Abyss

Although, I do not have an abundance of confidence in social setting, my tongue trips and twists my words and I tend to be the weird woman in the room: attractive but standoffish, I do not need your validation. 

Despite my flaws, I am fucking comfortable in my own skin. I am not your cup of tea, but I am someone's else sweet sugary everything. I have turn offs. I will ask you a question and if I do not like the answer I write you off immediately. Sorry, not sorry. 

I absolutely despise people who assume. You preach effective communication and how it builds a proper relationship, a strong foundation but assume so quickly about my character, you have no idea who I am. Based on your experience, this action, that saying: I am automatically a Karen, Toni, a simple reminder of your ex. Do not put your personal drama on me. I am not her.

I have my reasons for acting the way I do, being the way I am, saying shit that makes you uncomfortable. Be uncomfortable more often. Not my problem, you live in your comfort zone. 

I am a private person. I have a total of four friends. They are all loyal, decent, ride-or-die people so I know my judgment is solid and I know what I ask for is not difficult.

When you think you know what I will do next you are wrong, I take a complete U-turn and jump off a cliff with a parachute because I am not suicidal. I am a little bit insane, a little bit reserved, funny, observant, serious and wild. I am a wild card.

But you already stuck to your assumptions, so you don't hear what I say. It doesn't matter. To you, they are excuses. 

Okay, fine. 

I have enough confidence to say I don't need you. Building a connection with me is a privilege, only the patient, strongest, bravest, kindest, funniest person will prosper.

I know happiness is a mindset, doesn't come from material items or people. In my opinion, the wrong people can be detrimental to your happiness. But the right person, can keep your world alive, show you the heights of the universe and grow with you. It is a beautiful unimaginable.

These are the words from the brilliant Case Kenny. I wanted to share:

"Don't give up, give in to your truth.

Remember that your anxieties, your doubts, your fears...those feelings do not define your truth. 

Your truth is choosing to face them. Your truth is realizing that even though your feelings are ones you might not wish to have right now, then remind you that happiness has been waiting for you. 

Where you belong is where your truth is. And vulnerability is your truth. 

Find a sense of calm in knowing this 

Find peaceful stillness in knowing that right now, with each breath you are living your truth by giving in. Not by giving up, but by giving in. 

Because when you give in, you live in your truth. 

And your truth will guide you to where you belong. You truth, whatever it is right now, however temporary it is right now...is what will guide you to where you belong. 

Where you belong is a place where you are warm and at ease. At peace. Reassured that you hide nothing from yourself. You give up on nothing, you run from nothing, you bury nothing.

Where you belong...is a place and state where you feel every worry, anxiety, pain, doubt, fear and they hold less and less of a grip on you. Where the pressure isn't so heavy, where there's light after the dark, sun after the storm. 

It's a place where you are okay. Where life isn't so daunting. Where you feel weightless. Where you live your truth."

 ~Case Kenny. From New Mindset, Who Dis?

I thought about how to explain Josephine's story without adding my own bias. She wasn't my favorite person in our gang, but I do not believe it is fair to omit her because of my own emotions. She was a force. I admired her spirit and confidence. She walked around like she did not care what anyone thought. As you might of guessed, our gang of unfortunate souls withered down to two and since Josephine and I were not close in the beginning, the gang disbanded. 

By high school, I was tired. I was tired of a series of unfortunate events and I was e losing my sense of hope, despite the yellow ribbon dangling from my keychain. I could tell I was not the only one. 

When we were kids, Josephine would confide in Tyla, using Barbie dolls for demonstrations of where her father, half brother and uncle, visiting on the holidays, would touch her when her mommy was working. At that age, we didn't understand what sexual assault was, we didn't understand what abuse was, we didn't understand why our sworn protectors  would turn to hurt us. But as girls, we did understand what keeping a secret was. 

Josephine felt betrayed by Tyla when she demonstrated what she had learned to me at our next play session. She was amazed and excited to know about the wonders of her body. She did not know what a vagina was or what it meant, how the spot between her legs could exist without her knowing. Although this new knowledge stirred her curious mind, she still worried about Josephine. 

"You should have seen her." Tyla said. "She said she was unsure."

"What do you mean?"

Tyla shrugged. "Unsure about her daddy or her brother giving her baths and washing her but I told her a daddy is there to keep you safe when mommy is away. Mommies are better at some things than daddies."

