It is loud. It is not loud in the sense that the sounds are loud in volume, but in the sense that as I try to think my mind refuses to concentrate on anything but the noise. It crowds my head. Everything is loud, possibly because I’m concentrating on it. The water runs in the other room as my boyfriend does the dishes. I can’t see him, but I hear the constant running water (the water sounds light, as if it’s steaming hot. When it is cold, it beats the metal of the sink with an irritating harshness.), the occasional clang of pans or clink of plates. I can still smell the burgers we had for dinner. The grill tends to fill the apartment with the rich smells of whatever it is that we decide to cook on any given night. The lingering smell of our burgers is so deliciously spicy and barbeque-y that it would make me hungry again if not for the fact that I’ve only just finished eating one of them.

       The TV is playing on the other side of the room, not visible to me through my macbook’s screen. In this whirring, noise-filled state, my mind barely picks up the sounds of the television show that is playing, though it is likely a crime show of some sort since that frequently plays here.

       My roommate, Michelle, is here; her boyfriend is my boyfriend’s roommate, Ty. They are sitting on the couch adjacent to me. They’re eating some strange pasta-type food that I’ve yet to identify. It smells both Asian and Italian at the same time and her “chicken” looks more like lumpy, regurgitated oatmeal that has been compacted, rolled in moldy breadcrumbs, and squirted with orange juice. Fortunately, it smells much better than it looks. I would ask them what the pasta creation is, but I don’t want to interrupt their oddly-uncomfortable-to-non-mushy-onlookers dinner that they seem to be having. She looks oddly put together today, compared to her usual haphazard disheveledness. Her hair, usually thrown into a snarly, poorly managed ponytail, is brushed and down her back, reaching her hips. She is talking about her class schedule; she has to find another four credit class in order to be full time, the light schedule this week explains her clean, tidy appearance tonight. Ty, on the other hand, looks more stressed than I’ve ever seen him. His nursing scrubs are wrinkled and uncomfortable looking, surprising to me as I’ve in the past always thought that they look comfortable. He’s been wearing the same ones since I saw him yesterday; that exhaustion and stress is what makes them look much less comfortable. Bright blue and adorned with the Lansing Community College logo, they make him look so proud, yet so tired. A few days into the semester and his eyes already have large bags underneath them and I caught him sleeping for a moment just a bit ago, while he was eating. He is cheesy-love talking to Michelle and mirroring her smile back to her, but his slouchy stature and jittery foot tell me that it is taking him a lot to even remain awake and his contributions to their conversation seems entirely halfhearted.

       My boyfriend has begun putting together the end table that he purchased excitedly today. He is moving the boards around and looking at the screws like they have fallen from Mars. His usually spiked hair lies flat today, likely due to my lazy begging him to pick me up and take me to class early this morning. He wears his usual ensemble: dark jeans, an Aeropostale shirt (really, it’s always Aeropostle—it’s the only store he shops at), the necklace that I got him a few months ago (also from Aeropostle), and the lip ring that he fiddles with with his lips while he pretends to read the instructions.

       The conversations add to the sounds of the TV and the boards and though they’re quiet as well, the room feels loud. My eyes are strained and their lids heavy. I think my observing for the night has concluded. 

There’s so much on that one little windowsill. There’s the sugar jar, the pig, salt and peppershakers, some vases, medications, and various knickknacks. Something was bound to shatter sometime, right? I don’t know why they let me put the dishes away. I am clumsy; they know that. I had taken the sugar jar out of the dishwasher and struggled to put it up on the ledge. I’m not tall enough to reach all the way by myself. Normally I ask for help, but I couldn’t today. None of my siblings are home, Mom is at the store, and I can’t ask him today; some days I can, but today is not one of those days. I tried. I thought I was just nudging the little pig out of the way with the bottom of the jar, but I slipped.

Who chose that tile anyway? It wasn’t me; they don’t let the children choose the kitchen floor coverings. If they had, I certainly would not have chosen this ugly pink ceramic tile. It is slippery to walk on and loud when the dog traipses through. Right now I’m really wishing there were carpet in this room.

