Chapter 1: When I Needed You Most

My little body was wracked with sobs, as I screamed for hours. My grandma would rock me for a little while, and then pass me to my grandpa, taking the phone from him and speaking to the doctor in an urgent, frustrated, terrified tone. My grandpa would take me outside and swing me in his arms, desperately hoping that the cool midnight air would allay the fever, somehow, some way. The breeze really just stabbed pin-sized holes in my burning skin. My head hurt like hell, my stomach knotted and clenched and there was no relief. There was no relief for a week. Everyone we knew brought food and cradled my whimpering figure in their arms, rubbing my grandparents’ tired shoulders. 

I was okay, though, eventually. I think some higher power made me a lovely toddler, to balance out that awful week of viral fever. I wondered, as did most people, as you probably are as you read these words and pray it doesn’t happen to you, where was my mother?

Chapter 2: You Said Independence and Control Were One and The Same

I was two years old, bouncing my way to the airport. I didn’t really know what was happening, other than seeing some tearful goodbyes, which I simply cocked my head at. While we were there, I spent most of my time giggling and babbling at the pilots and TSA officers and flight attendants who saw my purple tutu, springy curls, and exuberant grin and immediately struck up a conversation. Being me, I loved the attention. I ate it up, even at two, in awe of the pilots and their explanations of all the colorful cockpit buttons.

“Yup, that one shoots sparkles out of the back.”

My mouth would drop open in disbelief, “No way.”

“You bet. And that one makes the whole plane look like a disco ball in the sky.” I ran then, squealing, back to my grandparents in our seats, who’d laugh and ruffle my hair. 

After we took off, the flight attendants came to talk to me often, bringing me stuffed animals to add to my extensive collection, and winking at me as they strolled down the aisle to calm temperamental children, and their respective parents. The plane spat me out in Tampa, Florida and my parents awaited me at the gate, where they were ecstatic and I was somewhat wary of the new people. But we’d talked over the phone every day, so I knew that the dark-haired man was meant to be my father and the woman with the surreptitious smile was meant to be my mother. My mother, who I only knew from stories, of her exemplary grades, her loyal band of followers, her gorgeous hair, her dainty chin, her straight nose. My mother, who was perfect. My mother, who I was supposed to become. 

Chapter 3: You and I and the Courthouse

My parents got divorced in 2010. My mother picked me up from preschool, and we drove to an imposing brown building with gargantuan steps. She walked in, lips tightly pressed together, me on her hip. I was passed to my neighbor, who played with me in the lobby until my mother came out of the doors. I’d seen her already, being the observant little thing that I was. I smoothed my skirt and smiled, carefully saying goodbye to my neighbor and standing to take my mother’s hand. 

I’ve been empathic my whole life; I can read a person as soon as I meet them. Her hand was cold and stiff in mine and I pulled her out into the bright Florida sun. I squinted and saw the glare of the tears on her face. I remember it startling me, and sucking in a gasp for air. 

It was confusing. People didn’t cry. Not behind my white picket fence, tears weren’t a part of my vocabulary. And my mother? My consistent, sweet, “I make pineapple upside-down cake every Tuesday” mother, she was hard now. She calcified as she walked out of that courthouse. I guess I did too, in some ways. I don’t cry out loud anymore. Rivers of tears could be running down my face, and not a single sound will escape my lips. 

Chapter 4: Me/Princess

The majority of my childhood was lovely. I was a great student, I was good at sports, I had an entourage of friends, I was outgoing, talkative, mature. A well-behaved kid in a cute package. At this point in my life, it was just me and my mother, and she worked. Often. 

It kept her up late and gave me a lot of skipped breakfasts and solitary dinners. Every summer, we traveled. I have a May birthday, and my mother hated throwing birthday parties because she’d inevitably forget something and it made her feel like a crap parent. So she’d ask me every year, to pick a place. Paris, Dubai, Switzerland. We frequented India as well, to visit my grandparents. My mother was well-loved there, and so was I, by proxy. Most of my friends were older than me, so I got toted around and spoiled and could do no wrong.

“Princess,” they called me during those summers (loosely translated). In those wonderful summers when I ate ice cream and rode on motorcycles and flounced around in dresses in the 100-degree heat. 

Chapter 5: F is for Fruitcake and You is for Unapproachable

Mental health is kind of a thing. An important one, I hear. Something I know.

I cut in 8th grade. I think back and it’s one of those things that you do and do and do. You’re a piece of paper with a little rip in it. More cuts, more rips. As soon as a breeze hits you, you fall into pieces. That was me. I was fighting with everyone, my family, my friends, especially. I was defensive; I stopped caring about the things that mattered to me. I hated myself for not being better than it. Better than anxiety, better than cutting, except I wasn’t. Not anymore.

Someone I love ended up noticing and checked every day. She kept me some level of sane, but there was so much in my head. And it was really easy to take a delicate silver blade and glide it over my skin in a sickeningly beautiful dance that only I knew how to perform.

A mocking voice in my head told me I’d always be silver. 

You’ll always be the princess, never the queen. Might as well mark it in blood.

I wasn’t suicidal, not in the slightest. Just angry. Angry at myself and overwhelmed. Gosh, there was so much going on. I couldn’t control a thing. Control was all I wanted. Control was what I fell back on, and my world was growing to where I couldn’t control it anymore.

Chapter 6: Me, Myself and I

On one particularly bad night, I was crying my eyes out, and watching it rain. It sounds incredibly dramatic, I know, but I’ve always loved the rain. I saw a bird flitting around, attempting to leave the tree it was in. It would stick its little head out, hold itself in the air for a moment, and then clumsily return to the tree. I felt bad about its cold, wet, fruitless endeavor, loving animals as I have forever. It tried and it kept trying, but I didn’t take away a lesson in perseverance. Something else stuck with me. The bird came over to my window at some point, and we made very blurry eye contact. Maybe it was the tears. But it cocked its little head at me and looked me up and down, and then flitted off. It came back once again, but this time I was blearily working on homework. The bird came again, as I laid in bed, clinging to my 12-year-old stuffed animal like it was the thing giving me the air I breathed. It gave me some odd sense of comfort to see that bird over and over. A constant in my life. A constant in a world where change is the only constant. 

In that pained moment, I was all I needed. Myself, and a little bird to hold onto. A little rope to keep me from the dark side. 

Chapter 7: Reign - Mine Not Yours, Not Anyone Else’s

My name means everlasting. Nothing in it says I have to always be strong and independent and invincible. To be everlasting means you mess up sometimes. You depend on people sometimes. I know that now.

I’m healthier, mentally. I’m less hard on myself, and my mom and I are good. I love her, I will always love her. We’ve been through a lot together and a lot has happened, yet I don’t blame her for anything. She had her own stuff going on while I was growing up. And we’re way too similar for me to hate her. I’d be hating a huge part of me. We balance each other. 

That doesn’t mean we don’t ever fight. Hell no, I’m a teenager, it was never going to be sunshine and rainbows. I’m becoming my own person. Not a carbon copy, but an element in my own right, something strong and pure and entirely original.