"In My Mind"
an excerpt

My name is Arielyn Grace, and this is my story.

"Softly, silently, she slid into the hot steamy water. Her body relished the deep, cleansing heat. Her imagination allowing her to think of the possibilities."

With every new bath, Arielyn felt like she should start over. The longer she took, the more time she had to think about who she'd be that day.

The heat gave her body goosebumps everywhere, in such a way that made her want to be forever submerged underwater.

Arielyn sight and began washing her filthy (in her mind) body. Her arms ached from the word she had put into her new job that day. New job, new people, new possibilities, new Arielyn.

At last, Arielyn felt she had washed away the day's sins finally, and she rinsed off the soap from her body as well as the conditioner from her hair.

The stark white bathroom floor formed puddles from Arielyn's toweless body. Refreshed and feeling clean, Arielyn wrapped a long, thin towel around her body, along with a smaller towel around her hair. She quickly scurried out the bathroom door into her room, the cold air outside of the bathroom giving her arms and legs goosebumps.

She closed the door quickly behind her and leaned against the door, shivering.

"Whoa...s-s-s-so c-c-cold!"

As soon as she stepped away from he door, her brother burst in, his face red from crying.

"Bubba, what's wrong?" Arielyn cried out of anger and surprise.

"M-m-mahh..." Bubba sobbed.

"Calm down, what's wrong?!"

Bubba took a deep breath like his sister had taught him, and said, only calm enough to be clear

"Dad's accusing Mom of cheating on him. Again. What's his PROBLEM?! He's never been this bad before!"

"He drunk?" Arielyn knew the answer.

"Yeah, and all mom did was...was-" he fell into a pile of sobs onto Arielyn's bed.

"Keep your head down while I get dressed." Arielyn sighed, and Bubba nodded, a little calmer.

Arielyn got dressed quickly, keeping the towel on her head. She told Bubba it was alright to turn around, and she asked what was happening.

It's at this point that I stop typing and rub my temples with both hands. I sigh and try as hard as I can to remember just WHAT Trevor had said that night. I sigh and try as hard as I can to think. Bleh.

I had so many loose ends I was going to leave, so many things that I just can't talk about that would make everything make sense. I look at my desk in the formal dining room of our house. Well, not our house, my step-father's, which we'd have to move out of as soon as he came back.

My computer...my most prized possession at the time, stared at me blankly, and I did the same. I wondered if it'd be alright if I tweaked the story a bit...

'No,' I thought. 'Completely true. Completely.'

I started again, sighing and drudging along, the words coming to me slowly.

Arielyn listened as Bubba let the story pour out of him, her heart breaking a little more with every sob, with every tear shed.

I stop again, drawing in a sharp breath. I remembered that night...That was the night before my mom left my step-dad. My chest tightened involuntarily at the memory. I could feel my mouth draw in and my brow furrow. It's one of those things that when I remember it, I'm in a bad mood.

I bit the soft, fleshy inside of my lip hard, my teeth digging until I bled. Why was I writing this? My mom always said that my life wasn't bad. But no, it was bad sometimes. My step-father telling us we were fat while he himself gorged on food, making me forever nauseous at the sight of people eating. Elaborate dishes, heaping platefuls of hot, delicious food taunted and tempted our palates. If we ate, a pat on the head. Seconds? Oh you're hungry tonight, eh? Good job. Didn’t finish our meal, he told us we thought it was awful. I ate to shut him up. Trevor ate to keep up and please his father. Mom ate because he ridiculed her.

I checked my cell phone to see if I missed any calls. Nope. Who would ever call me, especially in my time of need?

I chastised myself verbally in my head for being selfish. I wasn't going through anything hard. my mom and brother were. Indifference is my greatest weapon, and my biggest wall.

All in all I felt like they deserved better. To myself, I'm awful. I always treat others better than I treated myself. I want people to know they're loved by me. why don't I feel like that when receiving the feeling? I don't know... it's always been an issue for me.