Tyla had two loving parents who would move mountains for her. Of course, this is what she believed. I didn't blame her. 

I believed a father and brother could be portrayed as a protector in the family dynamic--until this. 

My mother was a sex positive parent. She taught me at four years old where a penis goes when trying to create a child like me. She taught me the difference between my vagina, vulva, lipis and clitoris. She made me watch sex educational videos to avoid any follow up questions about penis size, foreskin and sperm. She explained to me where a man could touch, but not allowed to at my current age. Josephine and I were the same age, so my curious mind had been peaked.

I asked my mother. "Can a daddy and brother touch my vagina?" 

I remember my mother moving from the kitchen to the living room like lightening, grabbing my shoulders, her eyes full of tears but her lips was fixed tight, her voice stern and motherly. "Who? You tell me who touched you! You tell me right now!"

"No one." 

"Then why all of sudden ask me such a question?" 

I remained silent. I didn't want to get anyone in trouble. I was not supposed to know. 

My mother was a resilient woman; she literally shook the truth out of me. 

"You tell me. Right now. Right now or no more playing with Tyla." 

Shaking involuntarily back and forth, I spilled the peas. "Josephine's daddy, brother and uncle touches her when her mommy is away." 

My mother released me, frozen in place. I don't remember what happened next, but I remember the consequences of telling a secret. 

It was a week before Thanksgiving break, I remember because I was looking forward to showing my mother a hat I created in arts and crafts. I was wearing it out at recess when the storm came in. I was coming down the slide as Josephine appeared. No hesitation, no words were said, no time to prepare. BAM! My first punch in the face and I didn't see her rip up my Thanksgiving hat, but there it was in pieces on the ground. This is where the rift between us began. 

If you ask Josephine today, who was the person that ruined her life? All fingers point to me.

No Thanksgiving would ever be the same, no more family dinners, no more family vacations, no white picket fence dream, her family imploded. 

My mom told her mom and the next thing we knew Mitch was giving his lunch to Jospehine. Despite her best attempts to exclude me from the gang, our pain was overwhelmingly formidable granting stronger bonds than the iceberg sinking the Titanic. It was awkward at first, sitting diagonal at lunchtime from that Sucker Punch fiend but Tyla reminded me Josephine was going through an ordeal, hurting more than her mind could grasp. Being the bigger person is revenge enough.

Josephine's mom was this travel agent/realtor/big CEO. The details of her job was unknown to me, but I knew she traveled around the world. She depended on the father to make lunches, buy clothes, make dinners, deal with school administrators. So, when he was thrown into jail, you would expect for the mother's priorities to change. You would think she would come home, comfort her daughter, step up as a mother in which she did for the span of three weeks before flying out the week before Thanksgiving. 

Mitch explained this to me later in middle school. He would never admit it, but I think he had a crush on Josephine. When she started dropping weight because she refused to eat the lunch, he started making her turkey sandwiches from home. When Josephine started to talk suicide, he would change her tune, start making jokes and flirt. On the days, he avoided his mother in the parking lot he walked Josephine home safely, they did homework together, planned pranks together. 

When Mitch was killed, it was heartbreaking. Josephine was the last one standing at his grave site, on her knees sobbing obnoxiously loud. 

I kneeled next to her, staring at his gravestone. "Eugene." I read. "Remember we used to tease him about his middle name. Ew ew old man Eugene."

She stopped crying, filling the air with awkward silence. I continued on, mimicking Mitch's voice.

"Old man with all the wisdom, experience and getting all the ladies." Then I whispered to Josephine. "But we all know he just wanted one." 

She smiled for a moment then probably remembered she hated me. "What do you want?"

"Make sure you are okay. I'm not okay." I confessed. "We are the only two left." 

"No, you are just left. There is no we." 

"Tyla and Mitch would have wanted us to let the past go. We made a pact in the sandbox and it is the only reason why we are still here today--"

"Shut up! Don't you talk to me about Tyla or Mitch! You don't know! You are nothing! You are pathetic. You don't mind your own fucking business and we all pay the cost for it!" 

I experienced one of those out of body moments. I remember time slowing down, watching my arm raise to assist my fist in connecting with Jospehine's eye. It was exhilarating a defining moment in our relationship going forward.

