You tried to kill yourself last night

well, not last night last night

but the wound in my chest is still so raw

pumping new blood

spilling forth over my entire body

enveloping me in a crimson trap

filling my mouth, eyes, lungs with ruby regret

You tried to kill yourself last night

My father told me this morning

She overdosed, he says

she was taken to the hospital, he says

she pulled through, he says

but all I could hear in his silent voice was

Why didn’t you do enough?

I could hear it ringing in my ears for months

like a gaping hole of pulsing wet guilt

sucking my blood straight from my chest

Why didn’t I do enough?

You texted me the night you overdosed

“I’m okay,” you told me

Why didn’t I hear your scream?

Why couldn’t I feel the claw marks you left?

lining the walls with red and reckless desperation

Why didn’t I ask again?

Why was “okay” good enough for me?

I was deaf to your cries of pain

I was blind to your tear-stained cheeks

Or did you feel nothing at all?

What numbness crept over you as you

filled your palm with white pills of surrender?

I couldn’t breathe

I felt as though the ceiling was coming down

above my head

the walls closed around me like a coffin

I remember texting you the day you were released

“Honestly, I’m okay,” you said

I’ve heard those words before

slipping over my own lips

green thick lies that dribble down over my chin

and down around my neck

coiled tight around my throat

Until

the noose

is

long enough

to

You tried to kill yourself last night

and I wasn’t there

Did you think of me?

Did you see the future?

I did

I saw the funeral

I saw the urn with gold lining

I saw the tissues upon tissues

I heard the weeping and the heart-felt speeches

that would never do you justice

Because simple words cannot contain the light

That lives within you

nor the darkness that consumes you from the inside

out

I saw myself

sitting on my bed

arms outstretched

fingers reaching for warmth that would never be found

never to be intertwined in my favorite pair of hands

I try to imagine what would have happened

If it was too late

and the psychology evaluation was replaced with an autopsy

Would it show up on the tests and screenings?

The disease that devoured you whole?

left you mute

left you crippled

chained to your bed, hands bound

Your skull full of static and cotton

spilling out of your ears like a bullet wound

Only it didn’t stop your heart

and somehow

that was the worst part of it all, wasn’t it?

Just let me die.

I’ve felt it

The static

I’ve filled my fist with relent

I’ve waved the white flag

At the time, why didn’t I think of you?

If our roles were switched

would you feel the gaping hole in your chest?

Would you suck this darkness through the thin straw of empathy

And allow it to consume you?

Why didn’t I do enough?

You tried to kill yourself last night

And it felt as though you tried to kill me too

Friend

Take hold of my hand

Grab tight

because your life depends on it

I won’t let you slip again

because you are home

We are on two edges of a cliff

Hands grasped together

clinging

hoping

Friend I love you

There are times when I tell you this

In a hundred thousand different tones and tongues

And it will never be enough

Because love like this can only be felt

And never spoken

Friend you are mine

Your life is not yours to take

It is not you who will mourn

My life is not mine

It is not I who will weep

At times it feels as though we share a single heartbeat

So friend hang on tight

I’ll hold you down

I will never let you fall

I will always catch you

Will you hold on to me?

I don’t want to go

Give me a reason to stay

Please don’t let me go

I don’t want to fall

I don’t want to die

I just want it to stop

You make me feel like breathing

You make me feel like living

You make me want to love

Friend don’t close your eyes

See the light in front of you

Hang onto it with everything you’ve got

Stay alive for me

Keep breathing

So I can tell you I love you every day

And maybe

Just maybe

One day

You’ll hear me

  It’s hard to convince yourself

that you don’t matter

it takes years, maybe decades

to build yourself a strong foundation of self-hatred

towering doubt and skyscrapers of insecurities

walls of criticism and ceilings of fear

and once you finish your castle of deprecation

you throw it to the sky

where it rests on the clouds and blends in with the blue

you lasso the sun and meld it into a chandelier

dazzling with diamonds and pearls and lies

and you take up a permanent residence

and you’re too afraid to leave the castle’s silver walls and rooms of gold

and your bed made of feathers

so high up in the sky

because maybe, just maybe

you will fall

so you stay holed up in your castle that you made just for you

where it’s safe

and something to cling to

to keep you from drowning in the seas of change below

and you think to yourself

“even if my life is falling to shambles

at least I will always have my castle.”

