The
Mirror
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To Our Readers:
You are viewing the second annual issue of The Mirror, Ithaca College’s only literary arts magazine centered on mental health. Emily Nowels brought her vision for The Mirror to life last year, and our first issue was published under the direction of Active Minds at Ithaca College. With a brand new staff, we have continued with Emily’s vision for The Mirror, while adding our own spin to it. We are sincerely grateful to Emily for entrusting us with her project and providing guidance and encouragement along the way. The Mirror is a place to find solace; if it is one thing we want our readers to know, it is that you are not alone in your struggles, even if it seems that way. Additionally, it is our hope that readers will be able to see the beauty that our contributors found, by turning their struggles into art. Sometimes this art is dark and painful, but it is beautiful nonetheless. We hope you are inspired to turn your own experiences into art -- whether it takes the form of a painting, poem, song, or dance. Sincerely,
Andrea Champlin Editor-in-Chief
Submit your work to themirrormagazine1@gmail.com /ICTheMirrorMagazine /TheMirrorMagazine
Painting by Genevieve Cohn
@ICMirrorMag
Cover Art by Sarah Gervais Contents Art by Jesse Rolfe and Gabrielle Boris
Thank you to our donors
Staff Andrea Champlin. . . . . . . . . .Editor-in-Chief
Editors Amelia Erikson Cassie Walters Jared Wolf Joey Heiland
Kourtney Varcoe Sarah Gervais Victoria Nelson
Members
Community Mentor
Ana Mastropiero Chelsea Osterweil Gabrielle Boris
Emily Nowels
Anne Foulke Dede Hatch Felicia Poes Graham Ottoson Harry McCue John Diamond-Nigh Julie Johnson Kaleb Hunkele
Laura Walters Lynne Taetzsch Monroe Payne Nicholas Down Nicholas Gecan The Art and Found Werner Sun
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Contents Poetry 3 10
Prose The Big A
Tess Le Moing
DC Summer Josh Rollin
11 Wise Woman’s Friend Reveals Why She Has to Keep Dancing Katharyn Howd Machan 12
Is This Real?
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The Girls That Wilt
19
Bad Dreams
David Flanagan
Lindsey Bellosa
Joseph Heiland
20 Getaway Andrea Champlin 21
Picture Perfect
Racquel Belkin
24 You’ll Never Know Dear Laura White 27
Tracing Paper
Laura White
29 Outlook Hannah Sellers 30
Recovered
Raquel Belkin
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In Control
Cassie Walters
Imprint Magazine Writing Contest
First Prize Fall 2013, Personal Essay
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The Memory Keeper
23
Amelia Erikson
Breathe
Andrea Champlin
24 A Day in the Life of a Nervous Wreck Andrew Hinkley 28 “Write hard and clear about what hurts” - Ernest Hemingway Cassie Walters 32 A Witch Hunt for an Exit B. Hudson
Mental Health Resources 17
Compiled by Victoria Nelson
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The Big A by Tess Le Moing What is this? What to do with it? Dar-Babe says,“a toothbrush.” Still don’t know what it’s for. It’s long, has bristles, and fits in my hand. I put it in my mouth and don’t know why. Back and forth it goes. Choo choo! It is a train. Hm, what happens now? What I’m supposed to do? Where do I go? I am bored. Bored of not remembering. I want to see the airplane show again. What is this room now? Dar-Babe says to sit on this. People talking fast and loud Blah blah taxes blah blah nursing home And I want to talk but I don’t know what Blah blah ACME blah blah insurance No way to keep up so I will just sit here. “Here Gerry,” that’s Dar-Babe. A sandwich But I’m not sure how to eat it. My hands shake, about to perform. Hands sandwich the sandwich. Like this? I hold it? I put it in my mouth? Choo choo! Like a train. But oh, first we must say Grace Say Grace before you eat: In the name of the Son And of the Father And of the Holy Ghost. Amen. “Here Dad,” who is this calling me Dad? I know that face. I know this voice. Connie? Kathy? No. My hand on her face To feel and try to remember. “Is this my Valerie Anna?” A cookie. How very sweet of her. I feel good! Like I know I should! I feel nice! Like sugar and strawberry wine! Sitting in a different room. The big screen with NASCAR. Dar-Babe loves that NASCAR. Vroom! “Get ready for the planes Gerry!” Drawing by Aileen Tartanian
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The airplane show! They fly across the air They leave a trail of colorful smoke I liked to smoke but I had to stop Dar-Babe stopped too when I was a doctor When I had money. Where is all the money? I hope we have enough money. My pocket, I think there is some in my pocket. Flashlight, tissues, string, wallet. Yes. Still sitting, still NASCAR, and I feel weary. What I am sitting on is soft. Cozy. Warm. Mojo. Where’s Mojo? Where’s that doggy? That furry doggy doggy I wanna pet the doggy. “GO! GO! GO!” My heart is bumping. “FLOOR IT! FLOOR IT!” Superior Vena Cava. Right Pulmonary Artery. Left Ventricle. “COME ON! COME ON! PASS HIM!” Dar-Babe yelling, but not at me. I don’t like Dar-Babe yells. Loud Dar-Babe yells. Vroooom! “How ya doin’ PopPop?” Who’s this? Who is this angel girl? What a beauty. What a sweet, beautiful girl. I think I know her, or I know of her. Oh, her name? Blonde hair, blue eyes. Five foot two. Eyes of blue. Oh what those five feet can do Has anybody seen my gal? Think! Remember! Show you know! “It’s Chloe, PopPop. Chloe,” Chlo Girl! Glowy Chloe! I love Glowy Chloe! I love Tess Laure too! I love the girls and they love me. Scooby-Dooby-Doo! Oh yes! One of my angel girls! She needs kisses. She needs Popop kisses. She studies hard. She can be like her ol’Popop. A doctor. She will get money. Where’s the money? What is this? “Let’s play your harmonica PopPop.” The old grey Gerry ain’t what he use to be
Ain’t what he used to be Aint’ what he used to be The old grey Mare she ain’t what she used to be Many long years ago. Music is the only thing I remember. Rhythm, sound, songs. I just do. I do not think. I cannot teach. I just know. What song should I play? Start blowing and find out. Where’s Dar-Babe? Dar-Babe? DAR-BABE!? I am at the doctor’s. I was once a doctor. Dr. Witte, I don’t like. He makes me feel stupid, like a dummy. Valerie Anna says, “Neurologist.” Oculomotor, trochlear, trigeminal, abducens. 100, 99, 98... Dog, cat, mouse... Who’s the president? What’s the date? Touch my nose. Touch my toes. I don’t know. I just don’t know. Tired. Cranky. Dar-Babe. WHERE IS DAR-BABE!? I’m lost. I can’t find my way. I am a load. I can’t do any things. Dar-Babe does them for me. “Move your feet! Left, right.” Oh Dany Boooooyyyy!!!! “Come on, take it off. PJs, Gerry. PJs.” PJ. TJ. OJ. AJ. JJ. “Gerry, just go. Go pee.” Pee-pee! It’s my pee-pee! There’s my weewee! Weee! “Put one foot in. Now the other.” Tap on her head. Such a silly Dar-Babe. “Alright, let’s lie down.” Sleepy time. It’s sleepy time.
