Part Three

Wherever You Go, There You Are

That’s what Dad told me when we drove home to Virginia from the psych ward. That’s what Gabe told me when I was packing for Philly– I guess he didn’t want to say, Ana, I heard that your new boyfriend is cheating on you, don’t sign a one-bedroom twelve-month lease with him in a brand new city…

          So that’s what he said instead. Wherever you go, there you are. 

I wonder if Dad said that to Gabe when he moved to D.C., so Gabe said it to me when I moved to Philly, and now I’m saying it to all of you 

(whoever you are)

Six Words Eight Syllables

That’s how easy it is

to talk. To boil down treacherous life experiences and thousands of dollars shoved down the drain into nothing more than a sorted sound. Six words. Eight syllables. That’s how easy it is to talk, although it wasn’t always so easy. We used to be big Apes grunting monosyllables to convey hurt feelings, or good feelings, great feelings. Maybe we’ve forgotten, on our journey with words, how important sounds are to us. There’s a reason singing and laughing and moaning and Om-ing feel so damn good. We’re still animals, aren't we? 

Aren’t we?

By Lu Quinn Camacho

I haven’t forgotten. Dawson never forgot it, either. He gave me a lot of advice that was dead on (no pun intended). Dad did, too, and Mom sometimes, like what she said about Hell and Heaven, and I could make myself feel bad for “not listening,” but what does that even mean, exactly? Because I remember all of it, don’t I? And if I remember it, then I must’ve been listening. But I was also just living. I was just being a kid. Being an Animal. And I’m done being mad at myself for that.

It’s still true, though; wherever you are, there you go; wherever you go, there you are. I think Dad means we all have to find some solace within ourselves. Or how my therapist says, That’s their process, it doesn’t have to be your process. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my process. Processing. One word, three syllables. The definition says it means to perform, to operate, which makes it sound like there is something to be done about it. My therapist says that there isn’t, really, at least nothing other than to take care of my body. That’s what Matt Kahn says, too. 

My Body

Ever since the Dark Night, I can feel my body tingling. Do you ever get numb feet, numb hands, numb feelings? I used to, all the time. Everything was numb. The weed helped with that. Ever since I was lifted from the mat, though, all numbness has dissipated. I cannot feel numb. Sure, when I take the antipsychotics from the Ward or the anti-depressants from the Doctor, I get numb for a little while; but when it wears off, I can feel everything. My entire being tingles. If my foot gets cold, I can tell it to get warm, and then it does. If my heart beats fast, I can tell it to slow down. 

It’s that easy

Something happened to me on the mat that night. Something ineffable. You don’t have to believe me. You can call me crazy. You can call me whatever you want, but I know what I know. Dawson knew, too. 

Remember how, we don’t really know anything at all? We only truly know what we feel, what we see, what we hear, and we use words to try to convey those experiences, but some signals get mixed up when the message is sent– you know that. You know how you’ve cackled at miscommunications. You know that science can only tell us about the physical, the observable. You know there’s no conceivable way to control all of the variables. So that’s all we really, genuinely know at the end of the day. 

                  What we saw, heard,

How we feel

Everything else is hearsay, based on a certain hypothesis or a specific assumption. Assume there is no purpose on this planet, you will find no purpose. Assume we are doomed, you will find that we are doomed. Assume the Dead are speaking with you, and you will hear their cries.

That’s what the therapists call 

         confirmation bias

And then we run in circles confusing each other, and ourselves. Ella knows this, too. We tell ourselves we shouldn’t feel what we feel, we didn’t see what we saw, we don’t know what we know. Then, so curiously, we call each other ill. We call each other diseased. We find nice tidy boxes to organize these beautiful and awful human traits and experiences, and we sort each other into categories. Brittany knows this, too. And it’s so easy to point the finger and tape the box shut. 

---

Purgatory

Everything in that room was so painful. The bright lights, the IV in my arm, the look on Judy’s daughter’s face as she watched my consciousness and subconsciousness wage War. It was just hard to see you in that state, she sighed, three days later over the Ward’s chunky crackling telephone. At some point, though, I made her laugh. I remember that. 

“Analise, what drugs have you taken?” The nurse asked. But she wasn’t specific enough! I thought she meant, what drugs have you taken, ever? She meant what drugs have you taken, tonight? 

For a day and a half in the hospital, I believed I was in Purgatory. In my room, under the insane walls, I had seen my crumpled body; and although the man in the sedan saw me, vividly saw me, I had forgotten about the entire encounter at this point. I’d been awake for three, maybe four days, I don’t exactly know. I don’t know if you’ve ever stayed awake that long, but once you pass the 48-hour mark shit starts to get weird. Very weird. 

And besides, Judy told me about Purgatory. A clean, but dark place. There was light, of course, but the energy would be dark. That’s why the light would be sticky. And she said Angels worked there, Angels who usually aren’t too keen on taking the Purgatory shift (I wouldn't be)

And she said some Souls never make it out of there

What about me? I thought, 

Will I get out of here? 

I decided the best route was honesty. The Angels must’ve already known everything.

