Portfolio by Jessie Lynn Lambert

Jessie Lambert

Contact 21 County Road 289 Iuka, Ms 38852

662-424-3905 jessielynnlambert@gmail.com jessielambertwries.com

About I am a freelance writer in the Florence, AL area. I received my Bachelor of Science Degree from the University of North Alabama in 2013. I majored in English with a concentration in professional writing. Shortly after graduation, I accepted a job at Brainfuse Inc. working remotely as a writing lab tutor. I write in a variety of styles, from business writing to creative writing. I have freelance experience working with EscapeWizard.com and What’sCheaper.com developing articles for their destination pages. My creative writing has been published in Tyger Symmetry Literary Journal and Spotlight on Recovery Magazine. I am also the author of jessielambertwrites.com, a blog where I use what I’ve learned about my field to mentor other writers. To improve my blog prospects, I have been teaching myself HTML, CSS and Java. My plan is to purchase a server and host my blog independently. When I’m not working, I enjoy cycling, writing, and drinking hot tea.

Contents Freelance Writing………………………….….7 Homewood Suites…………………….….….8 Sheraton Resort…………………………..…10

Design…………………………………………..13 Business Cards...............................................14 Brochure…………………………………….16

Creative Writing……………………………...19 Dodging the 90%............................................20 Family Business…………………………….26

Elk Lake…………………………………….29 Final Words……………………………………..37

Freelance Writing

Homewood Suites by Hilton Palm Beach Gardens Published on escapewizard.com Enjoy your stay in Florida by experiencing the luxuries of an award-winning hotel paired with all of the conveniences of home. The Homewood Suites by Hilton Palm Beach Gardens is conveniently located in Donald Ross Village and is just minutes away from Abacoa, Doger Stadium, and some of Florida’s amazing beaches. In 2011, Homewood Suites won Trip Advisor Certificate of Excellence, making it one of the best hotels around. Check-in is at 3 p.m. and parking is available for all guests. If you need a lift, the shuttle drivers will take you anywhere within a five mile radius of the hotel. And what’s home without your pets? For a fee, Homewood Suites will even accommodate your furry loved ones! Homewood Suites offers a variety of rooms. You may choose either a 1 bedroom or a 2 bedroom suite for your stay. Each suite comes with a living space, a full kitchen, and a dining area. The kitchen is equipped for long stays and includes a refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a dishwasher for added convenience. Every suite also offers at least one LCD HDTV and free internet access. Ammenities include a complimentary breakfast, a beautiful outdoor pool, a fitness center and even access to Gold’s Gym. Homewood Suites will even do your grocery shopping for you so that you can relax after a long day. You may also take advantage of the dinner and drinks offered on Monday through Thursday nights. The business center, which is open 24 hours, and the spacious meeting rooms are ideal for the traveling businessperson. When you have concluded your stay at Homewood Suites, you can check out at 12 p.m. Whether you are visiting Florida for a few days or for a few months, you should make Homewood Suites your destination. Let EscapeWizard.com book your room today!

