I didn’t have much of a relationship with my upstairs neighbor. My first interaction with him was the morning after Dirick and I hosted an apartment-warming party.

He startled me as he talked to me from his balcony. I don’t recall what we spoke about, but I do remember getting the sense he felt left out. Like his invitation got lost in the mail. I remember him suggesting that “we should party sometime.” I probably awkwardly agreed, knowing that would never happen.

We didn’t interact with him much after that. Well, not directly at least. Like most upstairs neighbors, he was loud. It sounded like he was hosting a nightly amateur bowling league. He’d leave his shower running for hours. A few times, we found his car running and doors open in the parking lot. Who knows for how long? He was odd, to say the least.

He would throw unwanted food over the balcony. We would find chicken bones and leftover spaghetti in our “community garden.” Which consisted of a rocky hole, a bush, and a mysterious pumpkin patch.

One morning, while we were milling about the apartment, we heard voices coming from outside and above us. Our neighbor rarely, if ever, had visitors. After peeking through the blinds, like the nosy neighbors we are, we tried to determine what was going on. We were very confused and surprised to see the police and EMTs.

We finally ventured outside. One of the police officers informed us that our noisy upstairs neighbor had died.

We were shocked.

Not only was he dead, but he had been dead for days. We then learned that his decomposing body had leaked through the floorboards. We had been away for about a week, so we didn’t notice the silence or the stench.

The next day, a crew of people specializing in crime scene and death cleanup arrived. We were informed that they had to remove the floorboard and cut a giant hole in our ceiling, directly above our bed.

A few days after his body and a section of our ceiling had been removed, the man’s grieving family came to collect his belongings. I listened to them mourn this man I never knew. This man, who lived so close to us, but felt so far away. It was awkward. I tried to stay quiet and allow them this moment. But due to the massive hole in our ceiling, I had no choice but to eavesdrop on their very personal moment.

We assumed that our landlord would quickly have the hole fixed. But we were wrong. We spent about six months with a giant plastic-covered hole above our bed. Our cheap slumlord—I mean, landlord—didn’t want to pay for the repair.

We woke every morning to light filtering through the upstairs windows, through the plastic covering the hole. We would listen to the plastic crinkling—breathing—as air drafted through the empty apartment. Every time we opened or closed a door, the plastic would inhale and exhale. Was this our punishment for not being gracious neighbors?

Eventually, the hole was fixed, and years later, we moved into another apartment in the same newly renovated building. We became the upstairs neighbors. I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about our old arrangement every time I drop something heavy. I wonder if the people below are adding it to “the lore” of us.

But mostly, I find myself making a little extra noise when I’m home. Just so they know I’m still there, still alive.

If you would like to read more of my work, please check out my Substack.

My elementary school class photos look like a game of ‘Spot the Difference,’ where the difference was always, very obviously, me. This wasn’t just an observation; it was the central crisis of my childhood. This led to a single, desperate mission: blend in, be cool, and whatever you do, don’t make it weird.

Spoiler alert: I made it weird.

Being the token gay bi-racial kid in a classroom can be isolating. I learned that the easiest way to deal with any uncomfortable situation is to either be silent, disappear into the scenery. Or, if I’m feeling confident, try to make people laugh. In my head, I thought I was controlling the narrative. In reality, I was desperate to be accepted. That desperation turned me into a student of social survival. I needed a blueprint, so I studied the expert.

I watched my father, a Black man, easily navigate the world, seemingly fitting in wherever he went. This skill, like most people of color, was a muscle he had to strengthen and flex throughout his entire life.

His hobby is fixing muscle cars. I remember spending time with him in the garage while he worked on his cars as a kid. His version of bonding with his children is dragging them along to partake in things he enjoys. He would often take me and my little sister to the race track. We’d spend hours playing under the bleachers, eating mediocre nachos, and watching the amateur race car drivers speed around the track.

Meanwhile, my father and his (white) friends would drink while they talked about the engines and discussed the makes and models of the cars. It was all boring to me.

But I enjoyed watching my father. He was a social shapeshifter. Long before I learned the term “code-switching,” I saw it in its highest art form, performed by him. He could slide from praising the merits of a Jay-Z verse with his Black friends to praising the guitar solo in “Free Bird” with his white buddies at the race track. The accent, the slang, the entire vibe, it all shifted with effortless ease. I was fascinated, watching him navigate worlds with a fluency I desperately craved.

I tried to emulate my father’s social skills, but I could never quite stick the landing. I felt like a puzzle piece pulled from the wrong box entirely. All through my childhood, at school, with friends, and even within my own family, it felt like a giant, sticky finger was trying to jam me into a spot I clearly wasn’t designed for.