I started typing again, this time using my own name instead of my pen name. I went back and changed everything to "Kayla" instead of "Arielyn" and "Trevor" instead of "Bubba". I felt naked, exposed, and shameful. Lon did a lot of things I didn't understand, like drink. I've never been drunk, so I don't get the feeling. I always tried to be nonjudgmental, but it's a little hard when someone lets themselves go that far without even trying to get proper help.

I am in no way above him. In fact, he always made me feel like scum of the earth. I've always been cynical, depressed, and pessimistic. I hide it well. I'm the most optimistic pessimist you'll ever meet. I smile, laugh, joke around when all I want to do is cry. I paint my nail black and coat my lids with eyeliner to show how I feel. dark. Lonely. Paranoid. Fearful. I write away my dark thoughts until I work them out, never showing them to anyone, never letting anyone in. When I do, it's an explosion of grays and browns, blacks and blues, purples and reds, an explosion of pain, like being hit in the back of the head and vomiting.

And at the end of the day, when I undress my (in my mind) fat body, peeling off the layers of pants, shirts, undergarments, socks, and scrub away the makeup, lotion, perfume and begin to wash myself clean, I am exposed for what I really am: naked, cold, and alone.

My name is Kayla Garza, and I'm scared.

EXCEPRT 2, Chapter 2 of My Mind

At some point in my life, I began to wonder why I am the way I am. I cross the parking lot of my school, a freshman in high school at the age of 17, past the gold truck with the flames that’s always there before and after hours, past the trees, past the policewoman in the golf-cart checking on everything, past the special ed buses that smell like glue, and into my school.

After being home schooled for 8 years, high school was different. Everyone’s so surprised when I say I’m a freshman that can drive. The conversation usually goes like this:

“How old are you?”

I answer “17.”

They ask “You’re seventeen?!”

I reply “Yes, I am.”

Incredulous, they ask “Can you drive?”

I reply smoothly “Yes, I can. I have since I was 16.”

“That’s amazing!” They say “Can’ I have a ride home after school?”

It’s at this point that I kindly deny, since my gas is always low. Disappointed they walk away, but it’s of no consequence to me. They would have owed me gas money on the spot, since I really AM low on gas.

My step-father, or now, rather, my ex step-father, had always frightened us with stories about public school. I knew some of them were true, being in public school from kindergarten to 3rd grade, and then home schooled until my senior year. Teasing, ridiculing, mean, hateful teachers who were out tog et you…I have horrid memories of my elementary years. My brother, then 11, still 11, was terrified beyond belief about going to public school. I was too, being teased during my younger years by friends and peers and even teachers.

I shake my head with this memory, and tries to fight the urge to run out the door, drive to my old home and bang on the door until Lon lumbered to it, and I clocked him. Oh, he would deserve that, making us miserable! But revenge has never been my thing. So I continued past the doors of my beloved school into the cafeteria and sat down at a table, one which has ever since been mine and my friend’s to hang out at until the bell rang at 7:10. 6:30 a.m. I was there. I yawned and stretched until my body was somewhat woken up.

I take out my story about my life, with the names (shamefully) changed out of my Happy Bunny binder, and realize something: I was not punished that night. That night I took a shower, and my brother pushed his way into my room, babbling about mom and Lon fighting again. I was the day after Mother’s day. It was day’s like that that started me off on my cynicism about life.

Repetition bores me. It bores me greatly, so when I have a string of events repeating at the same time each year, I get used to the redundancy and become apathetic. Apathy, as I have said before (repetition) is my greatest weapon, as well as my weakness.

Every year. Every. Single. Year. Lon would find some reason to start a fight with my mom on any special day. Someone mentioned her at his work, she’s sleeping with him! The bills weren’t shown to him, she’s secretly hoarding money! She got him a present for that special day, she’s done something wrong! He’d begin to berate and question her like the bad cop. Then he’d turn good cop and begin crying, pleading, asking her why she was so horrible.