The sound of the shatter still rings in my ears. There is a loud, identifiable crash when porcelain forcefully and unexpectedly meets marble. I am immediately nervous. I have a lot of questions running through my head—all of them rhetorical and none helping my panic. Racing through my mind so quickly that I can hardly focus on just one at a time, the questions and exclamations of fear overwhelm me. Why did mom like that little glass pig so much? Why was it on the windowsill? Why do we store the sugar on the windowsill? What will he do? The most important question is: why isn’t mom home? He is a little better when she’s home. Why did she say no when I asked her if I could go to the grocery store with her? If I had gone with her, I wouldn’t be so scared right now. She hasn’t been saying yes lately. She has been there three times this week; I think she is getting scared, too.

Right now I am scared. I am more than scared. I am shaking and it feels as if every particle of my body is not only scared but also terrified. Every hair on my body stands on end, as if helping me to listen for any sign of movement from the other room so that I can hope to possibly prepare myself for however he might react to my latest incompetence. I know he heard it. He had to have heard it. It was so loud when the clunky ceramic pig figurine crashed onto the marble tile and the entrance to the other room is entirely open. Each piece shuddered and slid a different direction across the floor, scraping the tile along the way. There were sounds and he had to have heard them—yet I pray with every fiber of my little kid self that he somehow didn’t hear it.

His rocking chair creaks. There’s no way to avoid his anger now; he has heard it. I’m sure he thinks the crash is another cup. I broke one last week and he is still mad at me for it. He had yelled for twenty minutes straight. Ever since he’s been mumbling things about clumsy, messy children under his breath every time I even look like I might drop something.

I’m trying to decide which he would be angrier about, another cup or the pig, when I hear the floor creak as he steps away from the chair. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he just got up to go to the bathroom. If that’s true, I can get this cleaned up and he never has to know. I’ll apologize to Mom later and she’ll promise not to tell him. Maybe I am scared for no reason. Maybe his mood changed and he won’t even care.

Creak. The sound is closer this time; I hold my breath. If I stop time, he’ll never get angry again. If time stops, nothing bad can happen.

The floor creaks again, closer this time; he must be nearing the entryway. He sees the pieces. The furthest scattered piece is right in front of the entrance to the kitchen. There are a few more creaks, much closer together now, and after a couple I can see him—a giant man charging toward me, his anger-driven feet crushing pieces to dust as they land on a few that he is unwilling to avoid making contact with. Suddenly he is in front of me, yelling, and so angry that I can’t understand him, so I just kneel down and start picking up the pieces around me as well as I can with my trembling hands.

I’ve never noticed the true detail on this particular knickknack, but it was quite beautiful; I can tell from the pieces. Was it hand painted? I’m trying to concentrate on the detailed paintwork and not on whatever malicious things he is yelling down at me. One by one I struggle to pick them up, too scared to walk away and get the broom. I place the smaller pieces inside the biggest piece while forcing myself not to cry as he yells.

And then he’s not yelling anymore. And I’m not on the floor. His large, calloused hands crush my shoulders as he holds me at his eye level. My feet dangle just above the floor where my now pouring tears are splashing as they fall. I hurt. I hurt more than just the pain I feel where his hands grip me angrily; I am used to the anger and fear, but this is new and absolutely terrifying. He is saying something to me about laziness and respect, but I’m so scared that my mind won’t let me register the words that he is saying; each movement of his lips just makes me shiver with fear.

            He hears the tinny engine of our station wagon pull into our driveway at the same time that I do. Quickly he releases the pressure on my shoulders and I crumple to the ground, dropping all of the pieces that I had struggled to pick up. He glares, but walks back to the other room, out of sight before Mom walks in the door. He knows I’d never tell her. And I know that I don’t have to. I just mentally thank both her and God for her coming home right then and I breathe.

            She sees me on the floor crying and gives me a hug, says she is sorry, and begins to put the groceries away. I see her wipe away a few tears. Even though I haven’t told her anything that happened, I know that she knows enough. She knows why I’m scared to be home without her. She knows why she pretends to forget things at the grocery store. She hands me the broom and we both silently pray that the floor won’t be the only thing cleaned up soon.