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In Control
by Cassie Walters
Painting by Genevieve Cohn
TRIGGER WARNING
2011 I’m lying in bed, and it’s so dark I forget whether my eyes are open or closed. I feel pinned to the mattress, as if lying under a weighted board. I try to take advantage of the deep blackness to disorient myself. I picture myself in different parts of the room, trying to keep my mind busy. But I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s racing through my mind, and I feel as though my body itself is racing. I’m hot, the back of my neck is moist, and my fingers are trembling. My toes curl under, tears well up in my eyes, and the blackness closes in on me. It grips on to my neck, reaches through my chest, and squeezes my lungs. I tear the blankets off at the last possible instant before I am swallowed. I spring from bed and run into the bathroom. The light stings my eyes when I flick it on. There it is. I wanted to overcome it, but I can’t take it anymore. I grab it, and wind the cord around the front nozzle. Sitting down, the cold of the tile seeps through my skin and chills my rushing blood. The room is widening. The abrasive hot pink walls are mellowing, and I am breathing. I am breathing. I look back at it. The hairdryer is now wrapped and put neatly in its place, in the corner against the sink, budded up to the flat iron and hair curler. The top of the body is flush against the wall, and the handle is at about an 84-degree angle, therefore as parallel to the sink as I can get it. I am breathing. I need help, but I am breathing. “Mom, please…you need to take me seriously…please. I think I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.” “Why do you say that?” Tears fill my eyes and the words vomit from my mouth. “I can’t sleep at night if I don’t clean my rooms, I was so tired, I didn’t want to clean, I just wanted to go to bed and I tried, but I began to panic and all I could think about was the cord of the hairdryer and how I didn’t wrap it up, and I think I had a panic attack.” I collapse onto my words and into my tears and my mom puts her arm around me. There are five consecutive windows along the back wall of the kitchen, making the room bright. A spotlight on the damned. The walls are a peeling orange and the cabinets are missing knobs and off-white from time. The blue, faded linoleum tiles are peeling up and the dark subfloor peeks through. “You have an appointment next week, make sure you tell Doctor Valentino about it.” Sitting in my high school English class, I can’t help but look around the room and work myself up. The stale white walls are covered with inspirational posters- Stock photos under painfully trite
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Times New Roman. “Optimism: Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” The posters are positioned side-by-side, wrapping the room with eye roll after eye roll. But I am not rolling my eyes. I am fixated. The second poster is slightly crooked, and the third is even more so, making the fourth one look wrong despite the fact that it’s straight, and some of the corners are coming up off the drywall, exposing the rolled pieces of Scotch tape and chipped paint. I begin to sweat. Darkness rolls into my line of sight, framing it, focusing it. A bucket of centipedes is dumped onto my back and I feel their legs crawling on my skin- one by one- they make their way up onto my shoulders, then to my neck, and settling on the gland beneath the ear that makes your mouth water. I imagine what my eyes must look like- glossy with a gray film coating them, as if that’s what happens when you’re looking but can’t see. I’m finally able to excuse myself and run to the bathroom. In the stall, I sit on the cold floor and cry. What the hell is wrong with me? -2008 This isn’t the first time this has happened- maybe it’s normal. He throws me against the lockers and I crash into them and collapse onto the floor. “Fuck you!” A teacher watching the interaction from her doorway tells me to watch my language. I get to my feet as he begins to storm away. I fight my way after him through the crowd of students. The bell rings, and we all have one minute to get to our next class. But I love you! He lives close to the junior high. I tell my parents I’m staying after school and walk to his house, making it back to school in the nick of time for a ride home. His parents are never there, and he blows weed smoke into my face while I try to be affectionate. I’m not sure if he wants me there today, but I want to see him. I’m sorry he pushed me. I run to the back gate where the teens that were held back a grade smoke cigarettes and meet for fights between gangs of friends. He’s waiting for me. His back is up against the chain-link fence with a stoge hanging from his lips. His long, jet-black dyed hair falls back as he nods his head to the passers-by. I approach him slowly, but his head remains straight, refusing to look at me. “Come to my house, and help me clean my room.” The walk was mostly silent, but we got to his house, and he led me upstairs. Entering the room, I listen to the door lock and the quiet shrill of the blinds closing. The walls are a pale yellow, and the floor is cluttered with F-graded schoolwork, dirty black band t-shirts and Tripp pants, and broken Guitar Hero equipment. I begin to pick up his clothing, and the light turns off. He slowly walks toward me wearing that face: that menacing grin that is all-too familiar. No, not again. I frantically look around the room for an escape when there is a blow to my face. My adrenaline doesn’t allow me to feel it. I scream. My clothing is torn off and I want to fight back, but I know there is no one within earshot to hear my screams. I slowly focus in on the faint lyrics in the background of his favorite song- “I hear the fear in your voice but you shouldn’t feel a thing, your life’s already worse than any pain that I could bring.” This isn’t the first time this has happened- maybe it’s normal. -2010 My eyes slowly open and I hear two voices speaking softly at my feet. The air is unmoving and stale. The hospital room is wide, but my curtained cot and side table enclose me. The last thing I remember is counting back from 10. The rough paper gown rubs against my skin and tender nipples, turning me pink, and I realize I’m naked. Where is my mom? My mom and the doctor slink into the room and sit beside me- heads to the floor. My mind is a fog and my head is heavy. I try to sit up but can’t help but fall back on to the flat pillow. The doctor looks at me, but not in the eyes. “You have Crohn’s disease. Crohn’s disease is a chronic inflammatory condition of the gastrointestinal tract. It can be both painful and debilitating, and sometimes may lead to life-threatening complications. But I think we caught it early.” The anesthesia is wearing off, but the room begins to spin. Life-threatening complications? I went to the doctor because I shit a lot and came out with a chronic illness? All I want to do is get out
