meals, the frequent trips to the bathroom…

Not today.

Nerves tremble in her voice. Her face is somber. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for years. I’ve been carrying this heavy burden with me. And I think it’s time you kno—”

“Hi, welcome to Chili’s!”

The waiter is young, with curly brown hair sticking out from beneath his uniform cap.

“Can I get you ladies started with something today? Drinks? Chips and salsa?” He realizes too late he has intruded at the wrong time, reading our faces with fear and concern on his own.

I know what I’m ordering without looking at the menu. I hand back the dirty plastic, “Diet Coke and a house salad.” I focus on a dent in the laminated wood of the table, avoiding eye contact. “Dressing on the side,” I add in a quick, quiet voice.

Mom orders but I don’t hear what she says, blood pounding in my ears. The waiter leaves relieved, and Mom doesn’t hesitate to pick up where she left off:

“Anyway, like I was saying…”

I can feel the anxiety beaming off her like the summer sun.

“This is something I’ve been wanting to tell you, and I think you’re old enough to have this conversation now.”

I look back at her, masking my fear with a poker face, a skill I’ve mastered after years of practice. “Okay…” I hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

“Oh no, honey!” Shaking her head, she whispers, “I’m afraid you’re going to be hurt.”

“Hurt by wha—”

The glasses clink down, condensation running onto the table.

“Diet Coke and Unsweetened Iced Tea.” Still misreading the situation, the waiter lingers. “Straws?”

We nod politely as he fumbles with his apron.

What does she mean, hurt? I think to myself.

I feel the urge to bolt out of the restaurant, run through the parking lot, and out to the street where I can leave this life behind. Mom gathers the courage to broach the topic again, wasting no time in getting to the point now.

“It’s about your father,” she confesses, “and what happened to him.” She wrings her hands together, the blood constricting, turning her fingers white. She twists her wedding ring back and forth like a broken clock.

I stare, still hiding my discomfort. I don’t like talking about my father.

Her inhale is dramatic, and the words come out quick and messy: “I know I told you all those years ago that it was an accident. That he died while cleaning one of his guns…”

I stare, cold and unmoving, waiting for the blow to land.

“Honey,” she sobs through a flood of tears. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice gets louder as she tries to speak over her whimpering. You were so young, and I didn’t know how to tell you then or explain what it means or how it happened.” She speeds up, hyperventilating, “I just couldn’t. You were only nine.”

She pauses, inhales again, and says these words:

“Your father killed himself.”

The wall built tall with lies crumbles. The world shatters and solidifies all at once.

I hear the deafening sizzle of Mom’s fajitas, her regular order, and watch the waiter carry the cast iron through the restaurant with a trail of steam following. The smell fills the restaurant. Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the walls.

We stare at each other as the waiter plates the fajitas. A veil of smoke and silence is erected between us.

“How did it really happen?” Emotion drains from my body. I glare at her with icy eyes.

She looks at me with pity. “Well, what I told you isn’t that far off from the truth,” she backtracks. “It was a gun…but he wasn’t cleaning it.” She stops again, her voice breaking. “And it wasn’t an accident.”

My heart and stomach erupt into a burning pit. Sweat accumulates on my forehead and under my arms, even in the blasting air conditioning. My appetite disappears.

Rain falls outside.

Mom takes my hands, forcing eye contact. She now speaks as if she can’t get the words out fast enough.

“I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think he was suicidal…I had just talked to him before it happened, and everything seemed fine. If I had known, I’d have…”

“Would have what?!” I snatch my hands back. “Obviously, everything wasn’t fine.” I’m snapping, but I don’t care. She’s right, I am hurt despite my aloof efforts.

We sit in silence, unable to communicate in any meaningful way. Instead we’re just two opposing tides of emotion: she, swelling and overwhelming, wanting release and comfort at the same time. And me, a still, undisturbed pool with an earthquake exploding just beneath the surface, desperate to sink into the molten cracks of my own core.

The waiter returns after what feels like an eternity and places the salad with dressing on the side in front of me.

“Okay ladies, that should be everything…Can I get you anything else?”

Neither of us says anything. I stare him down until he leaves.

