The Girl from July

When the sun breaks the moon, and the business men in their business suits crowd bus stops, coffee shops, and internet connections, when the wolves gather in their caves, catch their breaths, and conserve their strength, when the water shines like diamonds, like wedding cake magic, like mining gold on the California coast, she remembers that her nightmares are figments of her past, that the eight hours she spent swimming in them was a form of coping, of moving on, of turning a new leaf. In retaliation, friendly faces come forward to the front of her mind, fond memories of growing with time. Last fall, something shifted in the air, something wicked this way came, blew a tornado through her body, and left behind a deconstructed person. Rebuilding felt impossible. Reinventing felt exhausting. Starting over felt pointless, hopeless, and stupid. All that in tow, she dragged each of her limbs forward anyway, concrete blocks holding her down to a hometown she didn’t want to be from anymore. Every fiber of her being had one name written on it, and she wanted out, because it felt like the devil’s brand seared into her skin, permanently damaged, unable to come back from sin. Legend says she did it. It began at the bottom, like sewage collecting at a clogged drain pipe, reeking havoc on her mentality, taunting her every heartbeat like she didn’t deserve to survive. Bitterness became her because nothing tasted satisfying after losing what she lost. Spring came and went in a blur, like a carousel ride, the same tune ringing loud, cutting off her cries for help. She slit open her old wounds and watched them bleed rivers of herself onto the carpet, staining every wall in her apartment like a horror film scene, gore so vulgar that the audience couldn’t help but retch and writhe. Paths of confusion led her astray, her mother doing her damnedest to bring her home. Monsters kept her company when she pushed her best friends away because she was too ashamed to admit to them what she did again. Repeating old habits, worn out patterns, beating a dead horse to a bloody, unrecognizable corpse, hiding the evidence in her violent thoughts. The bags under her eyes dragged heavy, stretched thin, hung down to her chin, an ugly, grotesque physique of a girl who was supposed to grow up and be a woman. Along with her mind, she hated her own body, and the way her clothes fit, sticking to her skin in all the wrong places, her silhouette packed too thick, swallowing meals only by force of habit. She begged for help from her therapist, because week after week, they discussed over and over, the same fucking thing, the same ex-boyfriend, the same villain, the same contradictions, the same sorrows, regrets, obsessions, victim complexes, narcissistic tendencies, difference in personalities, rights, wrongdoings, and moralities, all to find herself talking in circles around the same fire that burned her more than once, more than a thousand times. All the while, there was a long line of people waiting with a water hose to put it out. Day by day, the smoke signals faded to party lights in a club, overheated bodies filled the room, music filled her ears, and new possibilities filled her head, drastically. Medicine cured her insides, her rottenness, her mangled guts, and her plagued health. In courage, she sat down with herself, and asked to have an honest conversation. As summer creeped into her bones and the city she lived in, she needed answers quick. Is the way she is, the person she wants to live with? Diagnosed with deep confliction, and conditioned by years of mental instability, she fought the way she always avoided battling with, because it was between who she was and who she wanted to be. It was a fight that made her feel guilty. Just like the June humidity, gatherers swarmed her in refreshing love. Out of the cold, she felt exposed and vulnerable, but there was not one weapon in sight. Instead, she was gifted with glasses of wine, friends whose souls she could intertwine with, and noises that changed her life trajectory. With clean blood, she rejoiced. Her line of descent cradled her just like they did twenty-four years ago, at zero years old, when she came by surprise, when she came and rewrote their lives. Her chosen family became her pillars, holding her fist up in every challenge won, presenting a victor, a ruler, an heiress. She consumed cocktails of liquor that actually cleared her foggy head, danced her way to the stars and planets, but most importantly, for the first time since she was seventeen, she didn’t want to go back to that shell of a person she used to be, a hollow tree that used to house a now estranged ghoul with no empathy. Presently, she caters to taco bars, happy hour weekday afternoons, group settings of camaraderie, late night street vendors, loud songs playing in big venues, telling the truth, realistic expectations, bliss, and someone sweet to kiss. It tastes like home, and home means a lot to her. She was raised on salt water, politeness, hugs, fresh fruit, opening the door for strangers, returning favors, live music, the sound of the ocean, sunburn peels, rain in December, unconditional love, and catching ladybugs. She’s not sure where she belongs, but she’s starting to believe she’s right where she should be, living in a tiny studio apartment, blowing through her most recent paycheck, sitting criss-cross applesauce at picnics with her girlfriends, gossiping about cousins, riding the bus to the grocery store, running around downtown, standing tall in her short height, resisting the urge to fight or flight, being forthright about her feelings, and reprogramming the way she thinks about something that made her especially sick. When the summer that changed her chemically morphs into another inevitable fall, she’ll be ready to catch whatever she’s meant to keep, and every July, when it comes her time, she’ll recall that not even frostbite from a brutal winter stopped her from enduring.