“Shrooms, Adderall, marijuana, some alcohol here and there… hmm what else… Oh, and I tried ketamine! And cocaine, and ecstasy, which I think could have been laced, but umm… yeah mostly just the shrooms and the weed.” The nurse ogled at me, astonished and annoyed.

“We’re gonna need you to pee in this cup, sweetheart…”

“But I don’t have to pee! Oh, can I have water? I need water. I haven’t had water and I don’t want to die. Please, please, please don’t let me die. I’m sorry…

I’ll do better

next time”

---

Dawson and I were supposed to go to Junior Year Homecoming together, though we ended up making out in his bedroom instead– all dolled up with nowhere to go– nowhere, except cradled in each other’s arms. That afternoon, before we decided to ditch the dance, we had gotten into a Big Fight of our own. It was the first and most serious disagreement we ever had, and only a month into seeing each other. 

We were meant to meet up with another couple at the local pond to take photos before dinner, and after dinner, we were meant to attend the dance. The other couple was running late, though, so the two of us walked hand in hand around the pond to waste time. 

Dawson loved to talk politics. That month, Brett Kavanaugh had been appointed Supreme Court Justice, and Dawson rambled about this as we strolled in the beating sun. 

What do you think? She waited years to come out about this, I just don’t know what to think. Why wait decades to say something? 

I snatched my hand away. I had always been quick to anger, and he just plucked the wrong chord. I snapped back quickly,

“You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.” 

I’m just saying, I mean, it’s a serious issue, how long would you wait to come out about something like that?

Too soon the words were spitting fire from my lips, without reservations about Homecoming, or if we would end up lovers in the end.

“Well, it happened to me when I was five years old, and I didn’t tell anyone until I was fifteen, so I guess I waited ten years.” 

Dawson rarely got quiet. He rarely was left speechless. And while he was the absolute Sun of emotions, he didn’t often cry in public. He did that day. 

We walked to the closest bench, which had a perfect view of the geese squawking at one another in the pond. I stared out at the water, brimming with angst. I was so angry at his thoughtless words, so disappointed that Homecoming was now ruined. But more so, I was angry with my life. I was angry that my grandfather had stolen my innocence. I was angry that the other couple was late, angry that Brett Kavanaugh was forcing us to have this stupid fucking conversation, angry that my mother would be here soon and she’d surely know I was upset, and then she’d hate Dawson. Angry that in that small moment, I kind of hated him. Angry that he’d made me so angry because the truth was he was the most brilliant and passionate and radiant person I had ever met, and all day all I wanted was to kiss him. But now I was thinking of slapping him. 

By Helen Trout

“Ana,” he choked, “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I had no idea, and I know that was your point, that you never really know who you’re talking to. I’m so sorry, and I don’t know how I can make it up to you–” 

and now he is crying, now tears are rolling down his face like fat gumdrops, and a stranger is walking over to feed the geese

“but I do know that doesn’t define you. That happened to you, but it’s not who you are. Not to me, not to anyone. To everyone else, you’re just this intelligent, hilarious, beautiful person. And I don't want you to think I think of you any differently, because that's still who you are.” 

and now I am crying, and now we are hugging, and now the couple has arrived and it is time to take photos,

 and now we are holding hands, walking around the pond,

and now he is buying me sushi, and suggesting to the other couple that we ditch the dance and go to the lake by his house instead

just to talk

and now we are making out in his bed

  and that Sunday we would walk there, to see the geese again, 

      and that summer we would meet there to escape our Mothers’ wraths, 

and that fall I would break up with him in the apartment complex parking lot because our combined abuse was tipping the boat, 

                      and I didn’t know how to swim just yet,

and that spring he would drive around an exit ramp too steep, 

and the next summer I would drink myself to sleep 

and this winter I would meet up with him again, I was sure of it, I would meet him by the pond in my dreams to feed geese 

and he would take me to this higher plane, where we could laugh and dance and kiss and talk in treacherous loops 

and just 

be

---

Robert was a sick old man– a good one, but a sick one. He didn’t deserve it, the first day in the Ward, how I treated him. He forgave me for it later, though.

After a quick nap in the Emergency Room, the nurse escorted me downstairs to the Loony Bin, where morning group therapy was taking place. I did not arrive at the hospital until 5 a.m., and now it was 9 a.m. and the loons were gathering to share loon stories. 

I sat at the square table with seven or so adults, ranging from Robert, a man perhaps in his seventies, to Hannah, an eighteen-year-old girl. They took my goddamn scarf away from me, so I had no choice but to look into everyone’s eyes. I assumed the other patients in the unit had also landed themselves in Purgatory. If I weren’t so sleepy I might’ve asked how they died. I hunched over my knees, rocking back and forth in a gray-blue armchair, wondering which of us would make it to Heaven

     which would be doomed to Hell 

Robert sat to my right. I felt his gaze on me, a hot lamp of attention, and darted my eyes over to meet his. The old man’s skin was pale blue and wrinkled, with carved lines decorating his forehead and lower mouth; but his eyes shone like foggy constellations. His gaze felt so familiar. He stared back at me kindly and interrupted the group to announce proudly, 

“You are Beautiful”

His quivering tone echoed 

         in the white room

Beautiful 

Beautiful

My grandfather used to call me that

My grandfather had lines carved around his mouth, just like that

My grandfather had that tuft of hair atop his head, too, 

and as I made these realizations a guttural sound began to escape from my throat

I rose from the chair and pointed my finger at him like a loaded gun

“No, No, No, NO! YOU– You—You– you– you– you–” 

I hobbled from the table towards my cell of a bedroom, where the nurse had escorted me earlier. I crawled into the dingy bed, shaking and sobbing, rocking like a baby.