My mind turns off. I don’t remember what happens for the rest of the day, or the weeks that follow. The searing wound in my heart rips open again, bleeding from the edges.

*

I think about my father’s last moments often. His family found plane tickets to Florida to see us for Father’s Day. Every year, the haunted holiday comes around. It’s already hard when your father is dead, but I don’t know many others who can say their dad ate a bullet on Father’s Day. I don’t know all the details leading up to his death, but I know he called his best friend to come over, the one who helped open DJ Hut.

Dad shot himself while the person he trusted most was in the other room. When I asked what that was like, his friend said he was honored and grateful Dad wanted him there for his last moments. And of course, he wished he could have done more, known more. I struggled to understand the ability to find gratitude in such an unspeakably awful situation.

No one expected it until it happened. Then, we lined up the pieces to put the whole picture together. 9/11 brought out rampant Islamophobia across America, something I experienced too, even as a child. My father feared walking into the world every day. He became ashamed of his culture, his religion, his appearance, his entire existence. There was an altercation between him and some other guys one night that resulted in him getting injured. He was in Manhattan when the towers fell but was blamed for their destruction. He didn’t feel safe. The blackbirds of death followed him everywhere and he fell into a black void of paranoia.

In hindsight, Mom now knows he struggled with severe mental illness, maybe bipolar or a personality disorder. She said there were times when he was on top of the world, flying too high. What would always follow was the inevitable crash—the lowest of the low, the most irate rage, the emptiest apathy. His moods were unpredictable. But he hid the worst of it from everyone until it was too late. So much of this I also inherited.

Of course, when I was nine and experiencing the first trauma of his death, I had no idea that suicide would later plague my own existence. I felt cursed for so long. At one point, I even welcomed it. Death loomed as the reliable backup plan to escape the suffering that became too painful to bear, too heavy to carry. I had a few unsuccessful half attempts: a dozen shots of tequila in an hour, fistfuls of assorted pills, and a deep, horizontal slice across my left wrist. The scars remain a testament to the deepest darkness of the monster raging inside of me.

I wish I could talk to my dad about what he went through during those last days. I wonder if it was anything like what I went through, what I still go through from time to time. Did he stay up through endless hours of the night, even during the brightest days? Was he trapped in a mind of unceasing commentary, an interior monologue eating his brain alive? Would he hurt himself in other ways, attempting to ease the internal strife with a controlled, exterior pain? How many times did he imagine it before finally pulling the trigger?

Was the final pain relief? Was suicide the way to ultimately control the invisible madness, to quiet the tempest of thoughts? I wonder how alike we really were. I wonder how much of what I went through was predisposed and encoded into my DNA.

I will never have answers to these questions.

[pointofreturn]

father pt. 1

Father was always distant. But I never questioned why he didn’t live with us, I didn’t hate him for visiting only a few times a year—these complicated thoughts wouldn’t come until later. I rarely even called him Dad, just my dad or my father. He was always out of reach, a permanent ghost just barely existing on the outskirts of my life.

When Father did visit, we smiled and laughed the whole time. He wasn’t from America and delighted in telling me the story of him and his parents running across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night when he was only seven years old. With few possessions on their backs, they fled home in fear of being killed for their political alignments. Dad gave me one of those possessions he saved across countries—a goofy-looking, green stuffed dinosaur named Chill-Chill. He always ended the story with how grateful he was for the life they built here, his real home. Father was a proud American.

His first love was music. He spun his turntables into every second of his life, hoarding thrift store vinyl and lining them up on wall-to-ceiling shelves in his apartment. He made his own music and met friends in D.C. who helped him open a record store. He and his best friend opened DJ Hut, a now long-forgotten refuge for vinyl and cassettes in the digital millennium revolution.

Father was the one to show me a silver lining—the sun rays beaming behind the clouds. He always found the light, despite the darkness eventually consuming him. I struggle to remember our handful of interactions. There are bits and pieces in photographs and home movies, but the distance defines us. Occasionally, I look through the dark glass of the past, old letters or photographs. I sit there and stare at younger versions of myself, trying to remember how I felt in those exact moments. What did Father say? What did we do? Was is the same night that we went to South Beach and got ice cream and the Nazar necklace? Or were those two separate visits? Every memory must be sifted through a hazy smoke screen of fragmentation. I don’t always know what is real or made up, precise or exaggerated, embellished or missing.