I describe this and swallow in disgust. I don’t remember at what point exactly I stopped feeling pity for my step-father, but it was a liberating moment. No longer was he able to shackle me with his tears, convince me with his wordless sobs, or imprison me in a bear hug. That last day was…I felt sorry for him, for the first time in years. I think—no, I believe-- that all of those years of repetition killed some part of my sympathy for others. Instead of sympathy and concern, I feel paranoia. What are their ulterior motives? If I can’t figure them out, I won’t talk to them. Once I figure them out, I’m alright with the person and can tolerate them.

It’s now 6:40 and the buses start arriving. Across the cafeteria, teenagers start pouring in through the doors that lead outside. I see my friend Krystal, sauntering in, wearing her usual dark attire, her clothes hanging loosely off of her thin frame. She sets her black back pack onto the table and plops down in her seat with a small smile, and lays her head down.

“Good morning,” I say wearily, and she mumbles, her head still down. She lifts it up and says “Tired!” and stifles a yawn. I do the same, and scrunch my dry eyes, trying to get them to water. I let my eyes skim the surface of the crowd for my friend Beau, who also has the habit of wearing dark clothing. I see him walking towards me on his lanky legs, his nearly chin-length hair mussed and his eyes droopy and lazy.

“I almost always miss you when you first walk up.” I say when he reaches our table.

“I know,” he mumbles through his braces and hands. His hands were on his face, trying to wipe the remaining sleep away he didn’t get when he woke up.

“Aww, Beau, you look so tired and emo!” I teased. He giggled (yes, giggled!) and whined “Stop it!” and I left him alone. I remembered that we both had P.E. today, so that meant walking around The Pit.

The Pit is what we use to describe the practice football field. I’m not too sure; it may be for only the junior high kids, since the junior high and high school is connected in the same building. Then again that stadium is in Conroe, so I must be wrong.

Anyways, it’s a football field, and we have to walk around the ring of it twice. We then go inside and the coaches give us a bag of balls and we do whatever. My friends, Myself, Melody, Beau, Misty and her girlfriend Ashley, just sit. We’re tired, and somewhat…Goth. That’s how other kids describe us. I know that we’re just plain lazy. We may like Evanescence and Avenged Sevenfold and 30 Seconds to Mars, but we’re lazy.

Beau blinked and yawned, and mumbled something.

“What?” I asked loudly. No one in the cafeteria noticed except the people at our table. Krystal, who had had her head down, sat up with a start when I shouted.

“What color gay this is? Huh?” I said, trying to yell over the noise of the crowd.

He shook his head, grinning sleepily. He grabbed my notebook and my pen and scrawled the words “What color day is today?”

I scrunched my face in embarrassment. “Oh.” Was all I said, until I remembered his question.

“Gold day.”

“Ah, okay. We have P.E. today. And Melody’s behind you.”

“No she’s not…” I turned around, and there was Melody. I yelled out of surprise. Beau usually says that to just get me to look.

“Geez, I know I’m scary looking, but god!” Melody says with a smile. I laughed. Melody always says things with a smile and a nod, as if comprehension meant you had her full attention.

The bell rang, and I went through my day like any other. English, the kids staring and glaring at me because I pay attention and adore Ms McKenna. Algebra, where I knew almost nothing but still took notes like crazy, or wrote letters to people that I would never give to them. Lunch with Krystal, Daryl, my friend, slapping my table and saying “American Idol Kayla! Whatchoo doin’?” and nearly making me choke. Then IPC, Creative Writing, and P.E. The next day it would be English, Algebra, World Geography, Spanish, and then Choir. I thanked God my days weren’t redundant, otherwise I’d drop out of school.

At 2:45, the bell rings, and after walking the Pit for an hour, I’m sweaty, tired, and ready to go home. I get into my car, waving to a few people that I know in class, and pull out of the parking lot. I drive down the long, winding road to the stoplight, which was red.

I slowed my tiny maroon car to a stop at the red light, the traffic well behind me. I knew the light was long, so I messed with my CD player in my car. The cars got closer behind me, and I watched warily through my rearview mirror.

“Uhm…” I said, thinking they were going awfully fast for a red light. I glance up to see that it still is a red light. My eyes were growing wide in terror; I couldn’t move or drive on, there were cars flying past in the intersection! I gripped the steering wheel and braced myself for the impact, closing my eyes.