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of here. I’ve always been healthy. I’m not supposed to be hospitalized…I’m not ready to die. -2011 I’m losing control. Each month I sleep with someone new. Each night I take my immune system suppressant. I’m getting sicker from the disease and sicker each time I tell myself that sex doesn’t matter. If I say it enough times, I’ll believe it. Sex doesn’t matter, the rape didn’t matter. I am lying in my bed; the light is seeping through the edges of my blackout curtains, casting shadows on my walls. My mom has given up on making me go to school. The memory foam mattress topper is sunken in and my pillows are flat from overuse. My hair is knotted and damp with grease, and my mouth tastes cloudy and thick. I can’t remember the last time I got out of bed. I have missed so much school they dropped me from my AP courses into remedial ones. My dog comes in to lay with me. Her long white hairs shed onto my black comforter as I pet her soft head. Her fur is smooth and almost feathery. She lets out a long, hard sigh through her nose and closes her eyelids. I pull the warm covers to my chin, but reach my arm out from underneath to hold her. I close my eyelids too. I am finally able to emerge from my soft, blanketed tomb, and clean myself. I need to take my mind off of this. I clean my room too. I grab the strewn clothing and toss it into the black collapsible hamper. Each time I think I’ve gotten it all, I find a sock hiding, begging not to be washed. I take off my bed sheets, exposing the foam mattress topper- impressed with my tucked, fetal body print, as I’ve lain for weeks. I clear my desk and wipe it clean with Lysol wipes. The false lemon smell fills the room and competes with the unsettled dust for most overbearing. The vacuum screams as I drag it across the carpet, drowning out any other noise in the room. At first it surprises me, but I start to enjoy the consistency. With one room clean, I look to my bathroom. The counter is covered in scattered pieces of long, brown hair, and halfway filled bottles of hair product. I clear the counter and wipe it down, scrubbing off my mom’s make-up stains. I wipe down the bottles and arrange them by size on the counter. I turn the bottles so the labels face front and then line up the combs. The hairspray is a little tilted, so I carefully reach in and turn it, trying to not disrupt the others. I start to feel warm. Like one pinch of blood is warm and I can feel it run through my body. A good kind of warm. Calming. I finish cleaning and look on at what I have accomplished. It is the most I’ve done in weeks and I am exhausted. I return to my bed and try to close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about the labels. Turning the bottles so the labels faced front made such a difference. The room looks put-together, organized, and even beautiful. Everything I am not. But I did it. I cleaned the room, and I am in control of its beauty. I am in control. My clothing is hung in order of style, then color, with each garment facing the left on the hanger. I tap the edges of my papers lightly on the desk every 4 minutes and 13 seconds to line them up. When I turn the shower off, a small surge of water comes out the tub faucet. I stick my right foot beneath the spurt of hot running water for about 1.5 seconds before stepping out. I am in control. Each night before bed I clean my room, my bathroom, and organize my closet. I put away my hair and make-up items, wind the cords around my appliances, and turn the bottles so the labels face front. Night after night. Morning after morning I ruin it all by rushing to get dressed and sloppily throwing on make-up, trying to catch the school bus in time. Night after night I turn the bottles, and wind the chords. I’ve had enough. I had a long day today and I just want to get in bed. There’s no sense in cleaning everything up since I’m just going to mess it up tomorrow morning anyways. I take off my bra and pants and sit on the edge of my bed. With one big gulp, I swallow now all 9 of my nightly pills and lay back on the pillow. I shuffle through my Twitter and Instagram quickly before putting the phone on the charger and setting it on my nightstand. I pull the chain on my lamp, and pull the covers to my chin. I’m lying in bed and it’s so dark I forget whether my eyes are open or closed. I feel pinned to the mattress, as if lying under a weighted board. But I am in control. Am I in control?
Photo by Julia Levine
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DC Summer
by Josh Rollin
She says she’ll live here her whole life, That this small city sees enough. Pain, the grass wet from unobserved rain. We lay talking of futures we’ll never get used to. Why move, when everything around you moves? Settle instead into a gorgeous pool of deep go-go music. Grooved walls keep the track smooth. Back when I thought I could know someone without looking in their eyes. I felt her rough hands for clues, but shrank at a light touch on my own dark bruise. Who am I to blame? Who am I to heal learn how to be more whole “Welcome to the club,” I’ll say, but she’s been through more than me. Pain is flour poured into a cup until it overflows and we are left dry, but not high, and Who am I? She’ll be well. Not when she sits in the Cathedral, but in the garden outside. Why grow, when everything around you grows? I hope she knows.
Photo by Sarah Gervais
Art by Cassie Walters
Wise Woman’s Friend Reveals Why She Has To Keep On Dancing by Katharyn Howd Machan
I had a daughter once. Surely I had a daughter? But she disappeared into a horizon my fingers could not reach. Maybe it was with a man who rode a wild-eyed horse, sweating black flanks between her thighs and her smile a crimson slash. Maybe it was towards a city with lights higher than any hearth can offer a sane safe world. I still have a photograph: her perfect smooth blue hat, her hands around small roses. Was that a person who swelled my body, pushed hard into light as I screamed? I dream now of brass unicorns, her stroking and grasping their polished full horns, a country—France?— calling out her name, the name—did I give it?—she scorns as obscene, the world unsane, unsafe, untouched by an aging woman unable to be the mother a wild girl needs.
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Is This Real? by David Flanagan Three times tonight I dreamed that you awakened me though I was sleeping still. The third time I told you I’d twice already dreamed that you were there (the second time I told your sister what I’d dreamed). “That’s fairly common,” you said (I wonder if it is). I asked you, “Is it real this time?” You told me that it was. But then I saw objects that I thought I’d seen in my earlier dreams (though now I can’t recall if I had or even what they were) and knew I dreamed again. There’s so much more to tell about what happened in each dream (my own sister and her husband paid us a visit by surprise to bring us what we already had), but what awakened me at last was thinking of the lines of this poem and knowing that I had to write them down. As I finished them, you came into our room. I asked, “This time be honest: Is this real?”