I wish I had clearer recollections of Father. But the most vivid one I’m left with is watching Mother fall to her knees and wail like a wounded animal over his death.

*

Mother knocks on the door, sticking her head into my room.

“Hey honey, do you want to call your dad?”

I’m nine years old, almost ten, lying on my stomach on the floor of my bedroom, chin perched in the palms of my hands, staring up at a cartoon on the television.

“Sure…” I swing my legs back and forth, sweat running between my calves. I’m only wearing a tank top and shorts, positioned under a fan on high speed, but still dripping. It’s the middle of summer in the southern swamp, an oppressive humidity engulfs the air in a thick layer.

“All right, I’m gonna call him now.” Mother always spends at least an hour talking to Father before she hands it over to me, the plastic of our new cordless phone warm from her cheek.

Mother leaves the room, and pit of my chest burns. I hate talking on the phone. Something about it has always made me uncomfortable. But once I get talking with Father, the pain disappears and I laugh and feel safe. The last time we talked was after September 11th, when the Twin Towers were destroyed by two hijacked airplanes. Father took a train into the city from D.C. that day. To him and thousands of others, the world crumbed in a tsunami of blood and dust. Trauma rippled across every presence in the five boroughs before slowly trickling out to the rest of the country.

I try to recall some of our last conversation:

“I was so scared Boo-Boo, it was the loudest BOOM I ever heard!” His voice was excited but shaking. “Do you know why they did it on that day? 9/11…the numbers, they mean something. They knew it would be a sign of panic and emergency.”

“That’s so scary! Do you think the world is going to end? Are we going to war…?” I held the phone between my ear and shoulder while coloring a picture on the floor.

“We’re not going to war, Joon,” his voice was quieter now. “I promise I’m going to come to see you soon.”

“Please do,” I said. “I miss you a lot! Remember last time we went to that funny hotel with the talking parrot?”

“High Noon,” he laughed, loud and lovely. “We gotta go there again. We had such a good time. And we’ll eat dessert every night again.”

“Can’t wait!”

Mom called out for me.

“Time to go, I think dinner is ready…I love you.”

He was quiet again. “I love you too, Boo. Tell your mom I love her and to call me soon.”

“I will Dad, bye!”

I hung up the phone.

Mother rushes out the front door. Her voice grows louder. I turn off the television and crawl to my bedroom window that looks out to our street.

She clutches the phone with white knuckles, hunching over in the driveway. I can’t see Mother's face. The sounds are muffled by glass and distance.

“What do you mean?” It is both a whisper and a screech.

“Why didn’t anyone tell us? Oh my God…”

The burning sinks deeper from my chest into my stomach as I watch her, crouching on my knees, peeking through the blinds. My hot breath fogs the glass. One of our neighbors rushes over, embracing Mother and her lips ask what happened. Another neighbor appears; she must have been watching from her window. I look down and see my heart pounding near my shirt strap.

Mother lets out a peculiar sound. The auditory expression of catastrophe, swift like a knife, so high-pitched it seems unreal. The world halting with a breath.

Mother collapses, curling in on herself and hyperventilating as if she had just been gut-punched, hands and knees sizzling into the hot pavement. Time slows. Sweat creeps down my spine. I am plunged underwater—Mother’s sounds and cries muffle as I float down deeper and deeper. My chest burns and my heart bursts. The sky turns dark as an afternoon storm rolls in.

I don’t feel the tears start to fall; they just pour with the rain.

Something is very, very wrong.

 Mother turns around and our brown eyes meet through the glass, her face red and puffy. The neighbors console her; the phone still clutched to her ear. I turn away from the window and press my back against the wall, the storm’s thunder rumbles.

I bolt to my bed, my forever safe space. I curl up under the comforter, knees to my chest. I hold Chill-Chill close, staring at his goofy-looking face: bulging bug eyes, bright evergreen fur, velvet purple scales, neon orange nose. I’m getting too old for stuffed animals, maybe, but Chill-Chill was special because he traveled like Father across countries and decades. A part of Father was alive inside of him.