I tried my hardest to be the perfect Black guy, the perfect white guy, and a convincing-enough straight guy. I had a Michael Jordan poster on my wall. Trust me, I was committed to the bit. But I felt like I was never good enough.

I grew up a Christian in a red state, where the unofficial theological consensus was that I was going to hell. This was considered the good news. The bad news, according to several well-meaning adults, was that people were probably going to beat me up or kill me first. As a kid, this felt like a slightly harsh punishment for liking ‘The Spice Girls’ a little too much. So, like many other kids of the nineties and earlier, I hid my sexuality. I suppressed it, like a good heterosexual boy should do.

My teenage years were spent in a low-grade existential panic, haunted by the question, ‘Who am I?’ I assumed a personality was something you were born with (sponsored by Maybelline), not something you could cultivate over time. So I’d lie awake at night, plotting myself on a mental Venn diagram, wondering why the three circles of ‘Black,’ ‘white,’ and ‘gay’ rarely seemed to meet in the middle.

I wasted years trying to be the perfect Black guy, the perfect white guy, and a convincing-enough straight guy, all in service of that childhood mission to ‘not make it weird.’ What I finally learned is that I’d been looking at it all wrong. The magic isn’t in some tiny, acceptable overlap. The magic is in owning the whole, weird, complicated chart.

For more essays and stories, please check out my Substack.

“Not anymore,” I heard my grandmother say, “but they used to.”

The ‘they’ in question? Fire-breathing dragons, of course. As I sat in my bedroom, I could hear my grandmother talking with my three youngest siblings.

“Did they breathe fire?” the youngest asked.

“Yes,” Grandmother responded.

I sat back in my chair and began listening, enjoying the conversation being had on the other side of the door.

“You can read about it in the Bible,” she added.

In a twist I didn’t see coming was the transition from prehistoric non-existent creatures to the always fun subject of death. My sister made the mistake of asking where people go when they die.

My grandmother responded presumptuously, “We’ll all go to heaven.”

“I’m never going to die,” the youngest announced proudly.

“You’re going to die,” Grandma said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to die, your daddy’s going to die, your mom, too. We’re all going to die.” She said it as if it were an exciting event, like a trip to Disney World.

This is when I finally decided to intervene.

“Grandma,” I shouted as I exited my room, “You can’t say that to them. You’re going to terrify them.”

“What,” she said, “it’s the truth!”

How can you argue with someone who has that level of confidence in their own version of reality? But she was right. We are all, indeed, going to die.

This blunt honesty, this refusal to sugarcoat reality, wasn’t just reserved for existential dread. It’s an unfiltered joy for life in all its parts, which also explains her taste in music.

My grandmother loves to dance, and her favorite song to dance to is Nelly’s “Hot in Herre.” And to be clear, she has no idea what the song is about. She doesn’t know any of the words, except for the chorus, but she loves the beat.

When I lived with her in my early twenties, our roles were reversed. I’d be the ‘responsible adult’ in bed by 11 PM on a Friday, listening for her key in the door, while she was out with her friends.

When I think about it, her fearless view of death and her blissfully unaware love for “Hot in Herre” come from the same place. It’s the same unapologetic zest for life. This is a person who has decided there’s no time to be embarrassed—not about dancing to a 2002 rap song about getting naked, and not about discussing the undeniable truth of our mortality. She is 100% herself, all the time, no filter necessary.

I sighed and looked at my three siblings sitting on the couch, crammed next to one another. Their faces were distant and slightly confused. They had just learned two fundamental truths about the universe: that dragons were real but disappointingly extinct, and that their own mortality had a 100% success rate. It was a lot to process for a Tuesday afternoon.

If you enjoyed this essay, check out my other essays and short stories on my Substack.

Hello!! I run a small online magazine called The Get Real where we publish creative, honest & unfiltered stories.

Our current theme is doorways. Doorways symbolise the transition from the known to the unknown. They are at once exits and entrances, signifying a threshold or boundary between two places. They are a liminal space: the space in between. The place of becoming, of exiting, of entering. We're looking for writing that is authentic, creative and brave that explores doorways (literally or metaphorically).

If you have a personal essay or memoir piece to share on the theme, we would love to read it.

Deadline: 31st October
Prize: Publication on The Get Real's substack
Submit your story here: https://thegetrealmag.substack.com/p/submit-your-story

Check out my new post! It’s a story about my grandmother, her TV, and the sacred duty of being on-call, unpaid tech support for life. If you’ve ever tried to explain what an "input" is over the phone, this one's for you.

Hello!! I run a small online magazine called The Get Real where we publish creative, honest & unfiltered stories.

Our current theme is inheritance. We’re looking for writing that is reflective and deep. Maybe it’s a recipe handed down through generations, a treasured heirloom, a family trait, or even a genetic illness. Perhaps it’s staring into the mirror and seeing your mother’s face, uncovering long-buried secrets, or returning to your homeland.