Photo by Emily Nowels
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The Memory Keeper
by Amelia Erikson
Her eyes blink. Blackness. Black. Dark. She forgets if her eyes are opened or closed. It all blends. And then, slowly, the bright pinks and oranges of the rising sun peak through the curtains: she is reminded that night does end. The entirety of her body aches, and she finds it hard to even imagine movement. Somehow, she flips to her side in one effortful slump. She can’t see the time, but there is tension in the air as she awaits the mechanical beep that signals a start to another grueling day and yet another beginning. When it goes off, she refuses to move her burden of a body. Instead, she allows the incessant beeping to interrupt the poignant silence and lets the automated metronome lull her back to sleep. Blink. Silence. The sense of being alone haunts Katherine down to the bone. It wasn’t like this before. There used to be the dripping of the coffee pot, and the scrape of a spatula on a pan; the subtle hum of his computer as he sat typing away. Now, all of that was gone, and it seemed to her as if it had never happened in the first place. Silence, there is nothing worse. Just her and her thoughts. How did this even happen? How is this possible? He was perfect and he was hers, but now that he belonged to another, it didn’t seem like he would ever come back. She turns on the faucet and the sound of rushing water fills the room. She stands in the shower, allowing the cloud of steam to soothe her tense muscles and thoughts. Blink. Without thinking, she goes through the daily routine, robotically massaging shampoo into her matted red curls. Each motion feels as though someone else is doing it for her. Katherine steps from the wet tile, and her toes curl around the soft cotton of the bath mat. Cool air envelops her and water droplets roll down her legs. Looking in the mirror, she struggles to recognize her reflection. She pats concealer over the dark circles that draw attention to her dead, deep-set emerald eyes. For a moment, her hand hovers over the blue hair dryer tucked into the dusty nook in the closet with cords hastily gathered into a snarled mess. The thought is quickly chased from her mind, and she weaves her damp curls into a messy braid. It was useless to spend time finagling the nest on her head into a perfect wave of red twists and coils. A black headband pushed into place completes the look. Pulling out the drawers, Katherine stares at the perfectly folded piles of shirts. She runs her fingers along her favorite pale purple turtleneck,the one he used to like. When she wears it, she can pretend for a brief moment that everything is like it was. She daydreams about the simple cotton sweater being the key that brings the memories swarming back into his mind. Blink. Blink. She tugs it over her head and pulls on a randomly chosen pair of washed out mom jeans. A glance at the clock shows that she is running late, so she quickly knots the laces of her sensible sneakers and heads out the door. The final sound is that of a lock sliding into place. It’s a short ride. It only takes a few minutes and a couple quick turns. Katherine parks the car in the usual spot. The turn of the key shuts the engine off. She sits in silence. Blink. Eventually, she musters up the strength to ease her body up and out of the sedan. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the imminent social interaction. Scrubs in hand, she shuffles to the front door of the hospital. Walking through the automatic doors, she remembers how he used to put his hand out in front of him – a Jedi using the force. The bright light momentarily blinds her. The scents, sounds, and visions of hurried nurses pushing patients and equipment around hit Katherine like a brick wall. The dramatic shift from complete stillness to utter pandemonium is difficult to handle. Chaos. “Good Morning, Katherine.” Stacie from the front desk welcomes her.
Photo by Sarah Gervais She nods in recognition but continues on. The subtle squeak of her sneakers is the only clue to her presence. At this point, it was no longer necessary to sign in and stick a nametag to her chest. Everyone knew why she was there. Everyone knew whom she was there to see. At the nurses’ station, she puts on the scrubs and sucks down a cup of watered down coffee: black, no cream, no sugar. She rounds the corner and pauses to breathe before forcing a smile to complete her nurse disguise. “Hello there, Jeremy,” she says as she pads into the hospital room. The aroma of the sterile equipment, alcohol stinging her nose, mixes with the scent of wilting roses and daisies. The smell surrounds her, but she doesn’t mind. It is home for her and more comfortable, oddly, than the cold and darkened rooms of her house. The steady beeping of the heart monitor lifts her spirits for a moment until she sees the cards lining the window sill, wishing a speedy recovery. Of course, this man doesn’t remember any of the “friends and family” that took the time to send their best. Nor did they know if he would ever remember. She takes a deep breath. “My name is Katherine and I am going to be your nurse. Do you know what day it is?” Trying to comfort him, she untangles her hair from the knotted braid and lets it hang loose by her shoulders. It’s the way she used to wear it. She takes yet another deep breath and waits for the answer. She holds onto the diminishing hope that this time, unlike any other, he will leave her crying tears of joy, rather than of sorrow. “No!” He bellows. “Why am I in the hospital? I’m fine! This is crazy. Let me out! I’m fine!” He continues to yell and writhes in his bed. He kicks the crisp white sheets from his body, pulls the wires from his chest, and yanks the IV from his arm. A swarm of nurses and doctors fly into the room. Katherine stares blankly at the chaos unfolding before her. She is merely a bystander trying to hold back blistering tears as the man thrashes and jerks. He will never remember. She begins turning away until she notices the screaming has stopped. Silence. She twists on the heels of her feet and is greeted by his warm, green eyes. The color is what she wished to see in her reflection – light gold specks swimming through a sea of green. They are the only part of him that wasn’t lost in the accident. “You look familiar,” he says and her heart skips a beat. Is this it? “Like an old friend,” he starts to murmur, but the medicine carries him off into a dreamless state. Much like the one Katherine suffers while awake. She stands there silently, a helpless ghost of a person, staring at her son’s rigid body as all the hope drains from her own. Blink.
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The Girls That Wilt
by Lindsey Bellosa
1.
4.
Tulips ripening. full, ruby lipped, have nothing to do but drink sun, grow and be admired for their beauty. You can almost hear them tittering: school girls, beginning to understand their own power.
It became clear that flesh was the problem. Breasts became burdensome. There are some girls that cannot bear to be looked at. Some girls are always afraid of the dark things. When they look at a flower, they are keenly aware of what it may harbor. These girls stop time, retreating to the dirt.
2. Some girls won’t make it through the summer. They begin to crave dirt, to court death: wilting and then bobbing up again. Death becomes a game, counting petals… she will, she won’t, she will… These girls become tiresome to look at; they hurt your eyes with how pathetic they are. You see them drooping and sigh: What a shame. What a waste of young life. 3. The garden is marred with dark things – like the wasp that robs the tulips of their sugar, turning their sweetness to black grit with his creeping, jaundiced legs. He twitches within them; they must harbor his malicious black body. This is a part of the garden; this is how life must continue. The wasp plunders any ripeness, scraping with his pointed wings. He crawls on the remains of those that are too weak to stand, harvesting whatever is left.
5. When you are one of these girls, it is obvious. You wear your body like a statement. You make it clear you disdain the world with your parched bones. Your failure tortures those who want you to thrive. They watch helplessly as you wilt, pollen smoke rising in black puffs. They want to fill you with so much heat, you will turn the brightest red. This red is too much to look at. Things are much simpler in the dirt. Worms move slowly towards you, too slowly to be any threat. 6. When roots grind down, there is nothing to carry water to. Nothing but dirt and sky. Let go of soft plumes of petals, wipe away clouds that obscure truth. Allow yourself to be so light, there is nothing left but peace. Then you might see the sky for what it really is. Then you may be able to see yourself clearly.
Next Page, Drawing by Cassandra Natali
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Campus and Community Resources Compiled by Victoria Nelson
Below is an overview of mental health resources within the community and on Ithaca College’s campus that are dedicated to providing mental health programming that ranges from preventative services to various support and rehabilitation systems. This page is meant to be used as a resource to anyone interested in seeking professional assistance.
