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I’m scared. I’m scared of the time I have left. Of all the things I won’t get to do. Of all the things I’ll miss. I’m frightened of becoming someone I don’t recognize. Shriveled up in a hospital bed somewhere. Hearing voices wonder how long ‘till the end. I’ve always been strong. I’ve always overcome. But right now, I’m petrified of dying. Of dying alone. My body is getting heavy. And all I want to do is sleep. Every day I wake up saying I’m going to finish packing. And I don

I don’t hold anyone responsible for the way my life has turned out. Every person who has ever hurt me has been hurt themselves. Kids, teens, adults. We’ve all gone through something we have never been able to recover from. And that something has altered the way we interact with the world. That something made us create a persona. Build a wall. Take on an addiction. To cope. To be able to take on another day. To survive. Then we grew up. Became adults. And still behaved the way

My great-grandma had one evil habit. Sewing. If she got hold of clothing. Forget it. It was done. There were no exceptions. Even her own. Brand new dresses? Torn. Brand new aprons? Modified and torn. When I was 10, I was sent to El Salvador for summer break. Along with a dozen brand new flowered briefs. Skirts and dresses because, according to me, I was now a ‘Miss’. One look at my briefs, And my great-grandma knew. The elastic was wrong. The elastic was weak. She took her s

For many years, kids in El Salvador were sent to bed at 8 pm with the Telerin Family. It was a short cartoon of a line of little kids singing “Let’s Go to Bed.” Led by Cleo. A dark-haired boy in blue pajamas. It was a moment that my great-grandma lived for every day. I was very little, but I could see the little girl inside her. Singing their song. One Christmas years later, we were opening presents. My mom, as always, was Santa. My great-grandma’s gifts were usually major

I wake up in my car drenched in sweat. I can barely breathe. The sun is beating down and the windows are closed. The air smells of faint perfume and stale ashtray. I step on the brake and push the ignition button. The windows open. Cool air. My head is pounding. I’m dizzy and I can’t keep my eyes open. I close the windows almost all the way up. I lie back in the seat. I can’t do this anymore. I struggle to find a comfortable position. This isn’t the life I want. It all fades

I watched this teenage kid behind me flinch in the cafeteria line as hot coffee went flying. I looked back. A fairly handsome guy was apologizing to the kid while attempting to wipe him down. I laughed under my breath. Wiping down a torrential coffee monsoon with cheap napkins? Total fail. But this was the result of trying to cut the line. One look at him and I knew his type. Charismatic. Smooth with the ladies. Used to getting his way. And probably not learning a thing. Th

When I was little I hated gardening. I sucked at it. Bessy got a plant. Bessy killed a plant. End of story. There wasn’t an in-between. Plant lives for 3 days in Bessy’s care. Nope. Take it home, next day… DEAD. But planting seeds in writing? I love that. Not because I want to be an influencer, famous, or the like. I want you to think. If what I write makes you look at something a different way, Dude, that is it! We need more curiosity and less judgement in the world. We’re s

It was a typical Salvadoran afternoon. Hot, humid, sweat rolling down your face. No movement required. We sat on a wooden bench. Right outside the house. My great-grandma and I. Her favorite newspaper in front of her. While I watched cars go by. She would sound out the syllables. And read slowly through the articles. She was in her early 70s. Learning to read and write. In her late 60s, she had built the house. A small place that had room for everyone. Here she raised grandch

I remember doing part of 9th grade in El Salvador. The class had every stereotype identified. The It-Girl. The Jock. The Slacker. The It-Guy. The Nerd. All socially accepted as part of the group. Given the privileges their category granted. But the Nerd? He got free breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Tickets to movies, concerts, and special events. Money, double dates. Most importantly, respect and admiration. This was the person the class turned to in academic struggle. The free

A family member told me they didn’t worry about my husband because he had me. They referred to me as a pitbull. I think it was meant as a compliment. But the more I thought about it. The more accurate that description became. Not the, fuck with my husband and I’ll rip your head off with my locking jaws. That part is undeniably true. I saw the pitbull chained outside. Gets food and water. But is never let in the house. Trained to be mean and aggressive. Protect. But never show

