Heat

Wake up.

Shower because you haven't in a couple days. Don't try to eat, you'll puke. Short-sleeves or long-sleeves? Long.

Breathe in the silence. Talk yourself through what might go wrong, things that have gone wrong before, things that will inevitably go wrong again because you can't learn from your mistakes.

Queue the lowlight reel. 

Remember that honest text that you sent that one time to a friend who sent it to someone else and exposed a piece of your heart like a raw, unabridged nerve? You trusted back then, you let your guard down. Stupid.

Remember that time that kid in high school called you a "f**got" in front of half the class and they laughed? And you just sunk deeper into that pastel colored cafeteria stool, practically spilling into the floor because there was nowhere and no one to soothe the heat flushing into your cheeks. Four years to go.

Snap out of it. Look at your phone. Scroll through your news feed. Refresh. Scroll through your news feed again. That hollow feeling is starting to sting your temples.

Listen to her breathe through her nose before you leave. Smile. Pull the strand of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. You've always liked her ears, the feminine way they curl into her jawline. It's okay that she doesn't understand the storm; she hushes it anyway.

Get in the car. Stuck behind the bus again. You waited too long. You're going to be late. You've probably already blown your chances at a promotion anyway. You're outdated. There's a line of people waiting for you to slip up, smarter people. Innovators.

Remember that time you dropped the ball on that report last November?

Stop. Focus on the road.

The bus is turning to pick up those kids on the corner. Check out the one with the football cleats slung over his shoulder. I bet he has a lot of friends.

It's your fault. You had limited athletic ability and lack of social skills. Your big nose, your oily skin, your bony frame, gravity pulling your head to the ground. At least you knew the degree, the length of the hypotenuse, retina to pavement. Pythagorean Theorem. A sorrowful triangle.

You kept your head down where the pretty girls wouldn't see. They only wanted the guys with their chests painted up in the bleachers every Friday night anyway, the guys with the football cleats over their shoulder.

Grow up. You're the only person on earth thinking about that, the only one dwelling. Those days are over. No, those days are lost.

The reflection in the glass on the office door makes you look like you haven't slept in a week. To be fair, you haven't slept in a week. Not truly.

"Hey, man." Hold the door. Fake a smile. Your voice sounds like a prepubescent child. The base of your spine tingles. The heat comes back. Inhale. Exhale. The backs of your ears emanate soreness, high-pitched ringing accompanied with a keen awareness of the insignificance of this moment.

Is this your life now?

Your phone buzzes. "Good morning, baby." The heat subsides. She always knows what to say.

A friend greets you by name. Another stops by to talk about their weekend. Another catches you by surprise with a hug in the hallway. Your muscles settle. Your fist unclenches.

Crack the shell. Fill the space around you. Allow yourself to feel...safe.

That one coworker that seems to get along with everyone rolls his eyes when you speak. What's wrong with you? Tell a joke. Try to be kind anyway. No response. It's your own fault.

Your fingertips soften to paper, your fingerprints ink. Your pockets bleed black. Keep your hands there. Graze your jagged index nail with your thumb. It stings where the nail should be, chewed below the quick. Keep shrinking. Look at the clock.

Why did God make you this way? Question the path you're on. Question the career you're in. Question if you'll ever be successful. You won't ever see six figures. That's who you are.

Don't do it for the money. Do what you love. You love this? I love her.

She's beautiful. She'll find someone else. Maybe they'd be proud of you if you made six figures. Maybe the demons will stop whispering. Maybe God will give you a purpose.

A purpose. God gives everyone a purpose.

Not you though, not people who doubt. People who don't pray enough. "If you prayed more, you wouldn't feel this way." If your faith were stronger, God would take this sickness from you.

But it's a sickness, an illness. No, this is who you are.

The heat rises in your throat this time. You swallow. It settles in your stomach, grips the lining, stirs the acid. Grit your teeth. You need to work.

Look at the clock. You don't have plans. Ask someone to hang out. Keep your head down. It's a beautiful day. But you have work. Wonder what she's doing now. You shouldn't have skipped church this week. The whispers are always loudest around this time. Did you take your medicine?

"There's power in prayer."
"It's in your head."
"Have you tried Xanax?"
"Those drugs alter your personality."
"Have you tried exercising? Eating differently? Going to bed earlier?"

Is this...sin? Your saliva thickens. You taste red. The heat is back again.

It's time to go home. You really should sleep tonight. The rest of the day is yours. The day is almost over. You can still smell the office on your collar.

Get in the car. You feel the past 10 hours of sweat and dust settle, matted on your arms and that strip of ankle between your sock and the hem of your jeans. Your legs are too long. That's genetic. Chicken legs.

You turn on the radio to quiet the noise. Chicken legs don't belong in football cleats.

Remember your old boss? "You aren't leadership material," he told you. "You're just not." Static. The radio isn't helping. You call her. The dial tone resounds along the curvature of your ear drum. Four. Five.

Voicemail. Your lifeboat sinks.

Shadowed faces start to fade in and out of the dead space between your peripheral and your consciousness. You were there for them. They turned on you anyway. They swallowed the birthdays and the moving vans and the tears. They breathed out the dust from the rubble. They built again.

Together, without you. Can you blame them?

Home. The sun kisses the fringe of the trees across the street. Inhale. Just oxygen this time.

Your heartbeat synchronizes with the rhythm of a softer memory. She runs her hand across your forearm. The noise clings to her palm. You pull her closer as the sky bleeds a pale orange. Turn on that show you like. You're lazy. The glow fades, darker now. You can't ignore an itch.