Family and Children’s Service of Ithaca Family and Children’s Service is committed to helping students meet the challenges of life during college, graduate and professional school by encouraging healthy personal choices and balanced perspectives. We maintain a strong working relationship with Ithaca College’s Counseling and Wellness Center. Students seek counseling and psychological services for a wide variety of reasons, including depression and anxiety; life crises; identity issues; relationship concerns; difficulty with loss or other life transitions; sexual choices and concerns; problems related to alcohol or drug use, as well as many other issues of concern. We treat each student with sensitivity, providing therapy that values diversity and respects the individual. To schedule an appointment, please call (607) 273-7494 and ask to speak to someone in the intake office.
Ithaca College CAPS The Center for Counseling and Psychological Services (CAPS) gives short-term counseling to faculty, staff, parents, and students who may be dealing with a wide array of concerns from identity and relationship issues to psychological issues to not knowing even what the problem is, just that there is one. Counselors are on-call 24 hours a day during the academic year, and services are FREE and confidential. Counselors can see students individually or in groups. CAPS only provides short-term assistance and any student requiring more long-term assistance are referred to off-campus resources. To see a counselor, students can make and appointment in person at CAPS, on the ground floor of the Hammond Health Center, or by telephone at (607) 724-3136. In the event of an emergency, call CAPS or head to the office and a counselor will see you without an appointment. For emergencies outside of business hours, 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Monday through Friday, call the Office of Public Safety at (607) 274-3333. Painting by Genevieve Cohn
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Cayuga Medical Center At Cayuga Medical Center, students can go to the Emergency Department for a psychiatric evaluation to assess an urgent problem and create an intervention plan for recovery. The Behavioral Services Unit treats a wide variety of psychiatric illnesses of varying severity and provides students with a psychiatric evaluation, psychological testing and treatment. Patients receive individual counseling, as well as group psychotherapy sessions to share experiences and gain support from and give support to peers. Students are also educated in mental health, wellness and safety issues. Social workers are brought in to help the student with medical insurance coverage and family issues. During the discharge process, students receive outpatient mental-health follow-ups, and a relationship is made with on-campus counseling so that recovering students have support when they go back to campus.
Suicide Prevention and Crisis Service Suicide Prevention and Crisis Service is the Tompkins County branch of a national crisis line that can be reached by calling 1-800-273-TALK (8255). If you are feeling depressed, upset, suicidal or have any other emotions that make you feel distressed call the Crisisline. Even if you just need to speak to someone about what is on your mind or about a friend, call the Crisisline. Counselors are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, ready to actively listen with judgment. The call is FREE and confidential. Monday through Friday from 6 to 9 pm, crisisline counselors are available through a secure and private online chat at www. ithacacrisis.org. SPCS also provides after-trauma services for those dealing with a loss by suicide, or other life changes. Information on their services can be found on their webpage http://www.suicidepreventionandcrisisservice.org/
The Mental Health Association of Tompkins County The Mental Health Association of Tompkins County is an advocacy organization that provides a wide variety of services to promote and educate the public about mental health. Adult Services helps people with mental illness and their loved ones navigate the mental health services available to them. Adult Services also assists in referring people to medical and legal specialists. The Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP) is a personalized wellness and crisis plan that can be used by anyone who wants to improve or maintain his or her physical or mental health. WRAP uses an individual’s personal resources to develop Action Plans for different situations and settings. Peer Services is a program that allows people who have completely recovered or are on their way to recovery to help others with their recovery process. Peer specialists provide support and empowerment and education to those in need. College students can go to Peer Services for more help, and those who have made a significant recovery can help others.
Lakeview Lakeview Mental Health Services offers safe and affordable housing, support and opportunities for rehabilitation to people recovering from mental illnesses. Lakeview seeks to help individuals realize their full potential and identify and achieve personally, meaningful, measureable life goals. Services and programs provided by Lakeview are Residential, Case Management, Supported Housing, MICA/Homeless, and Forensic. Club 620 programs, like cooking, effective communication, and wellness self-management, are also available to promote responsibility, recovery, and wellness for individuals with mental illnesses. The Drop-In Program similar to Club 620, is a more social environment and allows for more friendships and support networks to form. One of the main goals of this program is to break the stigma surrounding mental illness.
19 Photo by Andrea Champlin
Bad Dreams by Joseph Heiland When I was a kid I was afraid of the dark because the monsters would get me. They would crawl out of my sheets, Dart out of the crack in my partially opened closet, Rise up next to my bed, And menacingly grab my arm with their long, cold fingers. Now that I’m an adult I fear the dark because my demons can get me. They sift through my thoughts, Dart out of the cracks in my tormented mind, Rise up to sizes unimaginable, And lightly drag their claws over my already broken skin. When I was a kid I would run through the halls of my home, Burst through my parents door, Climb up on their bed, And my mother would hold me till I fell asleep. Now that I’m an adult I sit in silence as the demons do their work. The halls of my home have been torn down with time, The bed my mother used to fill is now empty, And I’m alone in a war I don’t have any hope of winning.
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Getaway
by Andrea Champlin
I know I’ve been locked away, You should know I’ve spent time carving infarction from my frame sanded my sharp edges, mended my split seams. I’m still in the forest, cursed and on the run. Ghost howls haunt me. I’ve learned to growl back. Brambles grow towards me and their roots trip me up. This time, I swear, I don’t need to be picked up a child to be carried. Just walk with me.
Painting by Genevieve Cohn
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Picture Perfect by Raquel Belkin Last spring I looked through old photographs bound up in dark green and brown leather. Books of a small redheaded girl. I almost cried, thinking, “You poor pretty girl, you have no idea what will happen. How much will go wrong. Concepts that at four, seven, nine, and thirteen you did not even understand.” But I was not really sad for that little me. No. The girl who needs my tears, my support; she is all of sixteen or seventeen, entrapped by her past, desperate in her present, and plummeting headlong towards an inky dark future. Or she is eighteen, walking back to her dorm room after wishing her friends good night. As she screams in her head, her hand throws her phone away and reaches for the knife. Hoping that just this once, she won’t find the strength to unlock her door and call for help. Because what you didn’t know was, when all you could hope for was to make it through the week without being completely destroyed, you held the world on your shoulders. Those days when feeling nothing was preferable, you still laughed. You didn’t even feel alive... Make-up became war paint to show the world that everything was okay.