but sometimes

a lot of times

the castle you cling to will become

cramped.

too many thoughts crowd your space

until you can’t breathe and you can’t find a foothold

and soon

the seas of change will rise and flood in

and you begin to drown as it fills your lungs

after a while, the sea level lowers

and you retch up water until the water becomes red

and you look around your home

the ceiling drips and your furniture is molding

so you build it back up

“to its formal glory,” you tell yourself

but

as you grow older

and you become stronger

and all of the storms have passed

there comes a time when your castle begins to seem

dingy

and you realize the silver walls

are actually covered in rust

and your bed is nothing but bricks

your chandelier is full of spiders and rot

the floors are paved with soot

and you’re choking on dust

your castle of deprecation has always been in shambles

but the sun was always too bright to see it

cracks and leaks painted over with fool’s gold and plastic diamonds

but when night falls

you see the wreckage

and you see the things you were too blind to see before

so you tear down the silver walls and rooms of gold

you pull the chandelier to the floor

where it crashes with a brilliant shatter of sun beams

you light a match and throw it

burning the castle into smoldering embers

and the sky catches ablaze

and the clouds are in flames

it burns and burns and burns

until it’s nothing but dirt and ashes and smoke

choking the air around you

and you realize you’ve never breathed clearly until now

you will miss your castle, and the silver, gold, and chandelier

you’ll even miss the drowning and the water turning red

but slowly and surely

you build yourself a new home

it takes longer than the castle, and it will feel like centuries

you’ll get sore and bruised and maybe even bleed

blood and sweat and tears

your hands will become callused

and scars will begin to form

maybe even your hair will gray from the time passing

but finally, your home will stand

a modest house that’s not too modest

it’s not grand, and there’s no gold or diamonds

there is no chandelier, and no glittering pearls

and it’s right on the ground

but the walls are strong and the floor is sturdy

there are no cracks and the ceiling doesn’t leak

there are still some floods from the seas of change

but your head will forever stay above the water

because your foundation was built with care

a home built on love

a home built with love

you live there now

on the ground instead of on clouds

it’s set on a grassy knoll

and the sun shines bright right where it belongs

the sky is bluer than blue

and right in front

of your not-too humble abode

is a welcome mat

reading home sweet home.

I've been sitting with a box cutter in my hand

For four hours, thirty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds

I'm thinking about how easy it would be

To glide the glinting edges across my arm

My wrists

My thighs

My stomach

To feel the rush of watching the crimson strips appear

To feel the sting of the metal

Four hours, thirty-two minutes, and forty-eight seconds

I push the blade in and out with my thumb

Methodically

They don't put trigger warnings on box cutters

Or commercials for knives

Or razors for shaving

They don't warn you, warn you that every time you see the blades

They don't warn you of the urges you begin to feel

A hunger that should never be satisfied

Four hours, thirty-three minutes, and six seconds

They don't put trigger warnings on words

The questions that are asked

The excuses that are made

To cover up your scars with sleeves of lies

I twist the box cutter in my hand

It wasn't supposed to be here, the box cutter

It should be locked away with my other tools of weapons

Weapons of self-destruction 

Thirty-three minutes, and fifty-eight seconds

I pull them out, one by one

A sharp nail

A thumbtack

A shard of glass

A broken coffee mug

I run my fingers over them, barely touching, just enough

Four hours, thirty-five minutes, and nine seconds

I want to embed them into my skin, every single one

I want to feel the pain, to mask something far worse

I want to drown my demons' screams

Even though I know they can hold their breath

Waiting for as long as it takes for the scabs to fade away

Into pale streaks of hatred

There are no trigger warnings for your own arms

Reminders of the times you were strong for too long

I put them back into their box, my weapons

Their sharp ends mocking me, screaming my name

Beckoning me closer

I close the box tight

Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and as long as I can hold on

I throw the box in the trash

This time, I will not fish it out in desperation 

This time, I will not give into the frantic cries

This time, I will not succumb to the addiction

This time, I will not let my own body become my trigger

This time, I will free myself from this prison

I am better than my pain

I am stronger than my pain

I am more than my pain

I am worthy 

I am resilient 

I am free

I woke up with scars I don't remember making.