Sheraton Maui Resort & Spa Published on escapewizard.com Whether you’re visiting Maui to relax or to take on a new adventure, make Sheraton Maui Resort & Spa your hotel destination. This resort offers a myriad of services and is in a prime location that offers bike rides at nearby Haleakala, golfing at Kaanapali Royal or Kai Golf Courses, shopping at Lahaina Town, and even a visit to the famous Black Rock. Guests may self park their cars or use the valet service. If you wish to see more of Maui, take advantage of the complimentary shuttle service or rent your own vehicle on-site. After check-in, an escort will bring you to one of the 508 rooms that Sheraton Maui Resort & Spa has to offer. Control your stay with the individualized climate control temperature offered in every room. Each room also has a personal balcony where guests may retire after a long day of work or leisure. Most rooms offer an ocean view. Every room has a remotecontrolled TV, complimentary high-speed internet, newspaper service, refrigerator, coffee maker, and even a safe so you will not have to worry about your valuables while you are enjoying your stay. Roll-away beds and cribs are also available to all guests. During your stay, take advantage of the tennis courts, outdoor pool and workout center. You can also go snorkeling, sailing, scuba diving, or take a walk from your room to the breathtaking beach. The traveling businessperson will have access to various meeting rooms and on-site printing/copying services. If you are traveling with children, you can let the Sheraton’s childcare service keep them entertained while you enjoy time to yourself. You may want to make a short trip to the Spa at Black Rock or go golfing at one of the nearby courses. Make the most of your stay in Maui by choosing a hotel that has a broad range of services, activities, and luxuries. Sheraton Maui Resort & Spa will accommodate you whether you are visiting for relaxation, business, or for a vacation packed with new adventures. Don’t hesitate! Let EscapeWizard.com reserve your room today

Design

Project Explanation My client asked me to create these for his independent computer repair business. He asked me to experiment with both professional and fun themes as well as with different colors. He chose to use the first card.

Project Explanation

My client asked me to develop a brochure to represent his farm.

Creative Writing

Dodging the 90% Forthcoming publication in Spotlight on Recovery Magazine.

Although we were presented with a ninety percent divorce rate1, Davy and I remained steadfast in our belief that we could make the relationship work. How dare anyone tell us our relationship would fail just because he is bipolar! We refused to become part of that statistic. That refusal, more than anything, kept us together initially. We met in high school driver’s education. Davy was there for me in a solid and selfless way that I had not expected. After a few months, I began to realize that he cared about me in a way that no one else ever had. When I realized that I loved him, I was not surprised. Before our first date, he told me that he had bipolar disorder. We were sitting in the gym bleachers, apart from everyone else. I had just left my high school psychology class and I had a worksheet with scrambled words and sentences. I remember showing it to him, explaining that the sheet represented how people with dyslexia see words. He let me muse about how terrible it would be to be unable to read well for a few minutes before saying, “I’m dyslexic.”

Roberts, Michelle. Beating the Marriage Odds. N.d. http://www.nami.org (accessed November 4, 2012)

I stared at him, mentally rewinding what I had been saying. Had I offended him? He didn’t seem offended. “Is there anything else I should know about?” I teased. “Does your family have a history of heart disease or mental illness?” I was only joking, but he looked serious. “What?” I asked. “I’m also bipolar.” I sat there, stunned, as I tried to process. I didn’t know much about bipolar disorder at that time. Hearing that he had it changed the dynamic of our relationship. I knew that we would have to work very hard to make the relationship work. But I wasn’t afraid. I took his hand and told him that it was okay. I assured him that I would not let his condition turn me away. Learning about bipolar disorder became my hobby. For a few months, I was an expert. Davy helped me learn by answering my many questions. Although I was learning, I was still shocked when I saw his first depressive state. In my mind, there had been Davy and there had been bipolar disorder, but not Davy with bipolar disorder. I think he realized that I had still not accepted it yet. He began to show me different aspects of the disorder, starting with the rage. We were camping at Tishomingo State Park in Mississippi. We were on a hiking trail when he took my hand and led me off the path. I thought we were sneaking off to kiss, so when he said, “don’t freak out,” I began to panic. “No, don’t worry.” He insisted. “I just want to show you what it looks like.” “What what looks like?” “My rage.” He gestured for me to stay. Then, he turned and strode into the forest. He was about ten feet from me when he lifted a fallen branch. I could see the anger flood through him. His eyes turned cold and his body tensed. I told myself not to step back. I didn’t want to show him that I was afraid.

