My Story

The world that we live in is created by the stories we tell ourselves and the ones we tell each other. For a long time I told the world a story about a girl I didn't understand and didn't know. She shared my name, but she was not me. I didn't really know who she was. She was the girl I thought I was supposed to be. She had all the right answers, read her scriptures every day, and said her prayers. She got good grades and she didn't need anyone because she was the life of the party and obviously had all the friends, love, support she could need. Her teachers loved her and people told her she was going somewhere someday.

Then the story fell apart.

I saw the pieces lying around me and started frantically picking them up trying to piece them back together as I went, attempting to get everything back its proper place before anyone looked to closely and saw the cracks around the edges and the stain right down the middle or the missing teeth in my smile. The harder I tried to force the pieces back into the story frame, the more other pieces came apart until there was nothing left of my story, nothing left of the other me.

For four years I've kept trying to put the pieces back together. Tried and failed, tried and failed, tried and failed.

Today I'm not trying to fit old pieces into me.

I'm creating a new me every day. And the story I tell the world is renewed daily in those ever-changing pieces--whirling, twirling, evolving, trying again over and over. It is a story of truth and depth now. It's a story that doesn't have a set ending and that doesn't worry about the way it will be perceived by the people around me. I am beautiful. I am messy. I love learning to be organised. I am late. I am imaginative. I love pink finger nail polish. I want to play the violin again. I am funny. I need you. I can't do this alone. I trust in God. I love reading. I don't have things figured out...and it's okay.

Goodnight, dear void.

Just Run

"Hey, the phone is for you."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know, he says he knows you."

You don't know how, but you know it's him. You don't have to take the receiver to know that he's found you again somehow. All the running and hiding hasn't mattered because it never matters. He always finds you again. You're stomach drops and your heart and breath catch then quicken. You take the phone receiver unwillingly out of social habit and convention. You immediately regret it.

"Hello."

"Katie..."

The receiver drops and you start packing all your things as quickly as you can though you know it doesn't matter. He hasn't just found a phone number, you know he's found your apartment and your car and your new life. If you can start running though, maybe you can lose him--maybe you will win this time, not him.

You run down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, you made that mistake the last time he found you. You don't stop to pick up anything that drops out of your hands, you just keep moving. You have your passport and saved money strapped to a belt under your clothing. You take the door for the second floor since he's either made it to your office cubicle by now or is waiting for you to exit the elevator or stairs on the main floor. You won't let him outsmart you like that this time. Last time he caught you he gave you the scar above your left temple as a reminder that he was in charge and he wouldn't be foiled again. Well you had foiled him. And you would never stop trying to get it right and disappear.

You make it to the washroom towards the back--it's the one designated for families so he would be less likely to assume you'd go in there. Last month you stashed a black wig and an emo outfit and makeup in the utility closet next door to it. You change quickly just like you've practiced. You know he's frantic now because he hasn't found you. You can't make any mistakes. You know what the consequences will be if you do. You may not make it out alive this time.

You ditch your old clothes in a vacant office and pull the fire alarm as you make your way towards the main exit. You don't look too closely at anyone which means he hopefully won't notice you and you have no idea where he is or if he's figured out what is going on.

You make it to the street corner. In a moment of weakness and terror, you look back to see if he's spotted you or if he's looking the wrong direction. Your eyes meet. You run.

He almost walked away.

She was funny. They'd been laughing together for years in fact. He couldn't remember the last time he imagined his life without her. She couldn't leave. He wasn't himself without her. Back then he'd looked up to her and thought she was so cool. After the years of wandering in and out of each other's lives, he realised that his admiration had turned to adoration. She was witty and light hearted. He felt the most like the person he wanted to be when he was with her. But what if she needed more than he was? What if he wasn't enough for her, if she still thought of him as the tinier human who followed her around trying to make her laugh all those years ago? He might love her. What if she didn't return that love when he expressed it? He'd ruin their easy and wonderous friendship and suddenly she would be gone. He couldn't handle that. Although in an effort to keep her, he began to lose her. She wondered why he hadn't asked her to be part of his life for real, why they stayed so close yet so far from one another. She waited for him to say that he felt something more than what he had before. She was falling in love.