Uncoordinated slashes of crimson

Fades into pale, jagged reminders

On others, they make my heart clench

It saddens me to know that people feel such pain

On me, they are beautiful.

Because shouldn't a soldier bare her battle scars?

For the war she has fought?

I don't want this.

I didn't ask for this.

I didn't look for every chance to compare myself to my friends.

The one's like that look like models every pose, every outfit.

Whereas I have to spend hours in my room, layering waist trainers and leotards to make myself look decent.

Why can't I look like them?

Why is their waist a 22 whilst mine is a 37?

Why are both of their thighs the size of one of mine?

Why don't I look like them?

What's wrong with me?  

It's strange.

Hunger doesn't feel like anything anymore.

It doesn't hurt, not like it use to.

Eating hurts the most.

How can someone stop eating for so long...

And still look like this?

What have I done?

“Nani, are you adopted?”

I have always been told I don’t look like my parents. With my blonde, curly hair, blue eyes, and freckles, to the ears I would seem like a normal child. Except for the fact that I’m not white. I’m practically a breathing, walking rare gene. I always got asked “Where do you come from?” I never got offended by the questions, but it always worried me in kindergarten.

Ever since I could form words, I would constantly ask my mother dearest where I came from. Being a toddler who retained no intelligence whatsoever, she made it simple. “You came from Mommy’s tummy, and that’s all that’s important.” That answer seemed to please me enough until the next time I asked.

I think of my earliest memory, when I was three. I was being clumsy and knocked into some glitter in Mom’s craft room. The glitter rained down in my thick cloud of kinky hair. I still remember the look of complete surrender that came across Mom’s face. She gave me a bath, and combed out all of my hair, which took about two hours. I was crying by the end of it, because my noggin was so sore. Mom picked me up and told me to stop whining. I told her that I couldn't help it.

“Well, if your hair wasn’t such a hassle, we wouldn’t have this problem, Nani,” she mumbled, mostly to herself.

“I don’t want my hair anymore,” I whimpered, crossing my arms in tiny tot frustration.

“No,” Mom smoothed back my nearly dry hair and wiped away my tears with her thumbs. “I want your hair.”

“I want Erin’s hair. It’s black, like yours.” Erin was my friend from dance class. Both of her parents came from the Polynesian Islands.

“Baby, I love your hair. I don’t want it gone. It’s yours, my special girl.” She didn’t kiss my forehead, she kissed my hair.

But when I entered elementary school, I had more questions. Like, “How come you and Abba” – a name we call my father - “both have black hair, and I have blonde?” and “What are the odds of both my brown-eyed parents having a child with blue eyes?” Mother dearest just told me “It’s because that child is very, very special.” Quite a scientific answer.

When I turned eleven, my parents fully explained to me - since I knew about genes and ethnicity - that my father is mixed with African-American and Japanese, and Mother Dearest is 100% Hawaiian. That was amazingly diverse, but I was still confused. Why am I like this? I would ask, looking in the mirror, trying to tame my mane of hair. My freckles always showed through my skin, and my blue eyes always got the comment “Nice contacts.”

More questions added on, and the weekly interrogations continued. I had multiple lists of these inquiries. I had so many questions...but I think I avoided one very important question. The one question everyone asked me. The one question I was too scared to ask.

Where did I come from?

******************************************************************************

I swear my eyes have actually glazed over.

I’m locked in a daze I can’t shake. Television will do that to a girl. I am holding my bowl of popcorn, staring at the screen with such intensity; I can hear my eyes frying like eggs. I want to blink, but it seems like too much work. Nothing can get me out of this binge-watching hole I have dug myself into. With the parentals gone on a date night, and a general lack of siblings to tend to, I had the night to myself.

“Don’t burn the house down. Or invite any murderers inside,” Mom told me before they left.

“Aw, c’mon. You just ruined my plans for the night,” I had replied.

There were three rings at the doorbell, and I recognized the signature ring of Stephan, our neighborhood’s UPS man. I waited, and pulled the covers over my head. I want to disappear. Unfortunately, I hear the ring again. That means he needs something signed. I groan, and swing my legs over the bed to race to the front door.