The jolt would have woken up Rip Van Winkle from his years of slumber had he been in the car. Stars exploded in front of my eyes, my breath exhaling as the massive truck behind me plowed into the rear of my car. I was propelled forward, but held back by my seatbelt. In slow motion, I could hear the tires screech, offended and protesting the scrape of their flesh against the hot, hard pavement.

My car flipped in mid-air, and into other cars. I landed upside-down and as I caught my breath my screams echoed above the screech of tires and the cry of ambulances—

I blinked when the massive truck behind me honked once, yanking me out of my horrible reverie. I put my blinker on and turned left, and drove the rest of the way home.

Its incidents like this that made me realize that I’m going mad. Not Michael Myers mad, but Mad Hatter mad. Maybe in some way my daydreams make me forget reality, but I have reactions and feelings to things I imagine. Then, in a hurry, I have to write them down before I go even madder.

I doubt I’ll ever be as crazy as the Mad hatter, but I DO love tea. I’m craving a giant glass right now… which is odd, because I have a slight caffeine allergy. If I drink or eat too much, I get a migraine. It doesn’t make sense, I know.

In addition to my obvious psychosis, I frequently have dreams where my family and friends die of some horrible accident. Now, would insanity allow me to wake up in a sweat or laugh at the ridiculousness? I’ve done both, therefore I can either be insane and paranoid or sane and paranoid, though some would argue that paranoia is a type of insanity. I think either way I’m screwed.

My mother would argue that its stress, lack of sleep, and bad eating habits, but these factor in too, don’t they? I’m tired, stressed and hungry. I also write a lot. I write about EVERYTHING. I have several online blogs that I no longer go to because I no longer have the internet. I’ve settled for pen and paper or just not printing out my works

One of my favorite things to write about is when I get my heart broken. That’s always been a favorite of mine, because so many people can identify with it.

I have one story that still affects me, since it happened last October.

But the actual story begins…about 7 months ago, when …he…started working there. He was tall. He was handsome. He still makes my butterflies feel queasy. He breaks my heart with a bat of his eyelash and shatters my soul with a kiss. He can warm me up and cool me down.

He’s the guy I’m not allowed to love, or even like. He doesn’t feel the same for me as I do for him, and that hurts more than anything.

His name is Justin, and he’s gotten me into more trouble than any guy I’ve ever let close to me. Or rather, I’ve let my guard down and allowed myself to get into trouble I’d never let anyone else get me into.

What really gets me is why I have feelings for him. He’s laid-back, a little egotistical, cynical, and a womanizer. On the other hand, he can be deep, emotional, and when we talk, he tells me things he’d never mention to anyone else. He’s gentle, and we like the same things, in so many ways I love him, but in twice as many ways I hate him.

He smokes and drinks regularly. But then again he’s never pressured me to do any of those things. He knows that’s not my thing, so when I’d spend time with him, he’d refrain from doing that. He talks about his mom and how he never knew his dad, how he wants to become a famous rap star. He wants to pay for college himself and his own car and his own house. I admire his initiative and fervor about being independent.

At one point, I thought he shared my feelings, but now I know that just because a guy asks for your number doesn’t mean anything. He was the only guy who’s ever asked for my number, and I was excited as hell. I wrote it down and turned around, a grin plastered on my face.

He’s beautiful, like an angel on a sunny spring day. His skin glows, his blue eyes sparkle when he smiles, his strong chin is accented because of his thin frame. He has short blonde hair that he said he’d grow to his shoulders, but because it’s so hot in Texas he cut it.

But I lied to him. I lied to him to keep him talking to me. I told him that I only crushed on him for like one day, and then after that it was physical. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, he wants a…a whore. A girl he can screw around with, with no strings attached. I wondered if I could do that. I figured I’d try, and Halloween night, my opportunity came.

I went to his house, and things started getting…physical.