As I watched, he lifted the branch and slammed it into a nearby tree. Crack! I recoiled, taking several strides backward. He kept slinging the branch against the tree. Wham! Snap! I wanted to scream for him to stop, but I wasn’t sure how much control he had over the rage. Would he hurt me? Could he do that to me? No, never. Not Davy. Finally, he turned toward me and I watched his features soften. He walked over, pecked me on the cheek, and handed me the mangled remnant of his branch. “Oh,” was all that I could say. He studied me briefly, then took my hand and led me back to the path where we walked for several minutes in silence. Eventually, he turned to me. “It’s something like that, but inside me. I have to keep it trapped in. I learned how to keep it in a long time ago, so I don’t punch things anymore.” I kept quiet and watched him, suddenly very aware that the person I had chosen to be with was capable of dangerous things.

I thought about leaving him several times after that. No big event triggered these thoughts. They just came to me. Someone buying a pack of gum could remind me that bipolar people are inclined to have spending sprees. I would then panic, wondering if we could ever have a savings account. Then I would start thinking about the best way to leave. The truth is, I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to leave the bipolar disorder. Davy alone was perfect for me. The disorder complicated things. Sometimes we would cancel our dates if he wasn’t “feeling it,” and sometimes we would go out unexpectedly to follow some euphoric whim of his. Sometimes we were just us, preferring to stay in,

cuddling as we watched a movie. For the most part, though, we were bending to meet his moods. At some point, this bending came so naturally to us that we barely noticed it anymore. We made it work in our favor. We could spend the whole week talking about weekend plans and make our final decision on Thursday afternoon. I told myself that by doing this we were giving ourselves more options. When he called on a whim, I told myself that he was spontaneous. When he didn’t feel like seeing me at all, I scheduled a girls’ night as if I had wanted to see my friends instead of him all along. Since neither of us had dated much before we met, these things did not seem at all odd to us. It was only when we stood juxtaposed to “normal” couples that we could see the difference. His sister had weekend plans on Mondays when I had mine on Thursday nights. My best friend allowed herself several hours of sulking if her boyfriend canceled plans with her last minute while I patiently smiled and let Davy know that I understood when he put our plans on hold. These moments of juxtaposition left me wondering what I was missing. What would a “normal” relationship be like? But then Davy would surprise me with a heartfelt letter scribbled on a napkin or he would make a joke that only we could appreciate and I would ignore everything else. Once we were engaged, the juxtapositions become more frequent and much more important. I found myself judging other couples, weighing them against Davy and me. Was I strong enough for a lifetime of spontaneity? Could I — a person who embraces schedules and advanced notice — be happy with a life of uncertainty? It was then that I began to ask the hard questions. “What if your medicine stops working? What if you can’t hold a job? What if our kids are bipolar, too?” To which he would respond, “We’ll figure it out.”

There came a time when that answer was insufficient. I had to have solid answers. I had to know – one way or the other – what was to become of our future. I wish I could say we went somewhere special, but we didn’t. We took a short drive to Sonic, ordered mozzarella sticks, tots, and Route 44s, and discussed the studies that had been haunting me for years. “How are we going to save money?” With a tot in his mouth, he said, “you control the money.” “You wouldn’t really want that, would you?” He thought for a long moment. “I just don’t need to do the grocery shopping and we’ll be fine.” “I’m not worried you’ll blow our money on food. I’m worried you’ll see a boat or something at a yard sale and drop five hundred dollars on it without telling me.” “I wouldn’t do that!” I gave him a knowing look and he deflated. “Yeah,” he said, “I might do that.” “What are we going to do?” “Well, maybe I could just never carry a card. I blow more money when I have a card.” “Okay. So, like, you could get a cash allowance?” “Yeah. Only, don’t call it an allowance.” This seemed like a good answer. Then I thought about him driving home late at night. I thought about him having car trouble and being without access to our main bank account. “That won’t work.” I said. He was thinking the same thing. “I could have car trouble or something.” “So, what do we do?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, when I thought that there was no answer, Davy looked at me with wide eyes. “Here’s what we do. Okay. We have two accounts, you know? One for both of us and one for me. And I don’t have the card to the main account. You have that. I have the card to my account. And we can keep a little money in my account – for emergencies. Nothing that would kill us if I were to get impulsive and spend it all, you know? But enough to get me out of trouble if I got in any.” “Yeah.” I said, mulling it over. “Yeah, that could work.” As I looked at him, I realized that the entire thing could work. If we can keep finding solutions to the problems presented to us, then there is no reason why we can’t make the relationship work. There will be sacrifices and arguments and mornings spent asking him to stop fidgeting when he’s just a little too euphoric before my morning cup of coffee. Maybe our relationship will not be “normal”. Maybe our dates will be impulsive. Maybe my friends will think something is wrong with me for staying in a “dangerous” relationship, but what do they know? What gives them the right to judge? What matters is that Davy and I will understand it. We will know that there is a greater purpose to all of the struggle, and that will matter to us. We could abandon the ninety percent prognosis and — if we are very diligent — we could land in the ten percent with other couples just like us.