We finished middle school as enemies, making our lives more unfortunate than they already were, but it gave us a reason to wake up in the morning. When Jospehine threw a party and invited everyone but me, I spent the night plotting my revenge. The next day, I borrowed one of Mitch pranks. I stole the lock on her locker and replaced it with an identical one. She was late to class trying to figure out the combination, which earned her detention for two days. She responded with gossip, a game of rumors. I beat her at your own game, spreading pictures of a young Josephine eating dog food on her kitchen floor. 

That's the thing about having an enemy who was a childhood friend. You never know what secrets they may have in their arsenal. 

I believe Josephine realized this, so we mutually agreed to pretend we didn't know each other. Out of sight, never in my mind and my name was lost to her lips forever. 

Until biology. 

We were fucking lab partners. 

Ever dissected a baby pig with an enemy?

Did you stab them? I couldn't. I envy you.

We had to do lab assignments outside of school. 

We met at the library.

I did the work. She giggled at her phone. 

It was good until presentation time. Jospehine loved to be the center of attention, perhaps because she never got it at home. Sorry, bias. Anyway, she disappeared on presentation day and I did all the work, so you would think the presentation would be easy but I am amazed I didn't pee my pants in front of the class. I hate public speaking.

I demanded an explanation. I went to her house to be faced with sobbing Josephine. I knew something was desperately wrong because when she opened the door. She hugged me. 

My father died. She said. My father died. 

I wasn't sure she was relieved or heartbroken. She never made it clear. She continued to sob and my rage dispersed as her tears poured on my shirt. We weren't friends, but I hugged her like she was one.

"I'm sorry." She uttered, before pushing my out the door to slam it in my face.

I remember standing there, frozen in place. Her emotions gave me whiplash and I was utterly confused, but I traveled home. The biology project was over and I expected us to go back to peacefully co-exisiting. 

Jospehine had other plans...

On April 9th, Jospehine was found floating face down in the riverbank. Apparently, she jumped from the highway and a fisherman found her. She was wearing Mitch's jean jacket I used to steal. 

I was called to identify the body. I found this a strange request. Her mother was available. She was absent her entire life, go figure. Turns out Josephine named me as an emergency contact, she had my name in her wallet. Me, my name, my number, me, the person who ruined her life. 

Jospehine was a complex character. I will give her that, but till this day I had no idea why she would have chosen me.  

It has been a week since I challenged myself to eliminate Netflix, Hulu, Starz and other binge worthy streaming networks. I failed within two days. I cracked. The temptation was too high for Season 15 of Heartland. It was worth it, but not the point. I realized going cold turkey from my so called addiction was not feasible. So, I changed my viewing content. Instead of romantic drama series or true crime mysteries, I began to watch Money Explained, The Mind Explained, documentaries will teach me instead of kill my brain cells. I felt less guilty and my time didn't feel wasted. It opened doors to new avenues benefiting my future. I ordered a book online about real estate investing and ways to increase my cashflow. Also, I discovered my emotions are related to my actions, which is why I eat my feelings. My next challenge: when feeling stressed or sad, I will exercise or take a walk. *Cross fingers* I am a work in progress. 💋

I like to self-reflect when I feel my world spinning off its axis.

I dig for depth. 

I want more.

I can be more.

I can do more.

I scratch at the surface. 

What's underneath?

What's great?

What's missing?

What's preventing me from having more?

What patterns control me?

What are my triggers?

What makes me think I can have more?

Because I am fucking unstoppable.

I love me. ❤ 

I want to design my life.

I am done just surviving.

I control my next and last moments. 

That's a start. 

I may not be your one

I accept it.

But my person is out there

I will find them. 

They will find me. 

It's all good, let's just leave it here.

I don't do negativity.

I don't do anger. 

I don't do insecurities.

Let us part ways.

It's all good. 

Never allow fears to stop

 you from being unstoppable

          😎😎 

Conor McGregor inspired me.

I won't go into detail about this notorious man. You know him. If you don't Google exists, if you care. 

The failures, the shortcomings, the unforgivables, the embarrassments cannot weigh on my shoulders. I have to take those moments turn it into fucking magic. Make those moments work for me, move forward. Try again and again and again...Fail again and again and again...Don't quit. 

Peace, Power, Dignity, Respect, Love. 