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The world was Hell’s ice, and homework couldn’t even be considered. But Heaven forbid your outfit not look picture perfect. Nothing was wrong. Nothing but the wrong face, in the mirror covered in paint. Nothing but a perfectly created doll, who had everything she ever wanted. And didn’t carethe ungrateful thing. And strong girl, you despised yourself for this. Your brain was fluff on top of a China doll, while cracks were hidden through nonchalance. Everyone saw laughter, and bubbles. There was sugar and color. And the best part was, it all seemed real. And when you slipped back into your mask, the crying girl protested softly; only the feeling girl was real. Poor girl, you could feel nothing but pain. But the only one worth crying for was a picture of a three-year-old girl trying to catch a butterfly. You’d think lying would get easier each time. “I’m fine. I’m tired. I’m okay.” Get the fuck away. No one knows about the problems causing the dark circles, besides a lack of sleep. What could be wrong? How could anything be wrong? Never, nothing, not when life is so picture perfect.
Photo by Julia Levine
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Painting by Genevieve Cohn by Andrea Champlin
Breathe
He grips my hand. I think he says, “Don’t go away again,” but the buzzing in my ears is drowning out his words. I squeeze his back, saying, “I’m right here.” He nods, unconvinced. He’s seen these vacant looks and clenched fists before. He guides me into the bed, and we bury ourselves in the blankets. I am hiding. But it’s found me, and I am not any kind of “here” he can get to now. It’s taken me. I can’t see the blankets, the bed, or his face anymore. I just see them, touching. Her face is a blur, but I don’t need to see her features to know who she is. She’s the reminder that he’ll never truly be mine, not for certain. His attention wavered before; it’s bound to happen again. I no longer feel his fingers threaded through mine, it’s hers that they’re wrapped around. I’m drowning in the streams and whorls of images. Its scolding voice calls out to me, telling me that I am unwanted. Its words repeat, like waves crashing against my throbbing ears. With each refrain, I can feel my pulse rising as it drags me further and further into the depths. I am the sea and I have an island weighing down my chest, suffocating me. The panic leads to a crescendo. They’re laughing, on their way up the stairs. Faces of my friends are joyous, gathered together without me. Their dancing feet pound on my stomach. And then my family. They’re gathered around a bare Christmas tree, leaning on tiptoe to decorate it as merry music pays. They’re leaning too heavily against the tree, the pressure about to topple it…A bloated reflection blots out everything else, surreal in its grotesque glory. It’s my body, my face, and it’s all alone. Someone is crying. The pressure of it leaves them gasping, fighting to fill their lungs. They whimper. What little air they get hisses out before it can bring relief. Their muscles convulse harshly -- creating an earthquake, the pressure shaking the land and sending me toppling. I can’t reach them. Then, a different pressure. I am surrounded by arms that tug me down and hold me in place.“Shh…” a heavy inhale, a pause, and then an exhale. Breathe with me, baby. It’s okay. Breathe.” I feel something move against my chest, in and out, slowing me down. Rhythmic and steady. It’s him. My breaths are still jagged, but now I can feel them, recognize them as my own. I realize that the gasping, shaking, panicking thing is me. I can feel my diaphragm struggling to pull and push, my ribs expanding and contracting against his arms. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. At long last, my head crashes through the surface and I begin to catch my breath. My body is limp, still numb from the attack. “I’m back,” I gasp, “I’m here.” He kisses my head, squeezing me again. We both let out a sigh. He pulls the blankets I kicked off back around me; a cocoon. His fingers are back, intertwined with mine. “I know.” Inhale. Pause. Exhale.
You’ll Never Know, Dear As lonely as a twilight sky That sees the sunlight slowly die, I almost learn to say goodbyeDarkness. You sink so far and out of view And though I try to follow you, Your light recedes into the blueEmpty. I make an air balloon of stars To lift you high and take you far Where you’ll discover who you areSafe. And even though you burn the hands That hold you up above the land, I swear that I will understandAlways. Knowing that you’ll rise again, I steady stand as loyal friend And we will shine and warm and mendTogether.
Art by Cassie Walters
by Laura White
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A Day in the Life of a Nervous Wreck by Andrew Hinkley
“You need to stop looking at your computer if you ever want to get to sleep, Andrew,” I remind myself. I look at the little green bottle of melatonin sitting on top of my dresser. I frown a little and let out a small sigh. To take or not to take? Well you took one last night, Andrew, and you wouldn’t want to become an addict, would you? it whispers. We reprise our roles, me and the nervous little voice in the back of my head. “Well it’s natural, I’m not feeling tired, and I really need to get a decent night’s sleep,” I retort internally. Okay, don’t come crying to me when your circadian rhythm needs a hormonal crutch and your life is in shambles. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. “Fine. I’ll try doing some breathing exercises before bed instead. Maybe I can do that thing where you tense up different sections of your body or yoga or something.” Yes, but what if your roommate hears you and thinks you’re a freak? “He already thinks I’m a freak. All of my friends think I’m a freak and that’s why they love me: I bring the entertainment. So kindly fuck off.” Well what if they don I take a deep breath. And another. And another. I am not my anxiety. Nights like this are when I wonder why I don’t take medication. It would be so easy. I have to remind myself that it’s better to avoid this and still have my full range of emotion than to not be anxious and also not feel as happy or excited or sad or anything; how the hell is a writer supposed to write when taking mood levelers? I’ll take my chances with high-dose melatonin and sleepless nights, thank you very much. It takes a full minute to get up the courage to ask my kind, even-tempered, reasonable roommate if he can turn off the lights. He’s receptive and the part of me that contains that neurotic little voice is genuinely surprised that he didn’t storm out of the room over the simple request. I have to look at his face to confirm that he doesn’t secretly hate me. The lights go out and my eyes are closed, but my brain hasn’t shut down yet. Disordered thoughts take the stage. I spent too much time eating; I could have been working out or doing homework. I spent too much time working out; I could have been doing homework. I spent too much time doing homework; I could have been doing other homework. I haven’t seen my best friend in a while; I’m stupid for not contacting her. She must hate me; that’s the only possible explanation. After I evaluate my day, I go into the what-ifs and conclusion jumping: What if I don’t get my projects in on time? I’ll fail and I won’t get a perfect 4.0 and make Dean’s List and then I won’t get into a grad school that will pay me to get an education and I’ll be enslaved by debt for the rest of my life. Do I even want to go to grad school? What if I have to go out into the middle of nowhere where a queer man like me will be killed for saying or doing the wrong thing? What if I’m not doing enough outside of my classes? Will I get that RA job? Will I be hirable? Will anyone want me as a TA? What if I can’t get a job as a writing professor anywhere? Will I have to move back in with my parents? What if I don’t meet someone, and fall in love, and get married, and have children? Or what if I do, and then something terrible happens to my husband? What if my kids hate me? What if I don’t like my kids? Will they talk to their therapists about me?