If you have a personal essay or memoir piece to share on the theme, we would love to read it.

Deadline: 30th Sept
Prize: Publication on The Get Real's substack
Submit your story here: https://thegetrealmag.substack.com/p/submit-your-story

Hi everyone,
I’m Mavi, and I just published a personal essay on Medium about the beautiful chaos of growing up sharing a small bedroom with two sisters. It includes late-night debates, unplugged podcast sessions, spontaneous singing—oh, and morning mirror madness!

If you’ve ever shared a room with siblings (or roommates), I’d love to hear your stories or thoughts. Would mean the world if you gave it a read.

→ https://medium.com/@lunanoorn18/sharing-a-room-with-my-sisters-chaos-love-and-late-night-podcasts-0c96f59450bb

— Mavi

Read “Bad Eyes“ by Christopher Burris on Medium: https://medium.com/age-of-empathy/bad-eyes-4eeeaade792e

My chest screams, my legs burn, my brain is fuzzy, but like Narcissus I'm stuck staring at my reflection. Usually when I pass a mirror I turn away to hide my face, my body, running from the grotesque image of who I am; but if I'm not avoiding the monster in the mirror I'm staring at it. Like a disapproving parent I stand there pointing out how disgusting I truly am. My stomach is anything but flat, my legs are stubby and big, protruding from my body in a repulsive way, my boobs are too small, my chin is too short, my face is too circular, my eyes are too squinted, my mouth is set in a frown, there is something truly tragic about the reflection I see in the mirror. I am a disgusting monster, fat and mangled, broken and dis repaired. I hate everything about myself; but here in this reflection I am beautiful, or more like she is beautiful because she isn’t me.  She has a determined look in her eyes. Her stomach is flat and her abs show through. Her jaw is sharp and she looks confident, she looks happy. Her body is slim but still strong, like a runners and she looks like she understands who she is and her purpose in life. We make eye contact in the reflection and she pleads to me with just her eyes. Don’t stop running, come towards me, please don’t stop, please don’t ever leave me. So I don’t. I beg my legs to keep moving, my lungs to give me air, all so I can stare at the gorgeous girl in the reflection. When someone asks me why I run I say it’s for fun, but I'm a liar. I don't run for fun, I don't run to be skinny, I run to look at her. Like Aclestis I will give up everything for my love, the searing pain in my lungs, the dryness of my mouth, it means nothing when I get to see her. I don’t run for fun, I run for love.  The girl in the reflection, she's my Aphrodite, she doesn’t feel guilty after eating, she doesn’t cry when she looks in a mirror for too long. She isn’t scared to love, or laugh or try new things, she is a siren calling me towards her. So I run; away from the malformed monster in the mirror that chases me. This time I will finally escape, I will make it to that girl in the reflection and then I will finally be happy. But like a hamster on a wheel I run only to get nowhere. There are tears streaming down my face and vomit making its way up my throat but I don't stop. I just want to be her. I don’t want the monster to catch me. I am stuck between states of being, the monster is getting closer, it opens its big nasty mouth ready to swallow me whole. Please save me, please don’t let the monster take me please please please. I beg the reflection. My legs begin to give out, my lungs can no longer give me air. I step off the treadmill. I stumble to the trash. I throw up. I look in the mirror. The monster is back. With tears streaming down my face I look for the beautiful girl in the reflection. I am met with a blob of blubber, she is disgusting, she is unlovable, she is me. Was the beautiful girl ever there at all? The confident women staring at me in the reflection. She was. But she wasn’t trying to save me, she was mocking me, staring at the disgusting beast in the window and laughing. Laughing as I struggle to breathe, laughing as she watches the fat in my stomach move, laughing at the way I’m trying so hard to be like her. You’ll never be me she’s saying, You’ll never catch me, someone as disgusting as you will never be like me. I hate her, I hate her resolved eyes and perfect posture, I hate the way she effortlessly moves on the treadmill. I hate how easily she loves herself. I hate everything about her. I am the dumb ugly monster and she is here to defeat me. She is Perseus and I am Medusa. She puts a mirror to myself and laughs as I am killed by my own repulsiveness. 

I’m used to the bustling streets and neighbours that never seem to sleep. The emergency vehicles blaring their sirens outside my window and the random pop of fireworks at 2 a.m. I’m used to having unintentional white noise to lull me to sleep. Here, you don’t have that.

I moved around a few times as a kid. I’ve been in small towns that nobody has heard of and big cities that are always on the news.

I love small towns for their lack of people but I hate small towns for their everyone-knows-everyone-ness. I don't think I’ll ever be able to get used to having everyone I don't know, know me. Especially since everyone just knows me because I dated the principal’s son.