Laying in the grass, watching the clouds drift by, I hold his hand for the first time. Nervous. Excited. We’re on our first date and I’m hoping he will be my first real boyfriend. Friendly and charming, he seems like everything I’ve been waiting for. We walked around my neighborhood, talking and laughing together, and now we’ve found our way to my front yard. The weather reflects the giddy, happy mood I’m in. My family spies on us from the window. The smile I always wear is brighter than ever. He’ll ask me to be his girlfriend soon, and I’ll undoubtedly say yes.
 
“I don’t like that boy,” Dad states simply over dinner after Eric has left. They had been introduced, but Eric hadn’t shaken Dad’s hand. I think it is a silly thing that it means so much to Dad, but it means everything. “It’s rude,” he explained, “he won’t treat you right.” I tell him that Eric had been nervous, that he is actually very sweet to me. “He even held open doors for me,” I point out, refusing to let him ruin my happiness.

Two months later the first day of my senior year of high school is here. I am happy. I have the best friends anyone could ever ask for, a dysfunctional but wonderful family, and the perfect boyfriend. Yes, my parents are slightly upset by the number of times he has kept me out past curfew— something that has never happened before— but he likes me and he makes me laugh. He holds my hand in the parking lot and I sit with him at lunch.

Things seem fine between him and I. It’s normal to argue, right? He always brings me home late. My parents hate it, but it just means he wants to spend time with me, right? Why does he keep talking about these things? It makes me uncomfortable. I’m not ready for that. “He’s controlling, Kaila,” my friends complain, “he doesn’t care about you. He never lets you see us.” I tell them that they are wrong. “He just loves me and wants to spend time with me,” I explain. He does love me, I tell myself. Everything is the way it should be. I love him, too.

After school one day in October, we’re sitting in his room. He’s playing his video game, I’m doing my homework. We’re deciding what to eat for dinner. We settle on Chinese, as always. I call in the order and we pick it up together. He tells me that I didn’t order the right thing. I apologize and we share it together anyway. He plays more video games as I sit and watch, looking at the clock. He takes me home an hour after curfew, telling me I have to call him before bed. I tell him I’m tired and want to go to bed before he’ll even be home. He doesn’t care, I’ll have to call him. I do as I’m told. He yells at his video games while on the phone and I fall asleep to the sound of him cursing at his teammates. Is this what love is?

I tell my friends that I love him. I smile more than ever. They ask about our relationship. I tell them that it’s perfect. They won’t see through it if I keep smiling. If I convince them, maybe I’ll convince myself. I try harder to convince my parents, but it’s like they know everything I refuse to even let myself see. They hate him and every second that I spend with him. I love him, though; he makes me happy.

“Please,” he continues, “it’s my birthday.” He’s been hinting and I’ve been playfully saying no and changing subjects for weeks. “You know my values and everything,” I’m telling him. “It can just be once, I won’t ask for it again,” he bargains. “I don’t want to.” But we’re in his room and sitting on his bed. We’ve been talking for hours— since he detoured to his house when I thought we were going to the zoo. I’m starting to feel like I have no choice. I tell him I want to just go home. He won’t let me. He’s between me and the door and he’s getting angry. I start to cry and he tells me there’s no reason. “Why are you crying?” he asks, trying to hug me, “you know I only want to because I love you.” Now I’m doubting this so-called love entirely, and I’m still just shaking my head no.

I remember feeling empty. I don’t remember what happened. I’ve learned throughout my life that I forget things that hurt to remember the most, remembering only the things that happen around them. I remember telling him no. I remember laying there, naked and entirely empty. He’s in the bathroom. I’m empty. I feel hate. I hate him. I hate myself and I don’t know why. I didn’t choose this. This isn’t fair. I know that there has to be something for me to do. He can’t do this to me. Scared. Hurt. I can’t do anything. I can’t move. I’m scared.