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Exhausted yet? Because I am, and it’s suddenly 1:30 AM and I still can’t get to sleep, Don’t worry. I still am not my anxiety. ------ Somehow I wake up, go through my morning routine, do my best to leave that pesky little voice in my room, and make my way to breakfast. I down two cups of coffee with my cinnamon twist before booking it to class. When I sit down in Italian, I can already tell I overdid it on the caffeine. Everyone’s stares are just that much more intense today. The little smile my professor flashes me while walking in is clearly a sign that she’s uncomfortable with how anxious I am today. Everyone is more out to get me today because I deviated from the norm and had a second cup of coffee. I chew my nails and bounce my leg as I do my best to focus on what the professor is telling us about the gerundio tense. Being a creature of habit—even if it’s just incessant leg bouncing—isn’t just comforting it’s survival. God, stop picking at yourself. You’re going to destroy your fingernails. You’re such a nervous wreck. Stop bouncing your leg. Some warrior you are. I breathe a little and try to leave my fingertips alone. No. Don’t stop. We need that. Wait. What are you doing? Don’t do that, everyone will see y I take a large, dramatic breath. It’s barely enough. Everything becomes so overwhelming that I don’t participate as much in classes as I’d like. I tell myself that I’m okay. That being anxious is okay. That no one is actually looking at me. No one is actually judging me like I think they are. Ithaca College students are far too preoccupied to care about what havic my neuroses are wreaking on my psyche today. ------Before I open up my computer to work, I take out my notebook. Sometimes the furious flurry of fingers on keys is enough to quiet my psyche, but other days I need the force of pen pushing on paper to keep my thoughts down to a dull roar. So I write until my hand screams back at me in frustration and I don’t feel like such a tangled ball of exposed nerves. What I end up with is a bunch of jumbled thoughts about what my younger self might think of who I am now. He’d probably start by asking me why we’re not studying to be a doctor. But, what can I say; shaky hands and bouncing legs don’t suit surgical precision, but they serve an itchy writer perfectly. I see details everywhere. I think more about everything. When something terrible happens, I am probably the most ready for action out of anyone in the room. I could totally survive in a horror movie. Or, more specifically, a zombie apocalypse. These are the things I have to remind myself when I hate myself for being anxious, when I’m getting anxious about being anxious. No matter how much I hate being like this, I can’t deny that it fuels who I am. It has produced some amazing work for me as a writer, and it is part of my personality. Some of the fantastic people in my life might not be if I were different. So I guess I’d rather be a bundle of nerves with great friends who can still write than a “levelheaded” one-emotion zombie with friends who accept him for the social tofu that he is. This is my life, and I’m happy to live with it. In fact, I’m thrilled. Art by Gabrielle Boris
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Art by Genevieve Cohn
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Tracing Paper
by Laura White
I am the artist’s greatest joy Five foot five and 1/62 ” wideA paper doll cut out from a stencil, So thin and flat That anyone can take the lightest lead And pencil in my features. And I let them. What am I, a useless, flimsy doodle To do to them? Sometimes, though, if I turn enough I am almost invisible, A stray line- with a shadow That lurks in every corner And hangs over my head. Threatening to diminish my existence To a pitiful pulpy paper mess. But it never actually does. With every slight brush of the wind’s fingertips I straighten up with glee Maximizing my surface area, Hoping finally, this will be The day I am carried away On the tumbrils of the breeze To the clouds and sky above Where instead of slowly fading As pushes and pulls and sharp objects Tear and pierce my soulA rip, a hole, widening slowly with the yearsInstead, I’ll be surrounded by Cloud Water droplets everywhere Instantly saturating my soul. And lightning will illuminate my departure, And thunder will throb with my throes Until at last I disintegrate And end my weary parchment woes.
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“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” – Ernest Hemingway by Cassie Walters You tell me that some nights you think about suicide. That each day gets more difficult than the last to strip yourself of the solitude of the comforter. That you can’t get yourself to speak to your friends and family, and although they care so much, you want nothing more than to be left alone. You tell me about your talks with your therapist. You think it’s helping, but it’s going too slow. Then Silently, like a thief, the thoughts creep in. You say that you cannot find the lust in life you once had. You’re failing every class. You haven’t shown up to them in weeks, but I tell your family that all is well. Hot tears race down my cheeks as you say the medication isn’t working, and you’re not coming back next semester. As life slowly leaves your grasp and rolls off the ends of your hard callused fingertips, you escape me. I’m a tree planted firm with branches outstretched, hoping you’ll latch on, but you blow with the wind ever so slightly out of my reach. If I bend too far, there is no doubt I’ll break. But I don’t want you to die. I’m not ready for you to die. I’ve never felt stronger for a person, yet weaker within myself. I look on as you disappear into the horizon. You hear me yell but there’s nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do. And that’s what hurts. Photo by Andrea Champlin
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Painting by Genevieve Cohn
Outlook by Hannah Sellers Who cares if my instantaneous happiness is temporary Or if my jolting euphoria shocks passersby and dissipates, quickly, into humiliation Who cares if I want to be cavalier, flippant, or downright sarcastic Who cares if I want to skip haphazardly with jubilant rhythm and smile out loud to myself Who cares?
Recovered
by Raquel Belkin
When I say recovered, I don’t mean that three months of physical therapy following the surgery to remove the wooden and iron fragments from my body are over. So I can walk, run, dance, cry, and laugh again. I mean that I was an over-cluttered computer hard drive, that someone had taken out of its shiny casing and threw into the wall. And in my broken drive I sat, while my old computer body chugged mindlessly on; smiling for the people, telling itself not to break, twirling on command While I ran. And somehow, bit-by-bit, file-by-file, someone defragmented me; taking out the splinters, straightening out the files, and tucking some things into a storage locker. Someone helped me update, so when I look at my new shiny body, I can ignore the part that screams factory made, and focus on the fact that I do not look like a victim anymore! Because I walk down the path of life. I run to see my friends, I dance through this world, touched and touching. Instead of just touching it, as if it did not mark me in return. I cry for the girl who I was, and I smile at who I am.
Painting by Genevieve Cohn
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And I laugh through it all even when tears still fall. Because that is what recovered is. Because you are not the old you. You never will be the old you. And you really don’t want to be who you were once upon a less complicated day. Look in the mirror, and see a survivor. Your old self’s there too. No one else wears that much jewelry, or has words written through the stars of their foreheads. And since you are a survivor, you like these differences, because they make you you. They make your glass heart glow. And you will tuck those wood and iron fragments into a storage locker. Once in awhile, you will touch those memories. Even though they feel like they belong to someone else; a half-remembered, almost unbelievable dream... A layer of skin, a fading scared scar. Part of you;
part of the new, recovered you. And you didn’t do it alone, because no one can. Because that is how you are recovered: when you find your own strength in the arms of those who love you.