I lay in bed, waiting for Mother to deliver the news I fear, but somehow expect. My mind drifts away as I imagine myself at some place like Duck Key or the High Noon Hotel, floating on my back in the pool, staring up at the sun, feeling warmth with red and orange ombre behind my lids. I swirl with the rays into a gradient of emptiness.

Mother comes in after an eternity. I hear the door open even though my back is turned. Her voice is heavy and wet, like the summer air in the midday storm.

“Honey, I have to tell you something. It’s about your father…” Each word strained.

I turn to face her directly, despite the palpable tension. I say nothing, staring at her with a blank face, bracing for the tempest of words about to annihilate my existence.

Mother sits down on the bed next to me, stroking my hair.

“Your father…”

 She doesn’t want to continue. She’s struggling to speak the words:

“He’s dead.”

“Huh?” I’m not sure if I misheard or just don’t believe her.

“He’s dead,” she repeats, sobbing again. “He’s gone. Oh god honey, I’m so, so sorry.”

I know she is telling the awful truth. There is no misunderstanding.

I bawl like the child I still am. I wail until I can’t breathe, until the burning rips a hole through my chest and I feel like I’m bleeding out. I gasp for air, unable to escaping the emotions finally drowning me, tearing my heart at the seams. It’s a visceral pain; a pain people die from.

Mother holds me as I thrash around, screaming, over and over:

 “No, no, it can’t be true! No, no, no!”

“Daddy!”

My animalistic howls reverberate into the walls, haunting that room forever.

*

I fall asleep, catatonic from emotional exhaustion. When I wake up, everyone wants to comfort me, but I don’t want it. I want to be alone and let the pain eat me alive. I’d already been conditioned to view my emotions as baggage too heavy for others to help carry.

I go into the backyard and sit on the swings, peripherally watching Mother’s concerned face in the sliding door, obscured through the glass. I push myself back and forth, looking out into the preserve behind our house—a sliver of old, natural Florida. Wildlife chitters between overgrown brush; long grey beards of Spanish moss drape from the trees. I squeeze the rubber swing ropes and look up at the sky, draining tears back into my eyes. I watch the world around me like a movie.

This is when I feel the wind. Not the air that breezes by any old day. A chilled wind—blasting an arctic freeze from nowhere in the middle of a southern summer, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

I don’t know it yet, but this is the first time I feel the spirit of my father.

[pointofreturn]

shoulders back, chin up

I scramble around my teenage bedroom, looking for something to wear. Clothes pile on the floor as I discard item after item, irritated I can’t find something flattering.

“Honey, are you in here?” My grandmother walks in, a bright smile matching her clear blue eyes.

I called her Grammie when I was younger, but when my sister Liv was born, she couldn’t say Grammie, so Grammie became Mimi.

“Are you almost ready?”

I turn to Mimi with tears in my eyes. She doesn’t know it, but body dysmorphia is drowning me in a shallow pool of vanity. I open my mouth and start crying.

She rushes over and embraces me. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

 The child still in me is ready to tantrum. “No! I hate everything! None of these clothes fit. Everything makes me look fat! I hate myself!”

Mimi is quiet for a moment. Her face wears concern but shaded with understanding, not fear. She gently turns us, so our eyes meet in the mirror.

“I know I’ve told you this before, but I want to tell you again. Whenever you’re feeling anxious or insecure or self-loathing, just remember: shoulders back, chin up, and a smile on your face.”

*

I lived with Mimi for the first six years of my life. Despite the misfortune of an absent father, I was blessed to have her as a second parent. Every night, Mimi and I ate dinner together before she would sing or read me to sleep. She picked me up and dropped me off at school. She bought my first Hooked on Phonics and taught me to read. She took me to the park and the pool and the beach and to visit my mom bartending our local Chili’s. I think those were the happiest years—when it was just us three girls.