He comes back to the bed and I refuse to look at him. I can’t. He whispers, “I have bad news.” As he tells me nonchalantly that the condom broke, I break into tears, too hurt and scared to respond in any other way. Fear and pain holds me still. I hear him telling me that it’s three hours past my curfew and he should be getting me home. Tears are the only response I have. I stay there until I see daylight in the window, then I dress and gather my things quietly as he sleeps, leaving his house without a word.

I go home and go straight to my room, straight to bed, and straight to sleep with tears still wet on my face.

I wake up to a text from him. He called one of my best friends after I left. He told her we’d had sex and that I regretted it, so I probably wouldn’t tell anyone about it. He told her that I’d been distraught and that if she asked me about it, I’d probably tell her that I had said no. He says that she believed him. He says that everyone would since it is now my word against theirs. He says it would be no use trying to tell anyone what happened. I never want to get out of this bed.

The phone rings. I answer. It’s Becca. I haven’t even said hello and she’s going on about how I shouldn’t be ashamed, sex is normal at our age even though she thought my Christian values meant more to me than a physical relationship. My secret is safe with her, and was it good? No. I hang up.

I go through the motions of the next couple of days as well as I can. No one asks how I am. No one notices that I feel empty. That fake smile I’ve plastered on is working. I can’t tell them. I can’t tell any of them— not my friends, not my family. No one will understand the empty; everyone will judge.

He’s in my driveway and I’m telling him I don’t care what happens, I need him to leave. He’s reminding me of the fear that has been tearing me apart like I’ve forgotten what consequence might await. “Even if that happens,” I cry, “I wouldn’t want you in my baby’s life.” He is trying to hug me. “I love you,” he says. “Leave me alone.” I’m crashing into the wall of my garage, too stunned to feel anything but the pulsing spots on my arms where his hands struck me down. I feel the bruises forming as my definition of fear redefines itself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. You know I’d never hurt you,” he pleads, “I love you, please, I just want to stay with you.” The words spit out of his mouth as if from an angry troll; the words are apologetic, but the tone is commanding. He’s hugging me as I stand limp, afraid to move.

It is now my sophomore year of college. It is Monday, September twentieth and last week I celebrated a year without Eric in my life. I have a new boyfriend, one that treats me well and respects me. My life is wonderful and I’ve finally returned the sincerity to my smile. Most people don’t know the difference, though. I told my best friends that it hadn’t been my choice, that it had happened only once, and that, yes, he was a bit controlling, but he had never hurt me. Only one part of this was true— it was not my choice. I’ve told no one else anything, thinking it won’t matter if he’s out of my life, and he is out of my life— finally.

I’m at a meeting of an LGBT caucus on campus. I am an ally and the group is very important to my transgender boyfriend and I. My closest friends at Michigan State are here. Tonight’s meeting is about trust and reflection. We’re in small groups and we’re telling our group members things that we’ve never told anyone before. I hear little, embarrassing things from most of my group. A friend worries that she’s been taken advantage of in the past. I can’t say anything. For some reason, all I can do is hope that they don’t notice the two tears that slip down my cheeks. I want to forget my past. Why do I keep being reminded?

It is November first. It has been exactly two years since I first felt that horrid emptiness. I’m in the car with my boyfriend. He’s going back to Saginaw soon and I don’t want him to leave. For a reason that I won’t tell him, I don’t want to be alone right now. We’re stopping at a friend’s apartment so that he can pick something up. He goes inside, and I sit in the car and can’t stop the tears from falling.

These are the first real tears I’ve cried about it all. He comes back to the car. I refuse to tell him what is wrong when he asks. He drives me back to my dorm room. As soon as I get myself through the doorway, I’m on the floor just sitting and breaking.