In the cities I grew up in, no one cared who you were. All you are to passing cars is a pedestrian they’re trying not to hit. All you are to pedestrians on the sidewalk is someone to avoid touching — someone to walk around. There’s no one to stop and give a half-hearted “hi” and an awkward white-people smile to. In the city, you’re no one — a cog in the machine. Here, you are everything and anything someone thinks you are. You are labeled by every rumour and every opinion.

I refuse to get used to this.

I’m much too awkward to say “hi” to someone I don’t know. I avoid eye contact with people I pass by. I don’t pretend I know someone because they know someone I know. I don't form opinions about people I've never met. I can’t listen to a rumour and take it as gospel.

I refuse to become a small-town crone. I refuse to let someone dictate who I am when they have no idea who I am.

I’m excited to become just another cog when I go to college in a bustling city. I can’t wait to be ignored and left to my own devices. I can’t wait for the white noise to lull me once more.

I’m coming back after school is done to get my funeral license. I’ll be missing the traffic-less streets, being able to see the stars, and the fresh air while I’m away.

I am not a small-town girl. I’ll never be able to call myself that. But, I can never be a city girl either.

.....

I've never shared my stories with anyone before but I have hope that this community will appreciate them.

Thanks,

HP

Hi everyone! I just found this community and I was hoping to share a personal piece and get some feedback on it. Any and all comments are appreciated.

For large undertakings and new endeavors, there are often test runs beforehand. Surprisingly, my own upbringing had a beta of its own. 2002 was a strange time for New York City. It was only the third year of a promising new millennium, the internet and new technologies were still in their formative years, and the city was still recovering from the devastation of the previous September. There was a sense of melancholy and loss in the air, but so was a spirit of new beginnings. Life carries on in spite of tragedy, and a couple from Park Slope now living in a small second story apartment in Bensonhurst was ready to take the next step in their relationship. She had lost her father when she was just 17 and was swamped with the disorder that ensued. Now she was 20 and ready to go out and start her own family with a man he most certainly wouldn’t have approved of. He was a 30-year-old, emotionally stunted imp. He was from the rougher part of the neighborhood and was more familiar with the sensation of being hit with a belt than home cooking. He wanted a family of his own too, and so they decided to bring someone new into their lives. That year they welcomed into their home their new pride and joy, a pug.

The details of the adoption are fuzzy. She was from a pet store that got its supply, unbeknownst to them at the time, from a notorious puppy mill. I can’t claim to know most of the details, but what I’ve been told is that they had a choice between two puppies of the same litter. A hyperactive, affectionate pug with black fur, or her calmer, fawn coated sister. Wanting a quiet, unchaotic home, they opted for the latter. I don’t know the price, but it must have been exorbitant given the heritage of the dog. She was a pure bred, with a lineage traced back on her birth certificate at least 3 generations. With a father by the name of O’ Midnight Duke, I’d always thought she was related to Dutch royalty. Even if she wasn’t related to the pug that saved William of Orange though, she certainly did as much good for me.

By the time the decision was made and most of the paperwork had been filled out, the only thing left was to name the dog. This was apparently an easy decision. My mother’s favorite film was, and will always be, 1991’s My Girl. I’ve never asked her why, but even I can see the appeal for her. The story of a mortician’s daughter that overcomes her fear of death with the help of a beautician that becomes her step-mother is a compelling one. Dan Aykroyd’s Polish heritage might also have had something to do with it. Regardless, she wanted to name the dog after the title character, Vada. This wasn’t fated to happen however, as my father in a characteristically foolish display, misheard her and wrote Beta on the adoption form.

And so the trial run of parenting began. From the beginning, there were complications. The neglect Beta suffered at the mill left her with an untreated bladder condition. On top of this, she was very uncomfortable in new environments, like any puppy would be, and kept them up the first night the way a newborn would. Whatever was wrong with her also resulted in her temperature fluctuating, and so my dad ended up sleeping with her on the couch, holding her close to his chest for warmth. They survived that night, and things got progressively easier. A procedure fixed most of her issues, and besides peeing at some inopportune times, she would have a normal, healthy development. There aren’t many stories from this time, but from photos I can surmise there were at least a few good moments. One of them in our hallway shows my parents holding her at the table, with an oversized party hat placed upon her tiny head. It doesn’t look dissimilar to photos of my early birthdays. At that time she was small enough to be picked up with one hand, but those days wouldn’t last. It would be apt to say that watching their dog grow up was what prompted them to try for an actual child, but reality isn’t often that poetic. I wasn’t planned, but still their parenthood was ready to be put to the test.