At this time in my memory, I realize that I no longer have to worry about him. I got grounded and had to quit my job. What did I do? I missed curfew for the 2nd time. And you know what? It feels great. I no longer have his face looming over me at night, wondering why I’m not good enough, why he doesn’t feel the same way about me that I do for him. Did. That I did for him.

I also analyzed why I always felt so prone to being with guys who don’t care about me, or why I’m so attracted to them. I always thought I liked quiet, mysterious boys, but they turn out to be quiet, nor mysterious. They’re always quiet around me because we have nothing in common. Quietness adds to the mystery, but they’re not mysterious either.

It’s at this time that I also realize that I have not been faithful in my religion, and the kind of guys that I’m REALLY attracted to—good, wholesome, clean-minded guys—are ones you find in my religion. There are some with similar qualities, but my main goal when it comes to romance is to find a guy who loves God.

I always thought that guys didn’t like me. Sure, they liked some of my body parts, but that’s just physical. I have yet to find a guy who likes to just hang out with me because I’m me. I’ve found guys who think I’m easy because of my ex boyfriend telling stories, and they comment on my breast size (They’re amazed when I tell them I’m an E .) but so far, no guy has asked my opinion on a book, a movie, a poem. And I know it’s because I was going about it all wrong.

I’m a goody-two shoes at heart. I feel guilty when I’ve done wrong, and ashamed when I get away with it. I always turn myself in, if my mother doesn’t find out about it first. I’m no genius when it comes to getting away with things.

After my mom left my step-dad, I felt released from the restraints that he had put on me. I felt like the guilt that he had made me feel would either go away or choke me to death. It went away, and for the fist time in years, my chest wasn’t tight, I wasn’t afraid of being ridiculed or being called fat, I wasn’t afraid to have friends over, I wasn’t afraid to go to the mall and leave my mom and brother alone with him, I wasn’t afraid to dress how I wanted. I was…free. For the first time in 14 years, at the age of 16…I…was…free.

And what did I do with that freedom? I squandered it away, thinking it would last longer than it had. In a sense, it lasted longer than I thought, but not as long as I had hoped. I wish I had been more careful. I stayed out late on weekends after we moved in with my mom’s boyfriend, I’d go see my friend after work or just stay out because I didn’t want to be home alone. I was tired of being cooped up in the house and relished my freedom.

Sometimes I wish I was born into another life. One where I had to worry about whether some guy liked me, or whether my friend would call and tell me the latest gossip. I thought that high school would let me do that, that for once I’d be allowed to think of trivial things and relax. For me, friends and grades are trivial. After fearing for my life and the life of my family night after night for years, it would be welcome frivolity.

But I don’t worry about those things, and I realize that if I did, it would make me lose some of the character I’ve gathered over the years. Years of writing lost, years of my feelings being poured out, every thought, every emotion, would be for naught, if I started writing about silly things. I’m being honest with myself, if I completely changed who I was, my hair, clothes, makeup, attitude, I’d still write. It’s a natural impulse that I have, even before I knew how to form letters. I’d copy the cursive my mother wrote, even though I didn’t understand it, and “write letters” to my family and Santa Clause. I’d write letters to Jesus, which I remember, though they’re lost and the words are long forgotten in my mind.

As I think of this, I remember how paranoid I really am. Whenever we first moved out, I went to our old house to check on the dogs and see if he was feeding them, when I pulled out of a parking lot on one of the main roads and nearly ran into the side of my step-dad’s truck. He didn’t notice, and I backed back in (Luckily I was the only one in that parking lot) and cried. I was so terrified of him.

I never knew if he was going to use me as a bargaining tool to make my mother take him back, or my brother. One of my fears is that he’ll show up at our doorstep, shoot Kevin in the face and hold us hostage at gunpoint. I could paint the scenario out for you, but it would end up with me going to the nurse or home in tears.

Would he follow me, even now, 6 months after my mom left him, barely a month after the divorce? Does he still seek us out? Does a madman ever give up? And if I ever saw him, would he treat me like a human being if we were ever alone?

No. He never cared about me, I realize that now. I was a tool to tie my mother’s feet together, and my brother handcuffs to occupy and restrain her hands.