No, No, No, No, No I muttered

My grandfather is alive, he can’t be with me in Purgatory 

unless… unless… he died last night too? 

The nurse entered the room behind me, and perched timidly on the thin mattress, resting her cold hand on my arm like you would rest your palm atop a grave.

“Analise, are you alright?” 

I stared into her blue eyes, marveling at her slick blonde hair. She was such a beautiful Angel. I attempted to speak but instead unhinged my jaw and sobbed. I shook and shook and sobbed and sobbed, and after many moments responded,

“Did I have sex with that man?

                            Did he hurt me?”

“No, honey,” she reassured me, “No, that’s Robert, he’s very nice, he wouldn’t do that.”

My muscles relaxed. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled,

“Okay. Okay. Thank you, thank you for saying that,” 

“Honey,” she whispered, “can I get you anything, a cigarette?” She darted her eyes to the cracked door, and then back to my frail body curled atop the white linen.

“Yes, oh my god, yes, a cigarette!” 

But before she returned I had already drifted off to sleep.

---

While I slept the day away in the loony bin, my roommates contacted the landlord. They told him about the writing on the walls, there may have even been photos, I heard later. They texted my father imploring that he figure out what the future held for my living situation. They were afraid of me, disturbed by me, and I didn’t exactly blame them. My body still burns with humiliation.

By Helen Trout

I was released from the Loony Bin five days after my admittance. The doctor told me I experienced psychosis from marijuana use. Ha. Yeah, the weed, that was the cherry on top of my psychotic sundae. I knew it was so much more than I could ever explain to anyone, including you. 

I fucking lost my mind. But it wasn’t one thing– or ten things. It wasn’t just Judy, or her daughter, or the weed, or Dawson, or Gabe, or my little sister, or my grandfather, or my roommates,

    or even my mother 

It was a million moments

hundreds of faces

contorted 

flashing before my eyes

 strung together 

like popcorn and cranberries and Juul pods and ballpoint pens and rotting clementines and printer cartridges and loose change and prescription bottles and black nail polish and the catnip baggie and bloodstained underwear and my pocket knife and lucky charms and a rabbit’s foot and dead flowers and poisonous ivy, all of it, tied to a long, thin string. And the string, well I hung it across my bedroom ceiling. And the thread, well the thread just wasn’t thick enough to hold everything. 

By Ren Thomas

You would have done the same thing if you had seen what I’d seen

if you had been in that bedroom

in that house

that park

that pond

that ocean

with me.

      That’s what the therapists call behaviorism.

Dad lives in a po-dunk town that sits along the Potomac River. It’s called Colonial Beach. The house is sectioned off into three apartments, and his has two bedrooms. One for him, and one with a queen bed and magenta walls, painted for my sister and me. Dad also has a dog. His name is Mishto, but I always liked to call him Winchester. 

Winchester!

Dawson shouted as he entered the old apartment, in Midlothian, where we grew up writhing.

       I giggle in response 

Winchester!

  Window! 

I shout 

Windex! 

Windshield Wiper!

He shouts back 

        We hoot and holler

Or we did.

Winchester is still kicking it. Who would’ve thought this little mutt would outlive Dawson? Not me. Not anyone, actually. Winchester smells awful because Dad refuses to bathe him. He has human eyes, though, Dawson and I always said that. His eyes have real soul in ‘em. 

So did Dawson’s

Soul that toppled and spilled over his eyes, pouring out like water that shines with the Sun’s warm glow. That’s what his eyes looked like. Glimmering blue water. 

The first night I got back to Dad’s, after the long drive from Philly, I greeted the dog like we used to. 

“Hiiiii Winchester! Hi my little Window, my Windshield Wiperrr!!”

I could almost hear Dawson and his little sister, Adyn, cackling in response. 

I sat on the couch with Winchester that night and wrapped my arms around his stinky fur coat. As I lay there hugging the dog, I felt this new warmth spread throughout my body, spread from my heart to my shoulders to my thighs, all the way down to my toes. And in that moment I had that feeling, again, this persisting presence, though this time it was entirely welcoming— no fear, no delusion, just warmth— I was not alone.

I swear Dawson could see me and that stinkin’ dog. I swear he felt as we cuddled up on the living room sofa. I swear he sighed with relief. I know I did. 

I tossed my head back, gazing at the ceiling fan, but I was looking beyond it. Looking through the ceiling, up at the sky, and beyond the sky, looking up at the Heavens. Looking up at my angel. Looking up at Dawson. 

“I made it, Baby,”

I told him

I didn’t need to write it down this time. I said it out loud,      

         bright and clear

“I’m Home” 

By Gigi Farinholt