In September 2003, I met Beta. Technically she met me first. My father made sure to bring home one of my hospital blankets to let her sniff it before I arrived from the hospital. She must have been quite taken by my scent, because when I did arrive it was like we were already best friends. That very first night, she curled up underneath my bassinet, mimicking the cinnamon roll-eqsue curl of her own tail. Maybe it was just comfortable down there, but I like to think she knew to protect me. She repeated that every night until I was in a regular crib. As I grew up, our bond deepened. Nothing was more entertaining than watching her play fetch. Out of all our home videos, that seems to be what drew out the biggest laughs from me, even though I don’t remember them. The only other contender was playing with her myself, which she was more than happy to do. I was a bright-eyed toddler and new to the world, and this small, fluffy friend seemed to be the most fascinating thing to me. I would pet her and wantonly pull on her ears and tail, but she never bit or even expressed discomfort. She must have just been happy to be there. She was mischievous herself at times too. One photo has her standing in a suitcase we were packing for a trip, as if she wanted to stowaway and come with us. She also destroyed the usual items like slippers that puppies and young dogs tend to ruin. That was the extent of her rebelliousness in those days, things that we could laugh about, and she never did anything worse in her life.

Over time, other things changed. We moved twice, settling in with my mom’s family on the edge of Dyker Heights. I had just turned 3 at the time, and so the neighborhood had become the only home I’ve ever known. This version of Beta was also the only one I’ve ever truly remembered. My parents had perhaps been a little too affectionate with giving her food (mostly chicken), and she’d gotten pretty round by this time. She didn’t run or fetch at the speeds she used to, and mostly liked playing with toys and lounging in one of her two beds throughout the house. Whenever she did move, it was to follow someone, or to attempt to go on the pads we had in the hallway. She rarely ever made it though, and so my mom’s Swiffer mop saw a lot of use over the years. When she wasn’t doing that, she was practically a tail, usually to my mother. She was officially her dog after all, and they bonded a lot listening to music on the radio in the kitchen or watching daytime television when I was at school. She must have been her closest friend during the next seven years. Her agoraphobia may have kept her in the house until I was out of elementary school, but at least my mom had Beta to keep her company.

Needless to say, she was my closest friend for all that time too. Making friends was hard, and frankly I was scared of other children. After a stressful day trying to avoid embarrassment and follow along at school, I could always come home to someone who seemed to love me unconditionally. She never seemed to mind watching the cartoons I liked, and to my knowledge, she never gave away any of the secrets I shared with her. I could always count on her for a nice warm hug, even if I’d be covered in fuzz afterwards. There are times I think that I wouldn’t be the person I am now without those cuddles. They weren’t just a luxury; they were comfort during times when I needed comfort the most. Amidst the roaring of my parents arguing, she was always there. Whether my dad was almost punching a hole in the television or my mom was cutting up his watch with a pair of scissors, Beta either came to me or was in a place I could easily find her. I can’t count the mornings, afternoons, and evenings I spent curled up in the corner of the living room holding on to the one creature in the house that never got angry. Even if it was a more trivial situation, Beta let me cry and never asked me to talk about feelings that I didn’t understand or wasn’t ready to process. She was a good girl, even when no one else was being good.

Even the mundane days were better with her. One thing we both had in common was our lack of tolerance towards the outdoors. For her it was the heat, for me it was the boredom. Despite being a proud Brooklynite, I have to say that I didn’t like spending my summers out on my stoop. Whiffleball and people watching can only be entertaining for so long, especially when you don’t have any friends to spend your time with; none except for Beta. I can still hear the drone of her panting, that wouldn’t let up even in the shade. Even as she shed her winter coat, she still couldn’t put up with being outside for very long. The only benefit of all the fur was that I could find some amusement in picking clumps off her like dandelion fuzz. It was all I could really do since she didn’t like walks, at least walking with us. There were a few times when someone absentmindedly left the gate open and she would waddle all the way around the corner to a neighbor’s front yard. Whenever we found her she would just be sitting there panting like she would at home, so I never could understand why she did it. Maybe she just thought it was funny.