I lay on the couch watching the closing credits of Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker. I was surprised by the tears that suddenly rolled down my face. I wasn’t sad Star Wars was over. I wasn’t sad Leia, Luke and Ben died. So as I always do when I can’t get find an answer, I shoved a few quarters into the pinball machine that is my brain, and let my mind ricochet. The first place that lit up was the summer of ‘77, when Star Wars came out. My Princess Leia buns made

There’s a peace that comes when what had power over you no longer does. There’s no fanfare. No hype. Just a quiet stillness. A calm. A state your body recognizes. A feeling it welcomes openheartedly. And all of the ridiculous behavior you used to cope The behavior that made you question your sanity Falls away and disappears. You look in the mirror one morning And there you are. Your eyes reflect back the hell you’ve been through. The smile reminds you it didn’t beat you.

It was a hot Christmas Eve afternoon in El Salvador. People were rushing everywhere, trying to get the last of the shopping done for the night. The car was loud with Barney music. Edgardo was driving. I was next to him in the passenger seat. We were looking at each other, trying to communicate in code. The three backseat passengers were singing at the top of their lungs. We had a dilemma. We needed to build three bikes with training wheels by tonight, without the musical tri

TV tells you ChatGPT can tell you the weather. Can inform you of public transportation delays. Can tell you if the knitting needles you’re using will cause the sweater you’re making for your grandson to sag. Seriously? First off, I’m not old enough to have grandchildren. This isn’t the 1950s. And I didn’t have kids at 18. I had a life of my own first. And although my family called me an “old maid” at 25, I held out until I was 28. Second, I have apps on my devices to tell me

My body has always been public domain. From a young age, my mother constantly attacked it. My great-grandmother fed me every “natural” concoction to shrink it. The first thing friends and family said to me was either: “You’ve lost weight!” or “You’ve gained weight”. Boyfriends introduced me as “she’s fat, but she’s nice”. My childhood bestie gently suggested I lose weight to increase my chances with her brother. And then there were the not-so-nice friends who wanted to call a

I sat across from a black man named Robert during group therapy at the psych ward. It was my first time. And it was mandatory. Around me were people of all ages. There were a couple of teens. One girl on suicide attempt number 13. A guy in his early 30s whose eyes were rolled back due to his caffeine addiction. A woman in her late 30s, who didn’t say much, but glared at you through tears. Robert, in his late 40s, an aeronautical engineer for a Georgia-based company. And me, 1

Life was over. I was done. All the things I treasured were gone. School. My virginity. My dignity. My future. The choices were simple: Surrender to my mother and live a dead life. Or take my life and leave the prison of this exhausted reality. I got up and went into my mother’s bathroom. Quaaludes. That was the answer. Go to sleep. Wake up in the ever-after. I was exhausted. Rest would be perfect. My eyes could barely open from all the crying. I dumped the pills onto my bed.

It’s the darkness that engulfs you. The suffocating silence. The despair. The loneliness. The dread. The approaching ruin. It is there. In that forsaken place. Where you see it for the first time. It’s so faint at first. That you do a double-take. That glimmer. That golden glow. That suddenly explodes and bathes you in bright light. That is God’s love. And the deeper you are in that dark place, The longer it will take for your eyes to adjust. In the vast tenebrosity of whatev

I lay on the floor of the rapist’s truck. My hands bound behind my back. My eyes covered. A blanket over me. I had been raped and sodomized for 12 hours straight. I was bleeding. I was in severe pain. He said, “I need to find a place to dump your body.” It was so matter-of-fact. Like what you say to yourself as you drive home from work. “I need to pick up a gallon of milk.” I closed my eyes and prayed. He drove around for hours. Turning left, right, and back again. The groun

I am in love with life. Not the good parts. But the daunting challenges. When your fortress is burned to the ground. When you’re hanging on by a thread. When you’re lost. When you’re broken. When you’re ready to give up, and you just have to try once more. And that attempt fails too. The moment you’re left sitting in the raw truth of it. And there’s no one to perform for. Just the quiet resolve after hours of crying. Thinking it’s hopeless. It’s the inner voice that says