Flashback to the Truth

And in that moment you're back again. As if you're living it just one more, excruciating and heartbreaking time. And just when you try to take a breath to take it all in and re-examine what you've already played over in your mind a thousand times, it vanishes. Your breath leaves you as you open your eyes to see yourself in yet another strange world you'll never be able to understand. The world of mind vs. matter no longer is a game--it's a reality, flashbacks casually dumping you from one to the other.

It's been told bloodcurdling screams leave the body as the transportation into the world of the mind commences. One moment you close your eyes, the next you're in your head, and before you can even realize what had happened, you're on your knees begging for mercy. Sitting there shaking in a corner. Standing there with your fist in a wall.

Walls put up during flashbacks can never be taken down again. Because no matter how much a person may love you, there's no Hallmark apology card for slamming your fist into their wall or screaming uncontrollably for minutes at a time. It's like a ticking time bomb, but your mastermind of a brain can't even seem to figure out the next time you'll blow again. Because it's the little things that trigger the onslaught. A color, a smell, a sense of any sort that reminds the mind of what it's spent far too long trying to repress.

But I guess in the end, every flashback brings you closer to the truth. It grounds you once more and reminds you that you are human. Living with the constant fear to you and your loved ones is scary, but I've found one thing that scares me more--silence. Silence is the voice of defeat, and I will not the PTSD you caused destroy me.

We Remember

We locked eyes across the room as I was dancing with another guy, your own hands on the back of another girl. We weren't two couples dancing parallel to each other 45 feet away, we were one couple dancing together. And we remember.

You were my friend's younger brother, and I your counselor at camp. You were 3 years younger, and you thought that we could have a chance together. You'd save me a seat every morning on the bus. Your crushed face said it all as your sister talked to me in front of you about my "boyfriend"; she didn't know that had ended months ago. But I knew. You'll never know. But we'll remember.

I was the twin sister of a guy you used to call your best friend. As time went by, you two grew apart, and we grew together. I was the girl who knew you'd never be mine. I was devastated when you told me that my texts were annoying--that you no longer wanted to speak to me. I wondered for days why you always ran with me, why you always seemed to want to linger around just long enough so that you could be there to catch me when I fell. Was it because you were the one who was always pushing me? I fell for you. You played a game. We were young, we still are--but we remember.

You are anyone and everyone, that guy who's name I never learned. The boy I saw out of my car window and dreamed about for hours later. You are the guy who got my number and never called, the boy who once wrote me a valentine in the 2nd grade. You are anyone who can capture my wanderlust heart. You are always with me, though your name and face may change. Time will forget--but we'll remember.

Ambition

I've been told that I'm too ambitious, that the world needs to have problems in order to function properly. I'm sorry, but I disagree. Actually, I take that back--I don't apologize and I won't apologize for attempting to fix the world so many often complain of. Why dream of tomorrow when we have the power to change today? Yes, it's a tad cliche--but that doesn't make the meaning any less valid.

I'm spearheading a program to offer teens in my area a safe ride home on Friday and Saturday nights. I'm president of the Jewish Learning Club, VP of Rotary's INTERACT, president of KOOL and am currently juggling 3 fellowships on top of that. While one could argue that this is simply not possible for a junior in high school, I'd clearly tend to disagree.

If tasks need to be delegated, why shouldn't I be the one to do so? Seemingly no one is taking initiative these days, and it's frustrating beyond belief. With so many capable, powerful and truly creative people in the world, why is more not being done? What is so scary about being the only one to stand out in a crowd or raise your hand/voice that condemns us to complete silence?

Ambition is my word for the day. When others start showing more if it, I'd be happy to show a little less of mine.

Morning Breath

            Onions thrown in, only to mix with the wad of garlic sitting atop a sizzling pan just off center on my fire showing, gas burning stove. In a world within a suburban house where no one will ever be close enough to smell my morning breath. More garlic gets added, some onion powder too, for in this world I live, the survivors are among the few.

            The morning rituals I often take for granted, the life I often dream of leading, they’re all drowned out at the sound of olive oil begging it’s friends to release their innermost feelings as they all explode . . . and I am there to watch it. Finally on the other side of a fallout, finally on the side of safety where hot oil and even hotter breath can’t dare to touch me. And I’m here to watch the fights, not as a competitor or even an invested spectator, but simply as a girl who knows that what’s best in life is simply out of arms reach.