“Hi, Stephan! How are you?” I put on a fake smile and take the sign-y thingy, and sign it quickly.

“Quite well!” he replies, taking the sign-y thingy from me and handing me a small package. Probably one of the weird gadgets Abba likes to tinker with.

“Have a good day!” he calls, and returns to his truck.

I shut the door and slog back to my parents’ comfortable bed. Their room is so much better than mine. Lying down in their bed is like sinking into a large mound of cloud candy. That, and their room contains the biggest television.

Entering my parents’ room is fantastically difficult. There are random boxes everywhere, full of things that I never worry about, things that my parents never got around unpacking when we moved houses three years ago. I see boxes of memories at the foot of their closet. Now this could be interesting. 

Ignoring my craving for the daily dose of Netflix still waiting for me on my parents' bed, I get down to my knees and begin to sift through the boxes. There is one box in particular that I notice. Something is poking out of it. Something catches my eye. It’s picture of my mom as a teenager.

She looked so...so…

Beautiful.

Not that she isn’t pretty now, but woah.

She is at a party or maybe an intimate get-together. She is wearing a flower crown and has a gem piercing in her nose and bottom lip, her hair loose and waving in the breeze, ebony locks like ravens' wings. She looked so adventurous, and free. No wonder Abba was obsessed with her.

I look through the other pictures. All of them are of my mom. This must be her special memory box.

I pick up the box of letters, signed “Old Notes”. I choose one at random and examine its envelope. It’s a letter from Abba. It’s short. But a small quaking feeling goes straight to my stomach. This is insanely personal, isn’t it? If I put it right where I left it, however, they’ll never know right? I read the letter.

My dearest Kalani,

Your name’s definition is “Of the heavens.” I completely agree. Your eyes are of the constellations, and your heart is of gold. I can’t explain my feelings, but I do know that I need to be with you, to have you at my side. I’m simply, insanely in love with you.

Whoa, my dad had game. My mom always told me that he was a serious romantic, but this is intense.

I pick up another picture. Mom and Abba, but they’re young. I flip it over and see the date and the inscription on the back. July, 1993, Costa Rica, Honeymoon.

They’re sitting at a table, eating lobsters and other assorted sea foods. Mom is glowing from the tan she probably acquired from the days spent on the beaches, and Abba looks like the happiest man on Earth. They’re not looking at the camera, but into each other’s eyes. Mom’s hair is pulled into an elaborate braid, trailing down her back, and they’re holding hands across the table. I blush of the intimacy of it all. It looks like they don’t even realize someone is taking their picture.

I continue to look through old photo, some of me, and some of my parents and their friends. When I was a baby, my hair was just as crazy as it is now.

 I rifle through the closet hoping to find more secret things. At first all I see are bags of clothes and the antique lamps Abba collects but never takes care of, until I find an incredibly old trunk. Mom’s closet is enormous, and I have reached the end. This means that this is a seriously secret box that they never wanted me to find.

I pick up the heavy box, and heave it out of the closet, accidentally slamming it on the floor. My heart catches in my throat, but the lack of shattering noises eases my conscious. It’s taped shut, with old duct tape fraying at the edges. I rip it off, getting some of the funky tape residue on my fingertips.

As I lift the top up, I catch a whiff of old paper and ink. Turns out, that’s what’s in the box. A huge stack of unorganized papers. Some of them are written, and others are printed. I lift up the first picture I see, and it’s an ultrasound. Must be me, but wow was I an ugly fetus.

I pick up the first printed page I see and read the first few words. I can’t make sense of them, because they’re not in English. It looks like...Japanese? I keep reading to find any hints of English, but I can’t find any. All of the other certificates are in foreign languages as well…

I move onto the written letters, which is in my mom’s handwriting. Most of them are just journal entries, which are quite uneventful.

I find one, which isn’t written like the rest.