I was very attached to Mimi. We raced each other to her bed at night as I preferred to sleep with her. She always let me win and steal her spot on the left side, where I still sleep in my own bed. I cried every day when she took me to school. The teacher would put a small chair in front of the window, and I watched Mimi leave while the other kids started the day. I know she hated to be apart from me too because she visited during her lunch breaks. I’d press my face against the playground’s chain-linked fence, as close to her as possible, begging her to pick me up early. I felt safe with Mimi. She was my protector. She was the only form of stability I ever had.

When my mom and stepdad had Olivia, they got married, and we left Mimi to live in a new home with our new family. Liv and I still spent many weekends at Mimi’s new apartment in Galt Mile. She moved in with her boyfriend, Buzz, a transplant from a small town in Kentucky. He had a mythical and strange life just like an interdimensional traveler, spending most of his life in loud barrooms up to no good. Buzz calmed down by the time he met Mimi, ready to settle into the family he’d never had for himself.

Our sleepover routine was dancing to oldies, playing board games, and ordering pizza from the Italian restaurant downstairs. Liv and I slept on the pull-out couch, tasting the humid salt air on our tongues, watching Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter late into the night. When we woke, Buzz would make us pizza omelets with the leftovers and we’d walk across the street to Lauderdale Beach, sticky with sweat before baptizing ourselves in the Atlantic.

Buzz was the love Mimi waited for her whole life. He brought light and happiness back into her life after years of heartbreak. They traveled all over the world—ski trips in Austria and Aspen, cruises through the Caribbean, the winter Olympics in Utah. I’m sure neither of them expected those youthful joys later in life, and I grew up believing Mimi had finally found her soulmate. Later, I found out she hated skiing.

*

I stand in Mimi’s apartment, trying to disguise my impatience and discomfort. It’s a melting summer day just after my 31st birthday and, for some reason, Buzz won’t keep the AC below 78.

“She’s bad today,” he says before heading over to the pool.

I try to get her attention again. “Meem, I don’t think you’re going to need a hat inside. It’s too hot to eat outside right now.”

“I know, I know, but I like to have it just in case. Which one do you think is better?”

She tries on two straw hats. One round with a blue bow and the other duck-billed with a white bow. She looks through the mirror for my approval.

“Hmmm…I think the blue. It matches your pants!”

The same pants she’s worn the last three times I’ve seen her. The same shirt too. And shoes. They’re not dirty; she just refuses to wear anything but this one outfit.

She tries both on again. Looks in the mirror.

“Ugh…No, no no. Ugly! Ugly!!”

“What’s ugly? The hats?”

She turns around to face me, throwing everything on the table.

“No, me! I’m ugly!” She stomps into the corner, staring at the wall.

I don’t know what to say, but I understand exactly how she feels. I shatter thinking about the mental prison she lives in while having no idea she’s trapped. It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with. I look around and spot a blue Tommy Bahama hat in the kitchen.

I place it on her head. “Don’t say that Mimi, you’re perfect. What about this? I think this is the one.”

She adjusts the hat, smiles and laughs with me. She looks like herself again.

“Oh okay…let’s get out of here. Do you have a car? By the way, where do you live?”

*

When I was 13, we moved from Broward County to Palm Beach. My parents decided after years of rentals that we would build a house where Mimi and Buzz could live with us. We later moved into “The Compound,” our dream home that was far from a dream. Our family had some of its darkest moments in that house, but we all wished for it back again after it was gone in the 2008 recession. Mimi and Buzz moved back east to Boynton, where they still live today.

Mimi knew how much I was struggling when we lived at The Compound, though we never spoken openly about it. One night, after I was assaulted, she rubbed my hair while I cried in her lap. Without saying a word to explain myself, she told me about the time she had been assaulted. When I finally asked for help with my eating disorder, she paid for my expensive inpatient treatment without hesitation. She intuitively understood what I needed, even when I didn’t. She always told me that I didn’t have to be defined by the bad things I’d been through.

I don’t remember exactly when we noticed something was wrong. It came on slow and malignant, a dark shadow clouding over her bright light. Mimi was forgetting things she normally remembered. She’d grown more irritable and paranoid. There were a few crisis points: when she got lost on the way home and the police had to find her, the first time she thought Buzz was a stranger breaking into her house, the night she called crying because she knew something was wrong with her mind but couldn’t explain it.