I’m overwhelmed and I don’t know how to make it stop. I’m thinking of it all. I’m remembering everything. I don’t want to. Make these tears stop. Don’t let the empty come back. I hate him. I hate me. I’m scared. “You’re not alone,” Douglas says to me as he tries to hold me still, “I don’t know why you’re upset, but I’m here for you.” I tell him everything. For the first time in two years, someone besides myself and that horrible creature knows everything. I feel relief.
I’ve only told a few incredibly trusted and close people since then. I talk when I’m feeling that overwhelmed, scared, broken, hurt, empty, alone feeling that likes to creep back to me at unpredictable times. I don’t ever want to be that alone again, as alone as I was when I hid the empty from myself while everyone around me saw none of the hurt that I was truly feeling. Now I’m working on opening up. I’m working on standing up for myself and not burying the past away. I want to not ignore the past, but grow stronger from it. No one can do that to me. I am strong. I am happy. I can do anything. I will move on. I am free.  

:P changed the url from becauseofthepuzzle to kailajanine because I changed the kailajanine to squirrelsandwords. No grand reason for it all, I just wanted to :)

There’s this perfect spot to read, right outside my house. It’s on the far side, where no one ever goes except myself. It can hardly be seen around the corner and the bushes, but from it you can see everything. I can see the street and my front yard. I can see the neighbor’s front yard and both of our back yards. I can see through to the entrance of the neighborhood park on the other side. I was reading there one day last week. It was the perfect time, place, mood, air, anything that can be perfect for reading— it was. I had been desperate to read and was rereading Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, though I don’t know why I’m sharing that detail, it has little to do with the point of why I’m writing this right now. Anyways, I was reading, entirely calm in my reading, and I kept getting distracted by the beauty of where I was and the entire feel of being there reading right then. It was like the book almost didn’t matter in the slightest. It was like I had chosen the spot perfectly and being right there right then was the only thing that mattered and as long as I kept reading, it would stay perfect and the world would stay perfect.

Just behind my neighbor’s house there is a tree. It’s a big tree. I don’t know what kind, I’ve never been able to tell trees apart and quite honestly, it’s not a skill I aspire to have. Anyways, this tree is big. It is tall with wide branches reaching to the sky. And leaves. So many leaves. And from my spot in that old discarded chair outside my house, I can just see the top half of this tree over the roof of my neighbor’s house. I see where its branches meet the sky, touching the clouds. As I was sitting there, reading and being overwhelmed by the incredible comfort that the simplicity of my location offered me, I looked up at the tree and found myself wondering. There are so many leaves. I felt so overwhelmed that I could almost feel them moving as I watched each leave move in the wind. At first I wondered, “how does each leaf know that it is part of the entire tree? Does each leaf think for itself as each moves independently in the wind or do they all think as one, as the tree?”

I tried to keep reading— it was, after all, the perfect time and place to be doing so— but I couldn’t stop being distracted by this tree. First, it was beautiful; tall and strong, green, reaching into the sky, teasing me with its illusion of being able to touch the clouds. And second, why are those leaves waving at me so? Do they have something to say? They can’t possibly all be thinking as that tree. Each one moves separately in the wind. Come fall, each will change color and depart from the tree separately. No, I don’t believe that they could all possibly think the same thing if they are to be thinking something, which I’m sure they are. They must have their own thoughts. If they could tell me, would they? Are they trying to? There are so many leaves on that tree and I found myself looking at individual ones and wondering with everything I had what it might have to say if it had the chance. And then it came to me that perhaps each leaf does have its own thought but is entirely aware that it is also part of the beauty of the whole tree?

What if the tree is a living puzzle? Each leaf is important, beautiful, and unique; yet they come together, connect, and make the tree whole. So then, perhaps each leaf has its own thought to share with me, but as a whole the tree is trying to communicate with me one idea, one concept. That idea seemed easier for me to wrap my head around as I gazed at that tree trying to figure out what it would say to me, if only it could. And I didn’t know why it mattered because as disappointing as it is, I’ll never be able to speak tree; but I still couldn’t stop getting distracted from my reading by this tree and every leaf that shook in the wind. I wanted to know what the puzzle pieces came together to say. And I wanted to see into every piece that went into it. So I read and I watched the leaves until the sky grew too dark to do either. Then I went inside, turned on all the lights in my bedroom, and went right back outside to read in the light of my window. The tree now looked solid, and if not for the rustling, I’d be fooled into thinking it was still. My mind wondering, however, is not still. I want to know what this tree and every leaf would say to me if they could.