Be committed. Don't listen to the noise. Do what I feel I am called to do.

My goal is to start small. Have one week without TV. Figure out what the hell I fight for. Sometimes, I get off track but I am human. I am going to fix my mindset. 💋 still working on my progress. 

The second member of the Unfortunate Fours was Mitch. He was a booger-eater, a loud-mouth, good for the jokes and a true troublemaker. Once, he glued wheels of sixth grade teacher's chair because he despised the sound of Ms. Roberts sliding across the floor. She was a 250 pound woman and refused to walk around the room. When we had a question, we walked to the desk. When we needed an explanation, she slid to the board and wrote at eye level. When we could not see the explanation from the back of the room, we had to walk to the front and stand. So, when Ms. Roberts called for a new chair, Mitch borrowed his father's tools and unscrewed the bolts. She collapsed and the class roared in laughter. 

Three broken chairs later, Mitch was caught but his vigilante actions had not gone unnoticed. The principal began random sit-ins discovering Ms.Roberts lack of performance did not stop at her desk; as a class we were preforming below reading level. When the yearly standardized test came around to say we failed miserably was an understatement because the next year we had a new teacher, Mr. C.

Mitch never met Mr. C. It wasn't his fault. No one noticed the signs, but us and we were nobody. Nobody would listen to us. Nobody seen what we saw either. Nobody cared to ask why Mitch wore long sleeves in the summer time. Nobody cared to ask: Are you okay, today? Nobody listened to him cry on the brick wall after school was over. Nobody wondered why he preferred to walk home, even though his mother was always on time, waiting in the parking lot to pick him up. 

Mitch's father was an alcoholic. It was the same old story really. I'm sure we all heard about the abusive parents having way too many. It wasn't the hitting, Mitch complained about. It was the cigarette burns on his skin, the killing of his three year old dog, Puff Daddy. It was the constant belittling of his mother, the excuses, the cover-ups, the maybe-if-I-tried-harders.

During PE, after the broken second chair, I noticed Mitch always doing push-ups during free-time instead of playing with the rest of us.

"You don't want to play dodgeball?"

He breathed slowly through his nose, looking as if the world was on his shoulder. "Playing is not living." 

"Living is playing." 

He stopped to look up at me. "You tell me if the life I'm living is worth playing." 

He waited for my response, but when I opened my mouth silence filled the air. I turned my back, but remembered what the Unfortunate One would say.

"It is better to hope for a better living than to play a game." 

"My mother plays the game. She is on time every day to pick me up because she has a fear clock ticking in her mind. One minute late coming in the door, she earns hit to the face. I hope every day the fear clock breaks and we escape. It doesn't happen, so I will break that clock if I have to." 

He went back to his push ups. I watched as he went up and down, pumping his arms, determined to stop the clock.

The next day, I joined him. 

I did my first push-up that day. 

He laughed at me."You have noodle arms and your butt is too high." 

"I am trying here."

He pushed my hips down. "Butt down, strengthens the upper body." 

He corrected my arms and encouraged me to do more than two push-ups. I accomplished four to his forty.

What I liked about Mitch was he didn't take his issues out on others. He held his smile consistently throughout the day, he was patient with others, he shared his food with Unfortunate Three even if it meant accepting the ride home from his mother to relieve his hunger. 

He was a good teacher. By the time Mr. C arrived at our school, I was able to do one hundred push-ups. The day I reached half that, I ran to call Mitch. 

It was shortly after Ms. Roberts' chair collapsed. Three days had passed without Mitch. We were getting worried, but I continued to practice my push-ups to show Mitch I had graduated from noodle arms. 

On June 4, I worked up the nerve to call Mitch. He had warned me to never call his home on Tuesdays and Fridays because his father did not like to be disturbed during TV shows. So, I waited until June 5th, Wednesday night after school. 

The phone rang five times before a person heavily breathing answered. 

"Hello? I am calling to speak to Mitch. Is he able to talk?" 

Heavy breathes turn into cries. Then a rageful volcano eruption crashes in background.

"BITCH, I SAID NO PHONES. HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE!" 

"Hel--" 

Dead dial tone, ringing in my ear. 