References Roberts, Michelle. Beating the Marriage Odds. n.d. http://www.nami.org (accessed November 4, 2012).

Family Business Won first place in fiction in the Mississippi Community College Creative Writing Contest. Published in the Northeast Mississippi Community College Literary Journal in 2011.

As far as I know, we Lamberts do not have a family crest. If we were ever to develop one, though, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure it would have something to do with a goat. Where Italians bind their families with pasta, we Lamberts bind ours with goats, and the protection thereof. My dad used to joke that keeping up with goats was his hobby, but I had always viewed the practice as more of a sport than anything. When a person is in the heat of chasing after a Billy who has gone astray, those helping him become his teammates. He chases and chases, sending signals to the others about where they should stand or how fast they should charge. When it is over, and the goat is back in the pasture again, a sudden sense of victory falls onto the shoulders of all who helped capture it. We Lamberts have a very strong team. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s due to good breeding and practice. We are Spartans who throw our children young into the chases and explode if they let a goat slip away. We have little tolerance for play in the pasture, and even less for idle standing. We push our children to keep on their toes, keep moving, keep a look out and as soon as the goat is coming their way, ten or more Lamberts will scream a jumble of commands as to what to do. This is

what broke me from the terrible sport. I was six years old with a rouge mother goat dancing all around me, and my grandparentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; faces were blood red and near to popping as they barked their orders at me. That was the last time that I would set foot in the pasture for years. It was snowing the day I went back, with little piles gathering in the spaces between tree roots and boulders. It was very early on Christmas Eve and the fog had not yet left its post hovering over our pond. It was the first time my parents had asked me to help, and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even remember why I agreed to go. I know I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to, because this was not the usual rescue mission. It was a quest for hidden corpse. My father told me that a goat had given birth last night, and now she refused to eat or drink because she had lost it. Until we found the body and led her to it, the goat would not stop searching. We had to show her that it was gone so that she could calm down and eat. During recovery operations, everyone has their own job. My dad was going to coax the mother goat to a stretch of lean-tos overlooking our pond, hoping that once she was near the trough she might eat. My mother was going to bring water up from the house in a five-gallon bucket, which was a tricky procedure because the other goats knew that, usually, buckets meant some fantastic treat (watermelon rinds, potato peels, or rotten cabbage). It was up to me to find the corpse. I started near the gate, at the far south side of the pasture. I looked under piles of leaves and behind our feeding barrels. I searched through the shelters, next, only to find week-old babies napping, their silky bodies curled against a salt lick. I checked the barn, both inside it and underneath. I looked through the chicken coops, and I checked the soggy ground near the pond. I was walking past a cluster of stumps when I heard it. It was the broken, raspy sound of something struggling to breathe. I turned to look at the stumps, wondering what could be making that noise. One of the stumps had rotted in the center, and its roots had formed a cage