My dear baby,

This is for you, when you are older. When you finally understand. This is your biological mother. I want you to know some things about me. I love you very much. You are my baby, a life I made. A miracle. I dream every day of holding you in my arms, to hug you one more time. I’m sixteen years old, and currently in high school. This was a case of sexual assault, I hope you understand what that means by now. It’s not that I didn’t want you. I wanted you so bad, and I still want you. But I’m so...young. I don’t have a job, and I don’t have a car. No home to raise you in, and no companion to raise you with. I can’t give you the brilliant life you deserve. I want to give you a happy home, a loving family. A family to love you as much as I do. They can give you what you would never get with me. A home, food in your belly, a proper education. I couldn’t give you any of that. I need you to understand how much I hate this whole situation, and how I can’t raise you. But I need you to be strong, and hold your head up high. Be proud of yourself, because you are such a light. I know that you must hate me, and I understand. But I love you, and that’s what matters to me most.

You are indestructible.

I...I don’t...what.

There is no name at the bottom. I don’t…

My brain is refusing to think. I don’t think I’m breathing. My pulse is racing out of this world. The outside world is muted, and right now, I can’t even see. My head is bent over this letter, and dots of tears are smearing the ink. I see that there are old smears, from long ago. Whoever wrote this letter to me was broken over this letter.

What is this feeling? Anger...and grief. But mostly...loneliness. I don’t want to assume much, what my past would have been. But...why? Is this letter for me? And if it is, why didn’t my parents tell me? If I knew by a young age, it wouldn’t have to come to this. I am...what am I? Am I actually Blasian and Hawaiian mixed? What is this?

I walk back to the bed and sit, thinking. Tears soak my pajama pants. It’s a different kind of cry this time. Usually, I’m in the darkness of my room, and I try to stifle my sobs. My throat would burn and my stomach is clenched, trying not to make a single noise. This time, I’m openly weeping. No stomach tightening, no sore throats. Tears gently roll off my cheeks, and my face is hot. My eyes are closed, and I am holding the letter in my trembling hands.

A little while later, long after my cheeks are soaked, I hear gravel popping in my driveway. The parents are home.

No.

I rush to the box, tripping in my socks. I fling the pictures back in the box as I hear faint voices and footsteps getting closer to the front door. My arms don’t want to work, and my hands are practically quaking. The front door opens. I heave the trunk back into the closet, and shove the boxes back into their original positions. I hear footsteps on the stairs. I run to the bed and fling myself under the covers, and quickly wipe my tears.

“Nani, are you awake?” Abba calls in the hallway.

How late is it?

“I’m in here!” My voice cracks.

“Okay, well it’s time to give up our bed, honey.”

“Yeah I know,” I say, gripping the folded letter in my hand. I swiftly fold it and clasp it between my hands.

 Abba comes into the room with Mom’s purse and sets it on the dresser. He looks exhausted, but exceptionally pleased. “How was the movie?” I ask, slipping the letter into my back pocket.

“Oh! It was good. A little too sappy for your mom, though.” He chuckles.

“Where is Mom?” I inquire, swinging my legs over the bed side.

“Oh, she’s sitting on the couch.” He pats my back as I walk past him, out the door and to the living room.

“Hey Mom.” I sit next to her on the couch.

“Hey hon, you should be getting sleep. It’s late.” She smoothes my hair back from my face. All of a sudden, the action feels wrong. I pull back, clenching my jaw.

“Yeah I know,” I say, and I can feel the note burning through my pocket. I want to cry, I want to scream, and stomp my feet. Instead, I stand up and walk to my bedroom.

“Goodnight, Nani," I hear her call. I don't turn back.

I wake up with tingling ambition, and a head full of ideas. Motivation. I wake up every morning like this. But this morning, the waves of reality and betrayal come crashing down on me and sweep me away. I lie in my bed and take a deep breath.

My entire childhood feels like a lie. What kick do they get out of not telling me? I’m almost old enough to move out, and they didn’t think that that was a little important? I don’t cry this time, but I can feel the ache in my chest.

How will I approach them? I can’t…can I?

My worst fear has come true. That I don’t belong. My emotions are mixed with betrayal and love for my parents. They took me in when my real mother couldn’t. But...they didn’t tell me.

I get out of my bed, and the first thing I feel is the freezing cold house. I slip on some converses and grab an oversized flannel. I notice I am wearing the same jeans I wore yesterday, but at this point I don’t care. I head downstairs for some breakfast.