I was unsure of my next actions, but I knew what I knew about Mitch's home life. I had the information. Mitch warned me. He told me, but I couldn't help the feeling swirling around in my gut that day. Something was wrong. So, I called the cops, reporting a disturbance in the neighborhood, giving Mitch's address. I remembered it from the year before, when we uses to trade jean jackets. The trade was more me taking his jacket and wearing it home but he was nice like that. 

On the day I would have called, Mitch stepped between his mother and his father, who was drunkenly holding a wench. The wench was swung, blunt force trauma to the head is what the teachers whispered weeks later. Mitch laid there for a day, breathing helpless, hearing his mothers cries unable to make a decision, unable to choose her son's life over her husband's. She was unable to break the fear clock until it was too late. Mitch tried his best to hang on. I know because he gave his last breath a couple minutes before the police arrived. It was a slow internal bleed, the teachers whispered  weeks later.

That summer was a dreadful one. I continued my push-ups, tried to focus on the positives and on the first day of school I arrived to Mr. C class early. I didn't care if it wasn't my first period, I waited.

I waited for the class to begin, participated in introductions, listened to the class overview and when Mr. C finally took a seat in his brand new chair, in which it collapsed, I smiled and yelled: FOR MITCH! 

Mystic felt his eyes on her, studying carefully. She had no idea what he was waiting for. Peering up from the rim of a cup of coffee, she looked at him smiling sweetly from the far left of the coffee shop. He was surprised as his eyes landed on her. Mystic met his hazel eyes with a curt nod, as if he was a friend. She did not get a chance to look at him carefully last night before escaping: he was athletic, lean, moved swiftly around the room on guard, never allowing for anyone to get the jump on him.

There was a total of ten people in the coffee shop. Their stare down attracted some customers to glance between the pair while dragging their feet to the bathroom. He seemed to notice, approaching the counter to order a coffee: black. 

He attracted eyes from women, they gawked as he passed, taking in his smell. The barista blushed as he paid, smiling sweetly but he was too annoyed to care or perhaps he had a one track mind, a man of focus and purpose. 

He changed out of his assassin attire. He was now wearing a simple hoodie and jeans colored in black to better blend in background, to remain unseen with a baseball cap.

 Mystic sipped her cup, intrigued by the mystery man. She wondered how he would endure on her table. What would his last words be?

“I want my knives back." He said calmly placing his mug on the table, sitting down across from me.

Mystic smiled. “I should call the police and report that I have a stalker.”

He sat back in his chair. “Really? For a woman who chops people up and pours acid on their bodies, I would think you would stay far away from the police.”

Mystic swirled her index finger around the rim of the coffee cup giggling. “Oh someone has heard of me, but you didn’t call the police now did you?” She relaxed into the seat licking her lips. She enjoyed the game they began to play. “Someone wants their money, bounty hunter?”

“I’m not a bounty hunter.”

 “It doesn’t matter to me." Mystic tilted head slightly looking him over once more. His face was familiar, but she could not place him. Those eyes of hatred, she knew that look all too well.

“Give me my knives.” He demanded.

“Or what? You’re going to fall asleep on me again?” 

The coffee shop door chimed attracting all ten customers; all eyes flew to the door as two police officers walked in. One was short and chubby and the other tall and skinny. It is funny how partners work; how one could be completely different than the other.

My attention turned back to the man in front of me, waiting patiently for his threat. He continued to stare at me, once again studying me. He cleared his throat once, twice then leaned forward as if to tell me a secret.

“Or I’ll tell those nice police officers who you really are, Mystic.”

Her heart sank, feeling the burning hatred simmer beyond her grasp but I wasn’t going to let him see it. She breathed and said smiled sweetly. “I don’t know who that is.”

“You have the burn on your right wrist, it looks like a moon crescent. I saw it last night and not many people have that mark, besides I gave it to you.”

“You have me mistaken with someone else."

The mysterious observer rested his cup on the table, he tipped the summery black coffee over as he reached for napkins. Mystic jumped back, being careful to contain her screams with a bite of her tongue. 

"My apologies, darling." The mysterious observer grabbed Mystic's left wrist exposing the moon crescent burn. She realized her mistake and quickly retracted her hand from his grip. 

The mysterious observer cleaned the area smirking. "I've been looking for you and I know your tricks." 

"Who are you?" Mystic could not lie. She was entertained, excited even to play this new game, wondering what surprises this mysterious observer holds.

He was proud. Aware the tables had turned. 

19 hours earlier...