around the baby goat. It must have burrowed its way into this shelter, kicking dirt up, and sealing its exit as it did so. It wasn’t dead after all. “Clever, aren’t you?” I muttered as I knelt next to it. I began to assess the problem, weighing pros and cons. I could lift the shell of the stump, but if I was not careful the rotting underbelly might fall and crush the goat, or maybe the stump wouldn’t budge at all. I could run for a saw and cut through the roots, but that would take too long and the blade could easily knick the innocent prisoner. So, I did the only thing that I knew to do. I pulled my mittens off and sunk my fingers into the mulch beneath the stump, and then I was digging him out. I pulled handfuls of icy dirt from under that terrible stump and I formed a pile next to my knee, where loose night crawlers writhed in the cold. Then, I pushed my arms into the opening and took hold of the baby, who yelped and strained under my touch. But, I am a Lambert and I knew better than to release him. I pulled the baby from the womb breach, his legs kicking as soon as they were free. As I held the little struggler in my arms, I slowly began to realize that goats do not hold Lamberts together. Our hearts do. They mark us as caring and brave, and they mark us as humanitarians. It is not that Lamberts love goats. In fact, most of us would testify that they are the dumbest creatures known to man. “Buy cows,” we would probably advise. However, we are not cruel enough to stand by and let them die. We take natural selection into our own hands and protect our herd as much as possible. I am not positive, but it could be the reason why our goats are so incredibly stupid, and it could be the reason why we hate them so much. However, I am certain that this protective nature is the sole reason our herd is still thriving today.

Elk Lake Won first place at Northeast Mississippi Community College Creative Writing Conetst. Won an honorable mention in fiction in the Mississippi Community College Creative Writing Contest. Published in the Northeast Mississippi Community College Literary Journal in 2012.

As soon as Mom and I come in from church, I lock the door, bolting it tight, caressing that single titanium cylinder which, I hope, will keep us safe. Mom picks up a dishtowel, begins to wipe the table. She doesn’t tell me not to bolt the door, though she knows my father will be returning soon. She knows that I would argue. I have been this way since I was young. For nineteen years, I have lived in fear without ever knowing exactly what it is that I am afraid of. I scan the room, observing every change not made. Every single hint of intrusion registers and my body surges, fear raging through me until I am shaking again. “Calm down. Sit down.” Mom says in that way of hers. She knows I can’t, but, bless me, I do try. I sit down, but sitting leads to trembling and trembling to my foot tapping and suddenly I am mobile, pacing the room. Mom says nothing. She knows that I can’t help it. It’s always been this way.

The blinds are open in the connecting den. I step inside, watching little dust motes twirling in the light, prancing across the hardwood floor, across the coffee table. I snap the blinds closed and the dust motes disappear, actors vanishing behind the curtain. I breathe again. My poor lungs. They never get breath like normal lungs. I am constantly choking on my breath, ever reminded of this cold, dark, fear that binds me. Even as I sleep, I fear. I wake up sometimes to the drone of the analogue clock, to our air conditioning unit cutting on and off. I wake, I tremble, I fidget, and I get up to pace until my sore legs and throbbing little feet cannot support the activity anymore, and then I collapse and pass into sleep yet again. I return to the kitchen as Mom pushes her hair behind her ears. She has pretty hair, a corn silk blond that is always curly. When I was little I used to associate Ramen noodles with her hair. I would always get it at school, but never eat it. I was comforted just by staring down at it, being reminded of her. The teachers thought I had an eating disorder, but I didn’t at the time. I just missed Mom. “When’s Dad getting home?” I ask, staring at the analogue clock. It has these shiny red apples behind the glass, an apple for every hour. I used to hate it because I could never understand how to read it. I had to count the apples, and when you’re like me, counting apples can get old. “A few minutes.” She says. My stomach rolls. I hate not knowing when. I pat my thighs as I pace now, glancing at those apples too often, constantly reminded that I still do not know when. “Why don’t you set the table?” Mom says, moving to the crock pot. A roast has been simmering there since last night, and the entire house smells of it. I hate that, too. I have a serious problem with nausea, and smelling food all day is no remedy.