Drawing by Genevieve Cohn
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A Witch Hunt for an Exit TRIGGER WARNING
by B. Hudson
“And then I found out how hard it is to really change. Even hell can get comfy once you’ve settled in. I just wanted the numb inside me to leave. No matter how fucked you get, there’s always hell when you come back down...” (Bring Me the Horizon). December 26th, 2012 I could feel my heart racing in my stomach from the fear of seeing all of my family members all at once. I could just picture the horror of what was coming…my Aunt Carol asking me about my classes, Uncle Chris curious about my living arrangement, the others that I only see once a year on Christmas day asking me about my life these past 12 months. The thought of it all was unbearable. What could I possibly say? “Oh Aunt Carol, let me tell you! My classes are awful actually, I failed two because I can’t get out of bed in the morning!” “And Uncle Chris, you wouldn’t believe how much my roommate hates me since that day she walked in on me with a knife to my wrist.” “These past months were just peachy even though I spent the majority of them involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital!” Not the most appropriate Christmas dinner conversation I guess. The anxiety of the upcoming celebration was daunting and paralyzing to say the least. All of a sudden, the Xanax popped into my mind like burnt bread from a toaster. Maybe it would make me relax. I opened my nightstand and found the small orange vile at the bottom, covered by hair ties and bobby pins. My shaking hands unscrewed the childproof lid and placed a Xanax on the very tip of my tongue. I choked down that bitter tablet with a warm mug of hot chocolate, and prayed for some relaxation. I remember the feeling when it immediately kicked in…the feeling of being weightless and finally carefree. For the first time, I gave zero fucks. January 16th, 2013 I’ve started caring less and less: about the correct dosage, about drinking with Xanax in my system. I don’t even care about school anymore. I probably won’t graduate anyways. Why am I so useless and stupid? I don’t know why I bother waking up in the morning. My friends don’t like me and my parents probably hate me. These medications aren’t even working. I wonder if I will be better off somewhere away from here; away from life. To be honest, I just need to cut, but I shouldn’t. The only thing that makes me feel better is music. “There’s an emptiness inside our heads that no one dares to dwell.” The lyrics feel like they were written for me. I’m going to hunt down some Xanax. February 3rd, 2013 Blackness. It’s all I can see. I hear familiar voices around me, but my eyelids are too heavy to open. I take a deep breath and peer through my mascara coated eyelashes only to see my best friends crying in front of me. They’re yelling at me in panic, but I can’t make sense of their words. It’s semi-light outside, and I feel the setting sun pounding onto my shoulder. It warms my entire body as I close my eyes. I can hear my favorite song playing on repeat in the background. “The days are a death wish, a witch hunt for an exit. I am powerless.” Ah, back to the blackness.
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February 4th, 2013 What seemed to be seconds later, I was laying on a stretcher in a fit of laughter with my arms tied down beside me. I looked down at the doctor, busy tying the tenth stitch in my left forearm. My laughter slowly ceased and he shot me a look of pity from behind his magnifying surgical loupes. Luke, on my right side, squeezed my hand for dear life. His tear stained cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of red, and he faked a smile. I can’t believe I let my best friend see me that way. I can’t believe I broke him…brought him to tears. My Xanax laughed in his face until he finally left, and I continued to laugh in the faces of the dozen other professionals who came in to talk to me. In what felt like a blink, I’m staring up at the ceiling. “Do you know why you’re here, Brianne?” That voice. It’s so ungodly familiar. The smell of the clean linens and the feeling of that stupid paper gown, the one with my rear end hanging out of the back…I know exactly where I am, the psychiatric hospital. The Xanax answers him, with a few choice words and a bit of snark. I sit up, only to see the windows that don’t open in the empty blue room. I walked towards the door, the one without the real doorknob, staring at it with disdain. At least I’m back in my old room, I guess. I step outside to see the psychiatric nurses and professionals who got me through my stay the last time I was locked up here. Annalee, one of the techs, smiles at me as she chases after a man waving her clipboard in the air. Linda, the woman in charge of the cafeteria, pats the round bun on her head and winks at me with her squinty eyes as she rolls in lunch. I groaned in annoyance and threw a tantrum. I slammed my head into the wall over and over, until I was bleeding from my temple. I cried and screamed like a baby without a bottle, each sound escaping my mouth growing louder as my face crashed into the wall. Two large men put their hands all over me and dragged me in front of everyone like a circus animal to the ‘calm’ room; the one place I’ve always dreaded. Who knew padded rooms even existed? And why would anyone call them calm? What a crock. October 21st, 2013 Thinking back on those nights, I recognize that I had started to lose control. I was truly hunting for an exit because nothing made me feel alive. From cutting to pills…it felt like they were taking over me… my life. My prescription for the month was refilled every other week. My Xanax attended appointments at the health center, and told them about my symptoms only to receive more. My empty vial called my mom crying- begging her to ask my aunt for a prescription for me. My tiny white tablets were sold around school so I had money to buy more. I thought I was feeling better. I told myself I was feeling better. Those around me knew differently. Without Xanax, sobriety was typically full-fledged panic. Two years ago, if you had asked me what came to mind when thinking of addiction, I probably would have said heroin, cocaine, meth, cigarettes. Sheesh, it always seemed like a cop out. How could someone’s body physically crave a drug, and retaliate against them when they don’t receive it? Addiction is a strong and harmful need to regularly have or do something; whether it be drugs, alcohol, gambling, anything. Addiction is compulsion and repetition. To me, it was that and more. My addiction was emptiness. I was pretty content with my emptiness. Some days, I miss it. October 23rd, 2013 Maybe it took a few weeks in a hospital, or a near death experience for me to realize what I was doing to myself and everyone around me. To force family and friends to visit me in such a dark and depressing setting- one that I didn’t even want to be in. My friends would watch me lie unresponsive and sedated in my bed for days. My parents sat there, watching me run my life into the ground, and come frighteningly close to ending it. I made a promise to change. Not to me, but to my supporters. And if I hadn’t done that, I know exactly what I wouldn’t be today. Alive. This will be my last time writing to you. I can’t take myself back to the darkness anymore. So after many
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years of being together, I’m done with you, Xanax. You gave me days of sedation away from the hell hole I used to call reality. The lovely gift of permanent damage to my short term memory. You gave me enemies, but also have given me friends. I have finally been able to receive the help that I’ve needed. You helped me reach out and come clean to myself, and learn from myself. I’m finally stronger now, without you. I don’t need to lean on you anymore. I’ve learned that I can live my life without a silly pill, and for that, I couldn’t be more grateful. Thanks, but we’re broken up now. Done. That’s for sure. I’ll be fine without you. Here’s to you, Xanax. Cheers.
“There’s glimpses of heaven in every day. In the friends I have...the love that I feel. I just had to start again.” (Bring Me The Horizon).
Painting by Genevieve Cohn
Photo by Sarah Gervais