Mom and Abba are still in bed. It is a Saturday, after all. I take hold of my bag and slip some granola bars and a water bootle in there. I grab my keys and slip through the front door, closing it lightly behind me.

Time to clear my head.

I bought my car when I turned sixteen. I worked my butt off for it, and had been saving since I was thirteen. It’s a junk car, and uses a lot of gas, but perfect for travelling, which I love to do. The trunk is the biggest part, so I have an twin sized air mattress with blanket and pillows. I drive down to the coast and pop open the trunk on weekends to study or see the stars.

This car and I have been through a lot. I drive whenever I’m stressed. No particular direction, sometimes I just show up somewhere, or sleep in it rather than being in the house. The car has been through breakups, failed tests, and passing pets. Through fights with my parents, and dead relatives. I depend on this car to drive me where I need to go.

Somehow, an hour passes and I find myself parked at the entrance of a hiking trail. This is A. J. Henry, one of my favorite parks. I stop the car and stop onto the crunchy leaves. It’s autumn, my favorite season. My hair's a mess, so I quickly twist it into a crazy bun, blowing the blonde wisps off of my forehead. My breath is quick and forced. I walk down the path, with my eyes glued to the sky. There are no clouds, and the sun just woke up. The smell of old wood is alluring. The breeze is chilling me to the bone, but the sunlight is getting warmer. I recognize the sound of the wind chimes that people like to put on the dead branches. A sort of weird tradition we have in this town. The chimes sing in the ruffling leaves and branches. I smile, enjoying the natural peace that the forest brings me.

I know I can’t avoid my issues, but forgetting about them for a little bit is divine. The forest is charming me into staying forever. Where I could stay and be secluded in my own tranquility forever…or as long as it could possibly last. Where I never belonged to anyone, and took care of myself. I imagine myself spying on passersby, swung up in a tree, camouflaged in the green branches.

I forget where I am going for a moment, my legs absentmindely leading me down the trail, and my eyes fall upon a case of wooden stairs, leading down into an unseen ravine. I’ve always seen these stairs, but I’ve never dared to investigate. The incline is too steep to see what lies at the bottom.

I begin down the stairs, and try to avoid all the roots and slippery rocks. Alas, being the silly klutz I am, I slip and land on my knee. Even though it hurts, I laugh it off and proceed down, down, down the steps into who knows what.

***********************************************************

It’s a brook.

I make it to the bottom of the steps, and I immediately feel a splash as my foot hit the ground. Luckily, my shoes are waterproof. The sun’s rays make a brilliant glisten of the river. It is small, about six feet across.

I can’t stop smiling. I feel like I have my own little place, where I can explore forever. I feel the power of freedom surge through my body. This is the place I can come to when life gets complicated, and questions go unanswered. The brook isn’t too wide, but it is long. The rocks are smooth, but jut out of the water just enough so I want balance along the side of the bourn. I hold my arms out and wobble down the river, losing my balance every few steps. The water swirls around the rocks. Small fish swim with the current, and my feet keep going. I don’t know how long I’m going to continue walking.

That is, until I get a text from my mom asking where I went.

I am at A.J. Henry, I reply, being careful not to drop my phone in the water.

Can you come back in like an hour? 

Yeah i guess. Do u want me to pick anything up?

No I think we are good but thnx

K I’ll be home in a bit

I stand on a big, smooth rock balancing on one foot, and swing my leg around to face the opposite direction, something I learned in dance class.

I trudge the way back, knowing my legs will suffer from the climb back to the path.

***************************************************************

“Mom, I’m home!” I call.

“I hear you," she replies, and I see she is sitting on the couch with Abba, reading a book.

“I’m gonna go upstairs," I tell them, feeling a sudden urge of action.

I reach into my desk drawer, retrieving the letter. I clutch it in my hand, reading it over and over again. No more tears this time. Curiosity. Where do I actually come from? What was my biological mom like? She sounded young, and brave. I admired her courage to give me up for adoption, to try and give me a better life. I handle the old paper lightly, and run my fingers over the words. My heart aches for my poor mother, stuck with a child she couldn’t provide for, a child she couldn’t support.

I check my phone clock. 1:49PM. I was out for longer than I thought.

I glance at my bed, envisioning me snuggling under the covers and forgetting everything about the letter. That’s what I want to do. But I can’t.