            Breakfast is the way to start the day, to remind us that we’re human and that another day will come. For we never think that tomorrow is too late—we simply know that tomorrow will be too late for someone else. One less person at the breakfast table, one less birthday card to remember to write—one less task at hand. So starting today, I’m embracing my morning breath, and those who dare come around with the stench of pure happiness. For tomorrow may bring something new, but I may very well bring something new to tomorrow.

Exploding Colors

Colors light up the sky and I am left sitting here, wondering why. Wondering not why an entire community feels the contractual obligation to walk within suburbia to an open grassy land. Wondering not why barbeques and flaming colors in the sky represent independence. Wondering not why I find myself partaking in these cultural rituals I condemn.

I find myself wondering what I wish to be free from. What I would sacrifice my life and the future of my family for. What would I be willing to risk, and who or what would I be willing to risk it for? Surely taking up arms and hurling yourself towards an enemy seems foreign, yet we do so everyday. Bombarding others faces with viciousness as our daggering words pierce their backs. We fight everyday, yet we think nothing of it. So if it came down to it, if the fighting became "real,", what would I want freedom from?

In all honesty, I guess I'd want freedom from myself. Freedom from my thoughts, and freedom from the memories that make sleep a fond and intangible memory from childhood. Yet as I truly ponder the thought, I find that the inner struggles combined with external pressures are what drive me. Without myself, I would be nowhere. As simply complex as that is, the trials and tribulations up to this point in my life have brought me here today.

And while I may not have necessarily taken the easisest, most direct or most logical path, I have taken my path. Many cannot say that, I can confidently say that I have taken my path, and there is nothing greater in life than exploding into the colors of yourself.

An Inconvenient Truth: 1 in 5 are forced survivors

Everyone has a body, how they choose to take care of it is their choice. Everyone has the ability to feel love, whether or not they choose to accept love is their choice. Everyone has a voice, whether or not they use it is their choice. People are blessed to be in control of so many things, things that we often take for granted.

For victims of rape/sexual assault, these basic human choices are taken away. They are no longer in control of their body, because someone physically, emotionally and mentally took that right choice away from them. Victims have difficulty accepting love, because someone shown them and their body the purest forms of hate. Their voice? It's been sucked out of them by a monster, a monster often close to them in their life, and well liked by the community. Why speak up about something you can't help but doubt yourself?

While rape is and will always be one of the most shameful truths of society, there is another side. Say you're at a party one night, and you're not thinking as clearly as you should be, you see a cute new person and well. . .things happen. The next day, this person won't talk to you, and you have absolutely no idea why they're acting so strange. You just wrecked their life last night, and you didn't even know it! But how could this be? New research has shown that the majority of rapists do not know that what they did constituted as rape.


It's scary to think that alcohol abolishes all wrong doing in the eyes of teens and adults alike. As if liquid poison denotes any crime. It's an excuse easy to make--how could you do something wrong if you can't remember anything at all?

But guess what? I remember.

Turn Away from the Truth

          Liam. Not the name itself, but the way it was spoken. As if a four letter pronoun could pronounce what no one had been willing to. Spoken from lips who dare not think of the meaning behind it. . . . spoken from lips still reeling from the nightmare, just one back break away from falling further within.

          I know what it meant, and I knew how it was heard by those who knew. A painfully dark creature that suddenly saw broad daylight, yet only glittered to those who knew his inner depths. Funny how an animal glistening in the sun has the same effect as a monster pinpointed and spotlighted by the moon.

          It’s as if it’s contagious to those who know, spreading silence wherever it goes. Because clearly this is something not worthy of being talked about. Something that needs to be kept under wraps. . .something like you.

          And it needs to be kept quiet, so as not to frighten those around. So as not to spook the children and inject fear into the adults. There’s a reason no one talks about it, and I have a chilling feeling that that reason might be me. They think I’m frail, that I can’t handle talking about it, but honestly, talking about it isn't what got me into this mess. I was told that his name wasn’t worthy of mentioning, yet I hear it every night. I was told that such a disgrace didn’t deserve thought, yet thinking isn’t what got me into this mess. I was told to forget about it, because remembering is painful, but my attempts at forgetting are what got me into this mess.

It’s hard not to be frustrated beyond belief that no one will speak of what happens—if a crime is happening in broad daylight, wouldn’t you stop it? Well what if the ones who saw were the ones who turned away? And what if a frightened girl—what if I—was the one to turn first?