Why are you angry? She sees you for who you are, you know. Rage chisels a block of tension into your jawline. If you could freeze this moment, you would. Stop the cycle at the crest. Your eyes water. Yawn, convince yourself that's why.

Your head sinks into the pillow. Silence. You run your fingers between hers. Smile. For the first time all day, you exhale first. She talks. You talk. You both fade.







Wake up.

Wonderland

Despite the blatant drug references, I've always loved the story of "Alice and Wonderland."

Not in the typical, HotTopic special order Cheshire cat window decal love that seems to be a rite of passage into the "Wonderland" community. I really just like the precedent that the infamous tea party scene sets when the Mad Hatter introduces Alice to "un-birthdays."

An un-birthday, for any uncultured swine who haven't seen the movie, is a celebration of ANY day other than your actual birthday. Friday before your big day? Go celebrate! 5 months until you blow out the candles again? Turn up.

It's a truly wonderful premise to consider that each new day is worthy of celebrating.

I've never felt particularly excited about my birthday before, largely because I don't like the unmerited attention. This year is no different, I actually forgot that I was even due for an age change. Turning a quarter of a century old isn't what it's cracked up to be.

Although the prospect of a lower insurance rate does legitimately excite me, another year of converting oxygen into carbon-dioxide feels like hardly a reason to pop the champagne.

Ironically though, birthdays are the most common type of celebration we partake in, aren't they?

We're taught from a young age that birthdays are for celebrating people, opportunities to make them feel special. We use the calendar like a lap timer for the next scheduled show of appreciation: Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentines Day, birthdays, all "reminders" to celebrate the important people in our lives.

What if instead of waiting for a holiday to cue our affections...we told them incessantly? What if we expressed to the people in our lives that they matter everyday?

Don't get me wrong, I celebrate all of those "official" days with the best of 'em, but I can't be alone in desiring appreciation in a genuine, non-commercialized form.

I know, firsthand, how it feels to pine after the acceptance of those you truly care about; you want to be admired or simply appreciated, but they always seem to be looking the other way. I know how lonely it feels to pour yourself into something, to lose pieces of yourself in the process, and never even get an "atta boy."

I can't help but think maybe there wouldn't be so many kids questioning their self worth if their families built them up every chance they got, not just guilt-buying their affection once a year.

Maybe more husbands and wives would stay together if they spent evenings in their PJs watching "Friends" reruns and eating ice cream, instead of forced candlelit dinners whenever Kay Jeweler's runs their annual ad.

Maybe our parents wouldn't decline in health so fast and harden their hearts in stubbornness as they age if we made it a priority to include them in our lives and our kids' lives.

Maybe there'd be a little more love and a little less madness in this world if we remembered to celebrate the un-birthdays too.

Remote

In December, I dedicated myself to the mentality that 2017 was my year.

We had recently moved into a new house the previous month. After two years of renovations, our starter home had yielded enough profit to upgrade to a larger space, one that would accommodate our growing family.

Work, for the first time in my life, held new meaning. It was no longer a "paycheck" but stepping stones towards a career. I was building skills, growing as an individual, and contributing to something bigger than myself.

With motivation from some friends and co-workers, I began setting fitness goals. I started eating differently, lifting weights and running, something I'd not (willingly) done in years.

And perhaps the most personal, meaningful achievement: I FINALLY finished my Bachelor's degree.

Killer year so far, right? You'd think I'd be ecstatic to have ticked so many boxes on my "successful adulting" checklist.

But truth be told, I wasn't.

As I sat there, clad in an unflattering square cap and baggy, overpriced poncho, I wasn't excited at all. Fear welled up in me like a balloon leaving a hollow ache.

College had been a goal of mine for so long that the pursuit of that ridiculously expensive piece of paper had become a part of who I was.

Gone was the elaborate spiel of excuses that I'd rehearsed for awkward family barbecues where every greeting was followed with a conversation about "why I still hadn't graduated." The education segment of my resume had, at long last, changed from "expected graduation date" to "graduated May 2017." No more homework, projects, or exams.

Still, I sat there, drowning. Dreading.

The commencement usher motioned for my row to stand up, and the nauseous pit in my stomach moved with me; it reminded me of the home stretch of a hard run, when all of your focus, your cognition, your being funnels into propelling your body forward.

Left foot. 

Right foot.

Breathe.

I managed to loosen my sweaty grip on the name card and hand it off to the announcer.

Left. Right. Breathe.

Crossing the stage, one incessant thought poisoned my conscious, "What now?"

Left. Right. Breathe. *Thunk*

In that moment, as my name echoed into the rafters of Thompson-Boling Arena, something heavy swung in my pocket, struck my leg, and instantly, I recalled what it was: a television remote.

It was my parents' television remote, to be exact, and here, in this moment I had been dreaming of and working towards for nearly 20 years...

...it was the only thing that mattered.

You see, my son is like a magnet to electronics, so to avoid having to deal with constant channel surfing and the volume fluctuating, I have to hide TV remotes from him wherever we go. My parents' remote is no different, and you can probably fill in the blanks as to how I ended up with it.

As ridiculous and...odd as it may seem, the presence of that remote grounded me.

The "purpose" that I had such a deep-seated fear of losing was sitting a couple hundred feet away eating Goldfish crackers and watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" in his mama's lap.

I smiled at the thought of those sticky, grubby hands wrapped tightly around my parents' remote. It was never about a piece of paper; it was always about that beautiful little boy and my Molly.

Every success I'd celebrated, every accomplishment, past or future...it was always, always for and about them.

Yep. 2017 is my year.