Because I was depressed, two lovers died in a car crash. Because music moved me, a brother was ravaged by cancer. And because I felt the real joy emanating from another person, a young man discovered the one thing that mattered most. I have only to will it, and it is so. I have control - the power to change souls, to shift perspective, to bend time. This is my realm. This is my retreat. And much of the time, this is where I reside.

Writing is therapy. Whenever something goes wrong, whenever I don’t feel well, whenever I need to get away, I fade into my mind. I am nearly always thinking of more than one thing at a time. I can be sitting in class taking notes while creating fantastic dramas in my head. I can walk alone and fly the skies at the same time. I can be more than one person.

I can run.

This is how I deal. I deal on my own. I don’t burden others with my problems, because they all have problems of their own. One is incredibly busy and does not need another weight on her mind. Another has been through so much that my struggles seem petty in comparison. A long time ago, I could have run home. But I won’t add more stress there. I shall simply remain calm. I’ll stand on my own. I can do this.

She remembers when her friends first found out. She remembers curling in the van, trying her best to keep from coughing, body shaking with the effort. She remembers the worried touches, the frantic voices begging her to tell them what was wrong. She remembers letting go, the force of her coughing demanding all of her attention. She remembers nearly collapsing from exhaustion when she had finished. She remembers a pair of arms wrapping about her, pulling her back against a warm chest. She remembers how he smelled that day, the texture of his hoodie against her cheek, the feel of his fingers stroking her hair and lulling her to sleep.

Really, it could be so much worse. I could have a more serious set of problems. People always wish for different problems, but if traded, everyone would want their own problems back. And honestly, what do I have to be sad about? I look at people close to me who have had it much, much worse than I have, and if they can pull through, then why can’t I? I can’t imagine being without them. Would they feel the same? I know the loss would devastate me. I can’t. . .I can’t even think about it. I couldn’t see him lying there. I would feel so helpless. . .

“If I don’t. . .if. . .I don’t want. . .just. . .don’t let me die alone.” The longer he spoke, the softer his voice became, and I struggled to catch every word. Struggled to imprint on my heart forever anything and everything that was this glorious boy in my arms.

As long as it’s not me, I’m all right. As long as it takes place only in my head. If I can create the problems, I can mend them. That’s how it works. I don’t ever want to look at my own real ones. Surely if I just push them all down, everything will be all right. If I can just ignore them for a while, they will go away. I just need a distraction.

And so I turn to my friends. My dear, dear friends. When we’re together, there is no pressure. No agenda. No need to be something you’re not, to do something you won’t. We can lay around and do nothing, completely content to do so. We did so much together, the three of us.

I will always put another person before myself. The happiness of others is worth so much more than my own. And so I just step back, letting it happen. Letting happiness happen.

And he wishes that he could draw. Wishes that he could paint. Wishes that he could somehow capture this moment, her face, her joy. . . Forever.

They are wonderful together. Can’t they see it? He is wonderful to her, and she needs that. She needs someone more stubborn than she. Someone who can take her quirks in stride, who can laugh at awkward moments and make them funny, who can continue to shower her with praise, even when her self-esteem won’t accept the compliments. I wouldn’t dream of splitting them in any way, even for a moment, no matter the cost. It is a joy to see them together. To see the love in his eyes. To hear her laugh. To watch them smile.

And it’s worth it. And that’s why it doesn’t matter when I sit in the back every time. That’s why it doesn’t matter when he calls her whenever he can and doesn’t talk to me for days. That’s why it doesn’t matter that they can simply forget me. That’s why it doesn’t matter that. . .that. . .

It all passes through me, through this misty body. I am a ghost, drifting about. They don’t pay much attention to me, but I don’t mind. They’re not supposed to. Ghosts are difficult to see, and I do this on purpose.

I would do it time and again if they could be happy. I don’t care what happens to me in the process. I suppose that’s the long and short of it. If I say that it doesn’t matter, then it doesn’t. The power is mine. Things shall do as I please. If I wish it
to be so, then I shall make it so. I am the author of this story.
I feel, in a sudden weight upon my chest, distinctly tangible, and I know that they have turned me into this pale reflection of a human being. In my desperation to hide, I succumbed to it, because what can hurt a ghost?

That’s the trick, really. Not caring. Or rather, caring for something greater than myself. Because when I’m focused on that greater prize, then other things fall by the wayside. It took me a while to learn to do that, I think. Surely I couldn’t have been born with that ability.

Don’t care. Push it down. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even mention it. That’s how it works. That’s how to survive. Think of something else. Think of something that could capture the attention. Something striking and beautiful and sad. . .

She remembers one afternoon drive. She remembers the car rolling to a stop in line. She remembers the feel of his hand on hers, the feel of the ring resting warm against her skin, its partner adorning the hand that still held the wheel. She remembers being hit from behind. She remembers spinning out into the middle of the intersection. She remembers a large grate filling her vision before she blacked out. She remembers waking up in an upside-down world. She remembers struggling against her seat belt in a panic. She remembers the dry voice next to her, telling her to breath, just breathe. She remembers the feeling of the firm hand in hers going limp.

It’s like a drug. It’s addicting. My mind continues to take me further, deeper. But I’m dealing. I know I am. And that’s what’s most important, right? No one can know. . .

The shower hasn’t been cleaned in a while, but I am beyond caring. Everyone is asleep, and I can’t help thinking. . . I sit idly on the rough surface, holding my hands under the water, contemplating the flow over them, imagining. . . I wonder if I would become cold or hot, panicked or calm.

My inside is turning out.

I dive forward into my imaginings. Or perhaps backwards, as the case may be. I’m just trying to get something, anything out. Something that will take me away. Something that will let me run again.

An open heart is soon bled dry
And I’m no different from the norm
I’ll give up my last fleeting cry
To lay with your unmoving form
As I grow slow and still upon
The droughted soil that drinks me in
You wake and rise to journey on
My love, it seems I cannot win

No. No, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. I need something different. Something removed. It can’t be me! I must create something else! Someone else! But. . .I can’t focus anymore. Everything is just. . .too much. I can’t even write. . . What do I do when I can’t find the portal anymore? When I can’t get to my other world where I am in control of everything? How do I find myself again? What if. . .what if I can’t do it on my own?

When I finally broke, when I finally realized that there was a serious problem, I was forced to talk. I had no other choice. And she suggested that I write it down. That I get it out there. Apparently, talking helps. And so I’ve decided to do that, but I am, of course, stuck at the beginning. I never know how to start these things.

Maybe I should talk about my mind first. Maybe I should talk about how I think. And maybe. . .maybe eventually I’ll be able to talk about my problems. Maybe I’ll be able to scratch the surface. A spark in the dark is better than no light at all. I suppose. . .if I simply begin. . .

Because I was depressed, two lovers died in a car crash. Because music moved me, a brother was ravaged by cancer. And because I felt the real joy emanating from another person, a young man discovered the one thing that mattered most.