Even though she asked for help, we never got a proper medical diagnosis. Like all our other family issues, we waited and waited and let her decline without any intervention. Mom tried to take her to the doctor a few times but fearing Mimi’s wrath, never completed the testing. She never took any medication. Now, several years later, she’s a hollowed-out version of herself. There are still flashes of the real Mimi, but there is an undeniable emptiness about her. She lingers like the living dead, a ghost of her former being.

*

I arrive to find her on the porch, chain-smoking Capri Magenta 120s and sipping on a cold Coke for breakfast. Mimi sits in her rocking chair, a bowl of twelve lighters next to her ashtray, heels perched on a footstool, looking out to the cul-de-sac to see which neighbors are passing with no attempt to hide her nosiness.

She’s with it today.

I take her to BurgerFi because lately she’ll only eat a hamburger or tuna, limiting our lunch options. She can’t decide if she likes the food or not. She’s firm on the fries, which I agree are too burnt. Then within the same minute she tells that she loves the burger and it’s the worst thing she’s ever had in her life. I tell her we’ll go to Five Guys next time.

We get back in the car.

“So where are we going next?” She’s happy, chipper even. She doesn’t always want to continue our outings.

“Hmmm, well where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know…Just somewhere we can walk around and look at stuff.”

I drive around the mall, trying to find something tolerable for both of us.

“What about Dollar Tree? Bet you haven’t been there since everything only cost a dollar.”

“It’s not a dollar anymore?”

“Dollar twenty-five! Inflation!”

She laughs, hard. I feel good when I make her laugh.

We look at the silly, cheap Halloween and Christmas decorations out on display even earlier this year. I let myself wander and Mimi follows behind. I touch a few things here and there—a pack of stickers, a bottle of soap, a mini bag of Reese’s, a soft teddy bear. I turn around to make sure she’s not lollygagging too far. I find her with arms full of everything I touched.

“I want to buy these things for you! This is what you liked, right?”

I struggle to stay composed as we check out. She picks up the teddy bear from the cashier, gives it a kiss, and hands it to me.

“A little fuzzy friend for you. I love you.”

I simmer my emotions until I drop her off. But as soon as I’m alone, I sob. I hold the teddy bear to my chest and cry until I can’t breathe, until my throat swells shut, until my brain feels like it will leak from my ears. I’m not sure how, but she still feels the desire to provide for me, even if it’s just some silly things from Dollar Tree. Mimi is both here and there, caught between worlds. When I see her, I am sick with longing, though she hasn’t completely departed yet. At least she still intuits who I am to her.

*

Alzheimer’s and dementia are the cruelest diseases. The more open I am with people about this experience, the more I come to realize how common this devastation is. Mimi continues to devolve, remains homebound, barely remembers anything through the day. A few months ago, Mom asked me to become her caretaker in exchange for payments from her insurance while I continue to search for employment. It was better option than hiring a stranger, and now, I think there is a divine reason I’ve been positioned to care for her, as she cared for me.

It is impossible at times to carry the weight of her mental absence amid her continued physical presence. A violence rips through me when I see such distance behind her beautiful blue eyes, to witness the shadows in her mind as her conscious light slowly dims. Sometimes I can’t help myself from crying when I see her recognize who I am. The fog lifts, she holds my face, repeating how beautiful I am and how grown up I look. Despite the gray matter decline, Mimi is healthier than most 80-year-olds. She could easily live another 10 or 15 years.

I know she’ll never return to who she was. I try to avoid ruminating on what I should have done while she was lucid, but sometimes I fall into the void of what-ifs. What if I had asked her more about her life and her struggles? What if I been more open with her about my darkness? But dwelling on the past robs the present. Her body is still alive on this earth even if her mind is elsewhere. Taking our time together for granted would be foolish.

For now, I’m grateful she remembers who I am. When she sees me, she lights up with the same smile I’ve trusted my whole life. Her energy persists and I always find ways to bring it out. I know the inevitable outcome is that the dementia will get worse. She will continue deteriorating and eventually, she will forget me. Too often, I fear sharing my memories with the world. I wonder if there is a point in writing it all down. I tell myself no one will ever want to read my work. But as I watch Mimi forget her life, her experiences, her identity, suddenly something in my mind shifts. Maybe it is more important to remember than I thought.

