Time Warp

I'm glad I haven't let myself go yet.

That's everybody's fear, isn't it? One day you're a spry teenager who couldn't gain weight if they tried, skin looking like it had just been the world's most gentle shoe shiner, moving around like sitting still meant death. The next you look in the mirror and see a different person, one who takes up more of the mirror than before and who's been a punching bag for all of life's grievances.

I'd like to think I still have some of those youthful qualities. I was looking at current pictures of old high school buddies the other day. Some have beards now that they couldn't grow in their early days. Others have very obviously struggled to find time to eat right and exercise - or they just don't want to. Some look like they let themselves go altogether, hair showing no resemplence of upkeep and clothes looking in bad need of a wash. I remember seeing those same faces on campus as we hurried to gym class or English or wherever the wind wanted to take us. That felt like just a few years ago.

In 2014...

Life was simpler back then. It was school, then sports, then video games, or time with friends, or chilling on your bed waiting for the day to be over. You were responsible for no one but yourself.

Now there is work, there are bills, husbands and wives rely on you, children can't survive without you - but the days are still twenty-four hours long.

But are we sure they stay twenty-four hours long? They don't shorten by an hour every year? I could've sworn that today was yesterday, and last week was the day before, and five years ago was just last year. High school feels like a short trip away, but my friend's faces - full and sagging, creases slowly invading their skin - tell a different story.

Though I can't see it, I wonder how much time has changed me. I wonder if they look at my pictures and feel like they're seeing a stranger. I wonder if the next time I see them will be at their funeral, and I will be left wondering where the time went. I meant to call more and take time out of my day to see them, but life was too demanding. That is the go-to excuse, right? Even then I might not be sad, as I look down upon a stranger in an open casket thinking to myself, "I'm still glad I haven't let myself go."

Buoyancy

I almost drowned when I was three.

Dad wasn't paying attention at a pool party (Mom still doesn't let him live it down), and I thought I could venture off into the deep end with the much older cool kids. Now I was three, mind you, but almost dying has a way of sticking with you, no matter how underdeveloped your brain is. I remember thrashing, gasping, sucking in whatever air I might have around me, flailing my limbs in hopes to somehow learn something resembling a butterfly stroke in the next five seconds.

Next thing I remember I was being thrust backward by a tital wave when two strong arms grabbed me and suspended me above the surface. My dad stood in front of me, fully clothed. He was a hero.

I mean it was also his fault in the first place.

I don't hold it against him, though, especially now having a son of my own. I love my son to death, but it's a big responsibility. You have a life - work, friends, side gigs, family, leisure activities - and you think the baby will fit right in. After all, you're not those parents that will change their entire lives in order to accomodate a child. No. You'll be the parents who have an angel baby, and that angel baby will fit seemlessly into your daily routine.

Good luck with that.

My dad had a full time job back then. Still does. What used to be his decompression time was quickly hijacked by a younger, smellier me who needed him to whipe my bottom and clean my throwup and change my diaper and feed me and play with me and read to me and put me to bed - and then what time is left?

The rest of the night was probably spent picking out his outfit for the next day, doing some last-minute work that he didn't finish at the office because he wanted to get home to see his son, and getting ready for bed. He probably woke up to a crying baby (still me) and a stressed out wife to no fault of her own, all the while trying to prepare to give his best at the office.

So when it came to that Saturday at the pool in Mr. and Mrs. Whataretheirnames' backyard, he probably desperately needed a cold beer and a nice conversation with a friend. Maybe that was his way of not drowning, trying to keep his head above water everyday until I gave him one more problem to deal with. Hopefully

he found a change of clothes.

So, no. Now more than ever I don't blame him for almost letting me drown. I just hope he was able to finish his beer.

Excerpt From "Adventures of a Ghost" (Unfinished)

I never was a fan of the walls.

It always felt like they’re watching me with their blank stares. Still do. They are white with no decorations - not a poster, a shelf, nothing - as if they are afraid we are so creative we can figure out how to off ourselves with a damn picture frame. They should know better than to think so highly of teenagers these days. We barely know how to do our own laundry.

“Sen?”

I’m sitting upright on my white bed that’s covered in white sheets and topped off with two white pillows, staring into the bland eyes of Mrs. Epperly, my psychiatrist, whom I’ve known since I was forced in here. She was assigned to me when I got admitted. It’s been a long seventy-two hours since then. They say it’s for your own good, being in here. “Protecting you from yourself” I think is what they said. But if they wanted to do that, why would they leave me alone for so long? Isn’t that probably the worst idea? Sure I had visitors from various “professionals,” but four white walls don’t keep the best company after they leave.

“Sen.” Mrs. Epperly’s legs are crossed in the portable chair across from me as she’s tapping her pencil incessantly on her clipboard. It’s not like she’s doing it to be annoying, but somehow it’s all I hear in my brain now that I’ve spotted it. “Can you tell me a little more about why you think you’re ready?”

I sigh, attempting to shake the tapping out of my mind. “Well,” I manage, “I think I’m doing… better.” She raises an eyebrow. I guess it’s going to take a little more than that. “I haven’t done anything to anyone - or myself.” I hold up my hands. The bandages around my wrists were as white as they were the day I got them, and the wounds underneath them have already begun to heal.

Mrs. Epperly’s pencil stops. “Indeed. I think that’s definitely a step in the right direction.” Her voice is soft, like a fur coat.

I laugh, a loud abrupt snort. “Hell, I’d say it’s more than a step. I haven’t even thought of it. At all.”

Mrs. Epperly smiles. “Sen, that’s great, truly. Now remember, at New Horizons we try to maintain a sense of optimistic realism. Just making sure we are looking at the glass half full, but also making sure it ‘s not overflowing. I’m sure you -”

“Is that what you think I’m doing here? Look, I’m well aware there’s a process and shit to these things. I’m not dumb.”

“I never said you were,” she says, softening her voice even further like I’m a wounded animal - which I’m not.

I’m not.