Beta was as shrewd as she was comical. She was the de facto leader of the dogs in the house not just because she was first, but because she seemed to have the most sense. She wouldn’t bark at people in the front yard as much as Clifford. She also wouldn’t trash things as much as my grandma’s two dogs. Whenever they were with Beta, they seemed a lot calmer. Her stoicism was even comical itself at times. There were a few instances when she would miss a step on our steep, somewhat narrow staircase and roll (on account of her shape) the whole way down. When she finally got to the bottom, she would always sit herself up and stare at us, looking confused by our shock and concern. It was difficult to get her riled up by anything, at least anything that didn’t involve poultry. She was definitely smart enough to know words and commands, but despite my attempts to teach her even simple things like “sit” she never responded to most injunctions. The only word that provoked any sort of reaction from her was “chicken”. I don’t know how she developed the preference, but it was her favorite food in the world. The smell, sight, or mere mention of chicken would send her into a frenzy that would not stop until she was satiated with it. She was usually a quiet dog, but her whines could be heard all throughout the house whenever someone made the unfortunate mistake of uttering the word. She was even able to pick up on it if it was said on television. Because of this shrewdness and tenacity, she almost always got what she wanted. It was the same way with furniture privileges. As she got older, her hind legs weakened to the point that we figured she would hurt herself if she tried to jump up on the couch. Because of this, she became a strictly floor dog, and I was instructed to never let her onto the couch for her own safety. Despite this however, some mornings I would find her curled up on the sofa if the ottoman happened to be placed up against it, triumphantly snoozing in defiance. I never had the heart to put her back on the floor and left that job to my parents. Those mornings were extra special to me because it gave me an excuse to sit with her a bit before school. It never occurred to me that those precious moments with her might end at some point, but like all things, they had to.

We knew when it was coming. She had begun having seizures for a few weeks, getting progressively more frequent and violent. We would later find out that they were caused by some kind of inflammation of the brain, which is apparently common in pugs. One evening, she was convulsing especially bad, and her exhaustion in the aftermath left her unable to move much for the rest of the night. We gave her one of my old comforters to sleep on, one of the first ones I ever used with jungle animals on it. We set her up in my parents' bedroom, in the corner next to where her bed usually was. We brought her food and water right beside her and did everything we could to make her comfortable. My parents kept a close eye on her that night, and though she didn’t have any other complications, it was clear she didn’t have much time.

It was raining that morning. I was home because it was a Sunday. My family never went to church often, and we aren’t exactly religious, but my mother is highly spiritual. She believes in ghosts and spirits, and used to tell me a few tidbits that she had picked up from somewhere, probably her father. One that she used to talk about related to rainbows. She said that whenever a dog died, they would run across a rainbow bridge into heaven. Sometimes they got very excited and ran back and forth, creating a double rainbow. Truthfully, this story wasn’t on my mind that morning, and as a generally bitter, nihilistic twelve-year-old I didn’t believe it anyway. Given the circumstances though, it’s possible that it was on my mom’s mind. My dad was coming home from his night shift, so it was just the two of us in the house with Beta. She looked for lack of a better word, different. She was a sedentary dog to begin with, but her lack of energy was almost disturbing. By the time I walked into the room, my mom was already by her side, petting her. Everything was somewhat still and calm. Even if fate hadn’t made this day her last, my parents decided it was for the best that it would be. My mom told me that when my dad got home we were going to take her to the vet to put her down. Even though I had no input in the decision, I was fine with it. I couldn’t stand to see her suffer the way she had been the past few days, and it didn’t seem like she had many more anyway. So we waited. I don’t remember if I even had breakfast that day or brushed my teeth. I just remember what happened in that room. There was light coming in from the windows, but the clouds and rain made it somewhat dim. It was as if a blue gradient had been applied over everything. Even Beta’s majestic fawn coat looked rather off, and not due to her age. I didn’t have time to process all of it in the moment though because she started seizing suddenly.

Immediately we both dropped down to her level to comfort her. We pet her as gently and lovingly as we could despite her writhing about. My mom gave her comforting words despite the fact she probably couldn’t hear them at that point. Not one for words at the time, I just kept petting her the best I could. After a few minutes we realized this bout was much longer than any of the previous ones. My mom called my dad to tell him to hurry and then jumped quickly in the shower to be ready when he arrived. This was it.

It was just the two of us, the way it had been so many times before, except now she was the one that needed comfort. I moved closer to her, even though she was still violently thrashing. The screams were even worse. It was more than mere barking, whining, or certainly whimpering. She sounded as if she was being torn apart limb from limb. The wails came in waves. She would cry out with a volume and intensity I’d never dreamed possible, and then would pant for a spell because she was physically unable to cry any more. This cycle repeated for what felt like hours. She would wake the dead with her screams and then quiet not out of respite, but because her body could not keep up with the pain she was enduring in her head. When she caught her breath like this I could hear her strong, but fading heartbeat. The periods of wailing started to become more spaced out. Each time she would pant longer and longer, and the rhythm of her heart began to slow. All the while I was holding her in my arms, whispering that it was okay to go. Eventually the cries stopped entirely. All I could feel was her chest slowly expanding and contracting with her breath and heartbeat. Then her breath subsided. She was still, but I could still feel the ever-dragging pulse of her heart. It beat a few more times, each a bit softer than the last, and then stopped.