I move to the dish rack and begin to gather plates. “Is Perry coming?” I ask. Perry is my ex and he works with my father whenever Dad needs the extra manpower. He’s one of those guys with the really slender hips and broad shoulders, muscles clinging to his arms like parasites. The muscles never really fit him. He’s too soft and sweet to have muscles like that. “Don’t know.” Mom says. You would think that, by now, she would take extra steps to ensure that I don’t slip into panic. And she does. She didn’t ask Dad if Perry was coming because Dad never knows. Sometimes, when Perry needs the extra hours, he’ll stay at the construction site and do whatever he can do and report back to my dad how many hours he worked. She’s not a bad mom; she just isn’t a seer. I gather four plates — just in case — and stride into the little dining nook. Really it’s just a wide bay window with beautiful French windows following the architecture all the way around. It overlooks our little herb garden outside. Rather, it used to. When I was little I would never eat my dinner. I would eat breakfast and lunch (both of these consumed at the breakfast bar) but never dinner. I would always tremble at the table and sometimes bolt to the bathroom where I would vomit profusely. My father finally figured it out. I couldn’t stand the dining nook, not with all the windows. It was like a cage, not with bars but with windows for people to look in, to gawk. I felt like I was in some twisted zoo. Now heavy velvet curtains line the walls. We had to have them special ordered because the bay window is really deep, deep enough for a dining room table to sit comfortably inside. I put the plates on the corner of the table and begin to push the tabletop necessities — salt, napkins, toothpicks — into the center. We’ve always had the same centerpiece, a wrought iron cross with vines wrapping up from the base. Little red stones are clustered where Christ’s hands and feet would have been. They hang from the top of the cross, like crimson stalagmites,

to signify his dripping blood. I always thought it was a pretty weird centerpiece, considering it was bleeding. Outside, I hear dad’s truck chug up the drive. I lift the plates, setting them one-by-one in our usual seats. Then, I hurry to get the glasses as Mom reaches over and unlocks the door without even having to look. It comes naturally to her now, this constant unlocking of every door. “Is Perry with him?” I ask again. “I don’t know, Kate!” Mom snaps. She’s now in the process of lifting hunks of roast out of the crock pot with a set of tongs. We’re late to have Sunday dinner on the table, and she always gets grumpy when we’re late. Not that Dad minds. She’s a housewife and I think she feels like she’s failed whenever she doesn’t cook well or serve well or wash everything we need on time. She was raised like that, and I think it’s ridiculous. She’s also a photographer, and I would much rather see her squatting in the herb garden taking pictures than frustrating herself with the commonalities of being a housewife. I put the glasses in place and then skirt around Mom to grab some silverware. I’m starting to panic now. I don’t know if Perry is with my father or not. I glance at the clock — I’ve always found comfort with time — but we’re running late and there is no time for me to count those hateful apples. The door swings open and Dad strides in, knowing better than to say anything. He knows how Mom hates not having things ready on time. He moves into the den, sits to take off his shoes and socks. I stand there, waiting. The door is open wide, and I don’t know if Dad is waiting on me to close and bolt it or if Perry is coming. He’s possibly the slowest human alive. So, I wait, pacing in little circles.