It’s probably crazy— as crazy as, if not far crazier, than my dream of touching a cloud. I don’t care, though. That place, that time, reading, that tree, it was all perfect and overwhelmingly so. So much that every thought I had while there felt alive, like if I planted them around me, by morning I’d have trees as large and beautiful as the one that filled my my mind and stole my attention. It’s not even to say I had grand thoughts or ideas, it was just the calm aliveness that the overwhelming contentedness of where I was injected into every simple thought until it felt more alive than any other time I’d dared to have the same thought. I thought, “that garden is beautiful,” and the thought refused to stay just that, a thought, and instead turned itself to feeling and I felt the beauty of the garden until I couldn’t remember what it was I had originally thought. I thought, “”how does each leaf know that it is part of the entire tree? Does each leaf think for itself as each moves independently in the wind or do they all think as one, as the tree?” and found myself feeling the connection of the puzzle and the strength of the branches and the emotion of every leaf as it danced. I stopped thinking logically about the tree and the leaves and just felt its presence and wanted to get closer to it in this alive place in my head until I could know everything it had to say.

And then it got cold and even though I hated doing it and waited as long as I could, I left my place outside to go inside to bed. I did it though, knowing that I would never forget that tree or that place or that time. I left knowing that I had to write about that tree. I had to write about it because even though I’ll never know what it has to say, I felt so close to it in that night that I know whatever it is, it doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. I never want that tree to be forgotten. If I write about it even a little bit, it won’t be. Even if no one ever reads this, even if I’m the only one that ever remembers a thing about it or understands how it felt or wonders anything about it at all,  that tree was special. It is special. I am very happy that I can see it from that spot of mine. I look forward to seeing it sometime soon, and feeling as alive and calm as I did that day.

Because I was talking to someone about journaling and how I might a little bit miss how I used to do it daily. In those little notebooks by my bed. I’d lose them, decide they were stupid, or just give up. See, I always think that my words need to go somewhere; that these things in my head should be put into something that someone else will find useful, entertaining, or at least mildly worthwhile. So I’d give up journaling and try to write better things with storylines or rhymes. I got 78 pages into a novel idea once. Then I got bored because I knew how it ended already in my head. Something about it bothered me and I never figured it out. When I failed at that, that’s when I really stopped journaling. If I didn’t care about the story of those I had created, who was ever going to care about mine? All my journaling ever was was rambling about what I’d done or what I wanted (mostly pertaining to boys, in that silly age I was) and more often than not it was just repetitive and useless. Ohh sometimes, yes, I’d take a page of rambles, make it pretty and add the words to a scrapbook page or turn the journal into art. But most times? I just forgot them. What good were they anyway? I started journaling only when I had to. I journaled when I had no one to talk to, but never about what I needed to talk about. I journaled when camp made me have silent time last summer, and I needed to figure out what I was doing there. I pour random thoughts into that blog of mine, never knowing if that counts or if it even matters. And then I realized while talking about the loss of my journaling that I do still sometimes have thoughts I want to just ramble on about or things I want to talk about but don’t know how with anyone and who cares if they never go anywhere or do anything or mean anything to anyone but me? If they do mean something to me or I feel something letting them out then that matters. And I always lose my notebooks or ruin them or start new ones or whatever always happens to all those journals I start and they’re lost forever so I’m putting thoughts here. So that even if I give up again or take a break from it or don’t have any words for a while, when I come back, as I always do, it’ll be here waiting. And everything will be in one place where it doesn’t have to mean anything to anyone but me. And if someday something I say here becomes anything other than a rambley bit of Kaila, then okay. So here it is.

Really Tumblr? I don’t remember. That’s my problem with life. My memory sucks. I used to think I remembered some things from when I was little, then my sister would tell me later that they didn’t actually happen that way and I’d forget, even though later I learned she was probably just lying because she likes to hide. So I don’t know. I keep thinking of things, but then I doubt they were the earliest. So then I think of something earlier and I’m not quite clear on what I’m remembering. So, you’ve stumped me, Tumblrbot.