*

It’s a bad day again. At noon the lights are off, and Mimi is still sleeping. She jumps as I wake her, cursing me for scaring her. She grudgingly gets up and isn’t pleased to see me. She’s not usually like this so I give her grace, offer to pick out her outfit, and ask if she’s hungry. She’s always hungry, and usually in a better mood after she eats.

We get in the car, ready to continue our never-ending quest for her favorite burger place. But when we get to Five Guys, she hesitates to get out.

She looks at me with a sour face, motioning to her stomach. “I don’t feel good.”

“What do you mean? Are you nauseous?”

“No, not like that…Not sick. It’s like…” She can’t find the words. Her mouth moves but nothing comes out. Tears line her eyes. She waves her hands, trying to conjure the cognition from thin air. I understand exactly what she means.

“Do you feel anxious? Like butterflies in your stomach but not in a good way?”

She looks at me with relief, nodding rapidly. “Yes…That! That’s what I’m feeling!”

“I understand, trust me.” I take her hand and look into those familiar blue eyes. “You know, someone once taught me a great trick for that.”

“Really? Does it help?”

“I think so! You can try and let me know.”

“Well, tell me!”

“Alright,” I pull open the sun visor mirror. “You have to do some movements, so I want you to see yourself. First, let’s fix your posture. Shoulders back.”

I move my shoulders back and stick my chest out. She mimics.

“Perfect! Now, chin up.” I tap my finger under her whiskery chin.

We both look in the reflection with our shoulder back, chins up.

“That’s it! Okay, now, finally, the most important part.”

“What’s that?”

“A smile on your face.”

I make an exaggerated smile at her in the mirror. She smiles back and laughs, hard.

“That’s it?”

“Yup…Those three things: shoulders back, chin up, and a smile on your face. Best anxiety cure there is.”

She beams at me with her chin up and her shoulders back. She looks like herself again.

“I love that! Thank you honey, I’m going to remember this one.”

[pointofreturn]

hello again tumblr

Here I am, back again after a very long hiatus. I've had various blogs here over the years and for some reason, I am feeling called back.

I'll tell you more about myself later (maybe). I've been writing a memoir for a long time....over 10 years. I've been through (unfortunately) a lot in my life and I've created a lot of material based on those experiences, but for one reason or another, I've shared very little of the project.

I recently received a full fellowship to a non-fiction workshop in Key West. During my time there, I was encouraged to share more of my writing, to stop hiding and start putting my voice out into the world.

I've thought about ways to do this for a while now. I am really disillusioned with the capitalist social media machine that enslaves many aspiring writers and authors. I don't want people to pay for my Substack subscription (wtf is that shit) and I don't want to pay Submittable up to 25 bucks for an impersonal rejection letter (I'm currently unemployed). I don't want to hyper-expose myself on Instagram or TikTok trying to gain meaningless followers or monetize shitty content or (gag) become an accidental "influencer." I just want to share my writing and hear what people think of it.

I recognize the power of the internet. I know that I have to share the project publicly if I ever want to see it published. I like the anonymity Tumblr provides. No one knows me here. I can share these memories and stories without fear. Eventually, I'll put my name and face to this writing, but just to start, I want to stay a ghost.

I miss the "old" internet days when text blogs thrived (livejournal, xanga). I miss reading people's random thoughts and stories. That's why I've come back here instead of trying to post my writing elsewhere. It helps too that I have full creative control, the ability to experiment, and opportunities to receive feedback.

I don't want this introductory post to be too long, but I want to end with a little bit about the memoir. Point of Return is the culmination of my childhood and adolescent experiences with a variety of complex traumas including dysfunctional family dynamics, mental and physical illness, death and spirituality, love and loss and all that jazz. The first piece I will share is the (slightly altered) piece I submitted for the workshop. It is an excerpt from the chapter about my grandmother, who cared for me as a child and whom I now care for as she struggles with dementia.

Thank you if you read any of this and please say hi!!! I am in desperate need of writer friends (really just friends in general), so I hope to make some connections here as well.

Later gators!