Mom lifts her precious roast and turns, just as I make the rotation and we smack into each other face-first. Mom drops the roast and the dish falls to the floor, the glass shattering, flecks of roast flying everywhere. I scream, Mom starts to yell. My father rushes in from the den. “What happened?” He asks, above all of our commotion. I begin to cry, because I know how seriously Mom takes things like this. I always ruin things for her. Perry walks in, then, and I start to cry even harder. I know he left me for reasons such as this. I was never still, never calm, and he could never crack my heart open enough to slip inside it. I didn’t want him to. Once you let someone in, you can’t exactly protect yourself from him anymore. But, as he stands there in front of me, lips moving as he tells me that everything is okay, I realize that he was there before I even tried to shut him out. He’d always been there, and he still is there, but now he won’t have me. Now it’s too late. I drop the silverware with an awful clang and reel backwards. “I’m sorry.” I say. I feel like my chest is on fire. My breathing is sporadic, my hands aflutter at my sides. Mom stops yelling, stoops to clean up her floor. Dad just stands, half in and half out of the kitchen, his face stern, grim. He’s a forgiving, understanding, father, but the man’s got to eat and this is not the first time I’ve landed his lunch in the floor. Perry stoops down to help Mom, his knee squashing a roasted potato into the tile. He doesn’t notice, and I don’t tell him. I don’t offer to help. I know I’d vomit, because I can already feel the sickness coming on. I can feel the panic surging all around me, and I want to drop and die right there.

Instead, I watch as Perry and my mother clean the floor. I watch as my mother makes grilled cheese sandwiches. We sit at the table and eat, each of us tense. Finally, I take a deep breath. “If you really think it would help, I’ll go.” “It can’t hurt.” My father says. “It’s your choice.” My mother says. The brochure has hung on the refrigerator for weeks, beckoning my attention every day. Elk Lake Institute is nearly seventy miles away, but my parents assure me that they will visit each week. Perry has told me that it won’t be as bad as I imagine it to be. “It won’t be like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or anything.” I remain doubtful, but how can I stay here and continue to put my family through hell? If there is a place for me that may help me overcome, then why shouldn’t I go? I slowly stand up and put my plate in the sink. Fear is rushing through me again and I want to go lie down. “I’ll go.” I say softly. I try not to be offended when I hear my parents’ happy cries. Perry comes to hug me and he brushes my cheek with his lips. “I’ll write you every day.” He promises. Over his shoulder, I see the brochure for Elk Lake and I shudder inwardly, glancing quickly away. No amount of letters or visits or phone calls could every make my going there any better. But I nod into his shoulder anyway. I know that I can’t help being this way, but they can’t help it, either. I was cursed with the paranoia, not them. I shouldn’t make them suffer with me. I should go away. I should give them their life back. My mother hugs me next. “Maybe you can get better. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could get better?” I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been this way. This is my normal. They are asking me to abandon all I’ve ever known.

But, I nod. “Yeah, it would be.” My father is not a hugger, but he tells me he’ll make the call in the morning. I can tell he’s excited. They all are. I wonder if they are sending me off for good and I panic. I want to run from the house and hide somewhere where they could never find me, but I don’t. I stay put and I lock my eyes on Perry. He couldn’t hurt me. “Every day.” He promises. I nod. Part of me hopes that they will try to talk me out of it, but they don’t. Instead, my father insists that we should go out for ice cream and, later, my mother tells me how proud she is of me. All I can think is don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic because Elk Lake could very well be my new permanent home. If whatever is wrong with me cannot be treated with therapy or medicine, then I might find myself accepting Perry’s letters for the rest of my life. “You are so brave.” My mother tells me. She doesn’t know the half of it.

Author’s Note I would like to take a moment to explain the peacock. Everyone seems to believe that a portfolio should be a representation of your completed work. It should show potential clients your worth by showing them your accomplishments. I do not feel that this portfolio is a representation of me. The finished product is lifeless. What lives is the process. The way that the idea is found, shaped, and created. Most people see beauty in my finished pieces, but I see beauty in the ugliness. The sentences I’m ashamed to claim authorship over. The notes scribbled frantically on scrap paper. That’s my beauty. My finished projects may show you how far I’ve come, but the thrill of the process keeps me going. The peacock represents my process. It is ugly and unformed and obscure until the very end. By showing you how I created it, I am able to give you a finished piece while keeping the process alive.