****************************************************************

“What’s this?”

I do it. I conquer my fear of intervention and do it.

The letter flutters in my parent’s face. I watch the floor, waiting for their voice. I avoid all eye contact. All I can hear is my mother’s jagged intake of breath. Ten, twenty seconds pass, still no answer.

I look up.

Mom’s eyes are wide open, but glazed, and even with her tan skin tone, her face has lost all evidence of pigment. Abba has taken his glasses off, and pursed his lips.

“Mom?” My voice breaks, and I can feel the stinging heat rising to my cheeks.

“Where did you find that?” she whispers. Now her eyes are on the floor.

“It doesn’t matter,” I rasp. I’m choking up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The note drops in Mom’s lap.

She picks it up with trembling hands. She doesn’t say anything.

“Nani…” Abba coos. He reaches out for my hand but I pull back.

“Nani, it’s not what you think,” Mom says, her voice stone cold.

“Then what is it, Mom?!” I ask, throwing my hands up in defeat.

I don’t hear anything. Nothing. Mom and Abba are just staring at the letter, in utter shock. Like they’re digging up memories they completely forgot. Like they’re holding an ancient artifact.

I hear no response.

Tears. Hot tears are running down my face. I stifle my crying as much as I can, but a sharp sob makes its way out my mouth. Mom is shaking slightly, and she covers her mouth with her trembling hand.

“I’m…” Mom starts, shaking her head, “…so sorry.” Abba is still staring blankly at the letter.

“I need an explanation!” I yell.

Not a word is said.

I jerk my body away and flee to my room. I close the door quietly, and my legs lose their purpose. I am just a sobbing mess on the floor. I don’t have a reason to cry…why am I crying?

Why did I have to find that stupid letter? It would’ve been fine if I had just stopped snooping and left it where it was, buried and never to be found. I wouldn’t have to question my existence, and I wouldn’t have to make my parents look so sad.

I crawl under my covers, and heave deep breaths until my lungs have reached their full capacity. My eyelids droop and my heart beat steadies. My thoughts are floating around in my head, but muted, mumbling.

I fall asleep.

*****************************************************************************

I never expected dinner to be so awkward. No one said a word. No one even tried. I spooned the mashed potatoes onto my plate.

I’m not angry.

I try not to slam anything down so it doesn’t seem like I have an attitude. We’ve been at the table for twenty minutes and it is painfully silent. Without the soft music playing through the Bluetooth speaker, I would have lost it. I chew as timidly as I can, keeping the food in a small pocket within my cheek. Abba isn’t wearing his glasses, which is a sign; I know it is, but a sign of what?

Mom’s face has returned to its original color, but now her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bloodshot, but her breath is steady and she remains calm.

I mess around with my food. I’ve lost my appetite.

“His name is Milo.”

I look up.

I continue to furrow my brows in confusion until she registers that I have no idea what she’s talking about. Mom quickly glances at me; registering my confusion

“The baby…his name is Milo.”

“The baby? Are you pregnant?” Another thing that they forget to tell me?

“No!” Abba blurts in surprise, obviously caught off guard.

My heart slows.

“The…the letter,” Mom struggles to explain.

“The letter that you found? It…isn’t…it wasn’t…” She begins to tremble. Abba puts his hand on hers.

“The letter you found, it wasn’t from your ‘biological mother’. It was…from me.” Mom exhales breath she seems to have been holding in.

“Wait…” I say, holding my hands up to pause. “What?”

“I wrote the letter. When I was sixteen.”

“You were going to give me up for adoption?” My thoughts are desperately attempting to grasp any information that actually makes sense.

“No!” Abba exclaims again, gripping Mom’s hand. Neither of them are looking at me. They’re both looking into their laps.

“Then what? Just tell me. Please.”

Silence. Deafening. And then - 

“You have a brother.”

People tell me that being nervous is the same thing

As being anxious

"Oh, you'll be fine!"

"Just breathe!"

"Don't let it get to you."

"It's all...

In your head."

I don't have the heart to tell them how

Incredibly

Amazingly

Fantastically

WRONG they are

Being nervous. Adjective.

When you're unnerved or uncomfortable about the outcome

Of a specific action, like auditioning, turning in an essay

Or writing a piece of poetry.