I wonder about this now—why does a man feel obligated or urged to control a woman? And vice versa? Values passed down from an older generation? Or perhaps just a desire to be on control of something tangible.

Which he did. He controlled her eating, her friends, her clothes, and her jewelry. What I don’t understand is how he could say he never hurt her before, but then after my mom left him, he admitted to everything. And how DARE he ask Trev and me to bring her back for him? He made me feel awful and guilty, though I didn’t show it, when he asked me that. I didn’t know what to do but tell him maybe.

I’ve written him 3 letters since my mom left him, all degrading and berating him. In those letters, I have not forgiven him. In those letters, I hate him. In those letters, I am able to pour out my negative feelings towards him and get them out before I scream and cry at him.

And…as I type this, an epiphany hits me. Its 12:57 PM, I’m at school on my computer,, 4th period, and I’m staring at my monitor, thinking, “Why haven’t I gotten over this already? Why am I lingering?”

I could answer that very easily in a few sentences, but I realize that most of my lethargy, most of my exhaustion, is from clinging to the past. And while I’m sitting here, typing my heart out, crying about something that happened 6 months ago, I could very easily be helping someone else in my situation right now. And how many times have I come to this conclusion, but done nothing about it? Several. Several times, perhaps countless, and still I have made no move.

I believe the first step in getting my life back together would to go to church today, go home, get my homework done, and go to church. He can’t keep me away if I don’t let him. I have friends there that I miss dearly, that I spent a week with in church camp, a turning point in my faith, a point where I saw how high I could fly and panicked and fell.

But now instead of being under the thumb of a middle-aged coward, I’m under the thumb of my 11 year old brother. He’s just like Lon…seriously. He cries to get his way. And yes…Lon did that. He browbeats anyone into doing what he wants, even my mom, who said she won’t allow anyone else to treat her like my step-father did. So how do we nip tat in the bud? How do we break something that’s been passed on from father to son for apparently forever?

I am not a fighter, not unless I have to be. I don’t scream out my feelings, or force them out on anyone else. I write them out and try to solve them myself.

I am not a fighter, not unless I have to be. I don’t scream out my feelings, or force them out on anyone else. I write them out and try to solve them myself. If I can’t do that, I talk it out with my mom or a trusted friend. I don’t have very many of those left now, so it’s hard for me to do that. After being in public school for 3 months, I still have yet to find a good, solid friend that I can trust. I know I can trust my friends to keep secrets for me, but I have yet to find out if they’ll understand me. Sometimes I wonder if there IS someone there to understand me.

And it’s times like these I open my mouth, and sing. My frustrations pour out of me, and my voice is raw and emotional. Tears come to my eyes, and I am relieved.

And I sigh.

* * * * * * * *

At times, I am reminded of songs when it comes to my life. I sit there and turn the knob in my brain until I find a song which best fits my mood. It used to be I’d go with whatever song was in my head, but I can’t do that now. Why? Because it’s Christmas time and I hate Christmas. Why, you ask? It’s the giving season, you say, full of joy and cheer, ringing bells and merry Santa Claus throwing gifts to every girl and boy who behaved this year. Well, that would be like what, three kids a country?

And Christmas is too commercialized and… Again, I dwell on my past. 14 years of bad things happening on special days, especially Christmas, Easter, Halloween, New Years, 4th of July, birthdays, Thanksgiving…

You get the idea? Holidays suck for me, or rather they did. Ever since we got rid of the cause(Lon), things are going pretty good. I’m trying to get out of the habit of wallowing in nostalgia and contempt for the past. I wallow so I can write my feelings out. But I’ve already done all of that, so I can stop now, right? I’ve already been over this with myself time and time again.

* * * * * *

I saw my old friend Megan yesterday, when I went out to eat with my mom, brother, and Kevin. Last time I saw Megan we were 11 years old. We’re now 17. She looked so different from the chubby, bleach-blonde girl I remember. She had glasses then too. She must wear contacts now.

We went to New York on a trip with our church group, along with our mutual friend Samantha, at the age of 10 years old. Yes, 10, with no parents.