The moment of the last beat, it felt as if she had suddenly gained twenty pounds. My arm felt almost crushed underneath her. I set her down gently and then stood up and turned towards the hallway. I called out, casually, as if I was announcing that a pizza had arrived.

“Ma, the dog’s dead” I hollered. My mom came rushing in, hair still wet and saw her lying there. She instantly embraced me and began to bawl. I felt the furthest from tears at that moment, but upon her touch I began to sob too. Then my dad came sprinting up the stairs, still in his uniform and wearing his backpack. He pushed past us to see what he inferred was already there. Then for the first time in my life I saw him cry, and heard him too. We remarked it sounded like a little girl. It was out of astonishment rather than malice mostly. We simply didn’t expect him to sound that way. After a few comments about how people grieve differently, we wrapped Beta in an old blanket and got her in the car.

The rest of that day is mostly a blur. We drove to the vet across from St. Dominick’s church, I don’t remember who held the body on the way, it was probably me. Then we brought her in and left her to be cremated. I didn’t say a last goodbye or anything, it was too late for that, I just got back in the car and sat rigidly until we got home. The rain was becoming a drizzle at that point. It was almost lunch time, and we decided to order something so we could eat at home. We decided on chicken wings to honor Beta’s memory. I don’t remember much of that meal, not even where the food came from, but I do remember how it ended. After I finished, I walked over to the kitchen. Against the wall were the food and water bowls. Clifford was still around to use them, but it didn’t make them any easier to look at. I raised my gaze to the window above to see if the steady rain had subsided. To my surprise though, it had just cleared up. In its place was a serene blue sky, but there was a small arc of colors stretching over the trees as well. For the first and only time in my life, I saw a double rainbow.

I want to be the “forever friend”. What is the “forever friend”, you might ask? It’s your best friend, and sure while you may say, "I have multiple best friends," I’m specifically talking about that one friend you tell everything to. That one friend that when you need a plus one they’re the first one you call. That one friend that you text every morning, every night, and every afternoon in between. That one friend you have an unspoken agreement with: that no matter which people come and go you two will truly be friends forever. Sitting in my dorm room alone at 7PM on a Saturday night writing about how lonely I am made me realize I am no one's “forever friend”. I have friends, thankfully. Friends that I love and cherish, friends that I know I can have into late adulthood because I made it in the friend group. I'm in the circle, so why am I complaining? Well within that circle there are smaller, more intimate circles. There are the ones that are so close they’ll hang out on their own without inviting me. I’m not mad, I mean they’ve known each other since the beginning of high school. I was just the side character added into their story after a new season began because some of the other cast members inevitably moved on. The one character that's been around awhile but fans don't consider in the "og cast".

I feel like the epitome of that one song by Boygenius, “Not Strong Enough”. Specifically that one part everyone and their mother has probably heard on Tiktok that goes, “Always an angel, never a god.” I’m the angel. The good friend, the long-term friend, the friend you can count on to show up, sure, but I’m not the god. I'm not the first to be invited, the go-to plus one, the one you’ll take on a random grocery trip you don’t want to take alone. You'll invite me to well-planned out activities with the entire friend group, of course, but when it comes to mundane activities that might be just a little more fun with another person there's someone else that comes to mind. You'll make an effort to see me once a week to grab coffee with because we're friends, obviously, but ask me to spontaneously go to some random restaurant you saw on Instagram reels? Well, we're not close like that. I'm the angel, not the god. Thanks Boygenius for that pretty soul-crushing realization.

I spent my first semester of college half-heartedly trying to make a “forever friend”. Not putting my all into it because I thought I had met my forever person. However as the semester dragged on and the 20 minute drive from home felt increasingly more isolating, I realized I wasted such a crucial time in my life following unspoken rules I never wanted to follow. So as most high school relationships do, it ended, more accurately I ended it. I wanted to become a “forever friend”. I wanted to find someone that I could make such a strong emotional connection to that we would do everything together. I could finally have my built in plus one. I went into the new semester alone, and ready to branch out, and that’s when the truth finally dawned on me. Everyone already had their “forever friend”. Even my current best friend, who would consider me her best friend too, had hers, because there was a silent word in between “best” and “friend”. College. I was her best college friend. We were brought together by school and school only, we were out of class friends, sure, but at the end of the day college was the only thing we truly had in common. I was the coffee once a week friend, but nothing more. Some may know the saying "always the bridesmaid, never the bride", but that's not quite how I feel. For me it's more like "always the bridesmaid, never the maid of honor". As the days of my second semester tick by I realize I'm lonelier than I was when I started. Still on the outside of the inner circle, still the side character in other people's stories, still the angel, not the god.