Being anxious.

Anxious, anxious, anxious.

Even the word sends shivers up my spine

It makes me want to check the time

For no reason

Being anxious is like a race

A race where you're constantly last

When you look ahead of yourself and see the competitors

Crossing the finish line and you're just getting

Farther and farther behind

Anxiety makes you want to lock yourself up

In a mental dungeon when you have to make a phone call.

Walking in public and feeling every retina

Burning holes into your skin

Polka dots on your very existence

Convincing yourself that they can see every sin

Every flaw

Like only their eyes have the power to read your mind

With a single look, to study you like you're a book.

Anxiety isn't just in your head. It's inside of you

Squirming in your bloodstream like earthworms

Burrowing into your brain like maggots

It's when you feel yourself tied down to the thoughts you're taking a dive in

Thoughts that cloud your vision of thinking

And thinking and thinking and thinking

And thinking and thinking.

Resting on the couch, after a long day

Accomplishments settled into a nice little box in your mind

Suddently turns into thoughts

Buzzing like a swarm of killer bees and question marks

Swirling and swirling until...

It's like drowning.

Like an anchor of rattling thoughts pulling you down

Down further into darkness where nothing survives.

When the panic sets in

You can feel it

The fear rising in your throat like bile

Like demons clawing their way up your neck

Through your mouth

Threatening to spill like black ink over your lips

Threatening to let all horrors loose

How can nightmares be so easy to come by?

Anxiety is screaming brains, toxic pains, bloody viens,

Coffee stains, forgotten names, a fear of planes

A love for the sound when it rains

You let it define you

You let it control you

You let it consume you

Invisible to the naked eye of innocent passerbys

How can it be called weakness when you use so much strength for restraint?

How can it be called an illness when you can never see it

And yet it's always with you?

How can it be called "having anxiety" when it's not something you have

But more simply

Something you are? 

People tell me that being nervous is the same thing

As being anxious

"Oh, you'll be fine!" 

"Just breathe!"

"Don't let it get to you."

"It's all...

In your head."

I don't have the heart to tell them how

Incredibly

Amazingly

Fantastically

WRONG they are

Being nervous. Adjective. 

When you're unnerved or uncomfortable about the outcome

Of a specific action, like auditioning, turning in an essay

Or writing a piece of poetry.

Being anxious. 

Anxious, anxious, anxious. 

Even the word sends shivers up my spine

It makes me want to check the time

For no reason

Being anxious is like a race

A race where you're constantly last

When you look ahead of yourself and see the competitors

Crossing the finish line and you're just getting

Farther and farther behind

Anxiety makes you want to lock yourself up

In a mental dungeon when you have to make a phone call. 

Walking in public and feeling every retina

Burning holes into your skin

Polka dots on your very existence

Convincing yourself that they can see every sin

Every flaw

Like only their eyes have the power to read your mind

With a single look, to study you like you're a book.

Anxiety isn't just in your head. It's inside of you

Squirming in your bloodstream like earthworms

Burrowing into your brain like maggots

It's when you feel yourself tied down to the thoughts you're taking a dive in

Thoughts that cloud your vision of thinking

And thinking and thinking and thinking

And thinking and thinking. 

Resting on the couch, after a long day

Accomplishments settled into a nice little box in your mind

Suddently turns into thoughts 

Buzzing like a swarm of killer bees and question marks

Swirling and swirling until...

It's like drowning. 

Like an anchor of rattling thoughts pulling you down

Down further into darkness where nothing survives.

When the panic sets in

You can feel it

The fear rising in your throat like bile

Like demons clawing their way up your neckThrough your mouth

Threatening to spill like black ink over your lips

Threatening to let all horrors loose

How can nightmares be so easy to come by?

Anxiety is screaming brains, toxic pains, bloody viens,

Coffee stains, forgotten names, a fear of planes

A love for the sound when it rains

You let it define you

You let it control you

You let it consume you

Invisible to the naked eye of innocent passerbys

How can it be called weakness when you use so much strength for restraint?

How can it be called an illness when you can never see it

And yet it's always with you?

How can it be called "having anxiety" when it's not something you have

But more simply 

Something you are?