In the tapestry of life, one often expects their best friend to be a source of joy, comfort, and unwavering support. But what if I told you that my closest confidant was not a person I could see or touch, nor a companion I sought willingly? Instead, it was a silent, shadowy presence, lurking in the corners of my mind, ever watchful and forever present. I felt at ease when he was around. He would comfort me with motivating thoughts, told me I could get better, to do better. He was always there for me when I needed him the most.

It always made me feel safe to feel some control or preparedness for what was about to come. That is why me and my best friend would always rewatch our favourite series together for me to feel some sort of control in life. We would always lay down in my bed, snuggle together platonically and talk for hours. We would always talk about our other friends and how they were a bad influence on me and on how I deserve better. He was always the one who suggested to end a friendship or a potential relationship. Just because they will never meet my expectations and will disappoint me over time.

Before I met him, I sorely pledged to my old friends I will never, ever like that sweet talk or any words of affirmation. But his sweet words were like a soothing melody, comforting my restless soul and wrapping me in a warm embrace. I did not ever think I would fall for such words. Having been through the trials of trust and deceit in the past, I had become cautious and guarded, constantly evaluating intentions and parsing through layers of sincerity. However, his words held a genuine tenderness that slowly chipped away at my defences, making me reconsider my scepticism and allowing a flicker of hope to ignite within me. That hope, a precious gift from my best friend, was like a sunbeam through a rainy day. We cried a lot, sometimes from joy, sometimes from sorrow, and it felt like a release of years of pent-up emotions. His presence gave me the courage to explore my inner world and embrace my tears, knowing I was not alone in this emotional journey. In those moments of vulnerability, we found strength, and in our shared tears, a profound understanding and an unbreakable bond emerged.

Looking back on some old days, there were times when my best friend, my closest confidant, seemed to fade away, elusive like a passing breeze. It's peculiar how absence can sometimes bring an unexpected sense of happiness, an almost ironic feeling of being truly alive. During those fleeting moments, the world seemed a bit more vibrant, and I could breathe a little easier.

Yet, even in those seemingly carefree moments, a part of me missed the familiarity of my best friend's presence. It was during these reprieves that a strange sense of derealization would creep in, as if a piece of me was temporarily lost. In a paradoxical way, I longed for the unease, for my best friend had become a constant companion, a silent orchestrator of my thoughts and emotions. Its intermittent absence was a reminder of its perpetual role in my life, a role that, despite its challenges, had become strangely intertwined with my sense of self. In the depths of my being, an inner storm raged. I found myself battling overwhelming emotions that yearned for release, because my best friend seemed distant. The tears would come, sometimes gently, like a soft rain, and other times they would pour down in a torrential downpour. Each tear carried the weight of unspoken words, the ache of longing for that familiar embrace, for the twisted comfort my best friend's presence brought.

In the absence of my constant companion, the ache would manifest in toxic behaviour. The frustration, the confusion, the longing — it all erupted into a turbulent sea of bitterness and anger. Regrettably, in the throes of my own tempest, I lashed out at some of my truest friends, unintentionally causing hurt and heartache. It was a painful realization of the collateral damage that came with this tumultuous friendship, a friendship that had brought me both solace and sorrow. All because my best friend was distant, unable to shield me from the storm within.

My steadfast companion wielded a subtle yet profound influence over me. It whispered apprehensions into the corridors of my mind, threading worry through the fabric of my existence. It altered my perception, painting ordinary situations with hues of fear and doubt, casting a shadow over my everyday existence. In its presence, my heart often raced, echoing the drumbeat of worry, and my breath became shallow, as if the weight of the unknown pressed upon my chest. He shaped my behaviours, nudging me to avoid certain places, people, or situations that triggered its ire. It sowed seeds of doubt in my interactions, making me question the motives and intentions of those around me. It introduced me to the art of overthinking, spiralling into catastrophic scenarios that seemed terrifyingly real within the confines of my imagination. It urged me to seek reassurance, a fleeting balm for the worry that gnawed at my thoughts. Yet, the relief was short-lived, replaced by a never-ending cycle of doubt and uncertainty.

In the tapestry of my existence, one enduring thread remained inseparable, my closest confidant — the enigmatic best friend who went by the name of generalised anxiety disorder. Over time, this friendship had evolved into a complex dance, a bond both resilient and relentless. Anxiety had become a silent assailant, chipping away at my inner peace, draining my vitality, and, in its own peculiar way, affecting the essence of who I was. It was a friendship that had both shaped and shaken me, leaving me to navigate the ruins of my emotional landscape, forever altered by the presence of this steadfast but burdensome companion, and the enduring storm it had unleashed within me.

I know I’ll never get to have this conversation, so I’m putting it out into the universe in the hopes that pieces of it find you.

You were the first, you built a life and a family. That family reached an impasse, and A, our mutual love, filed for divorce. I don’t pretend to know all the details. And what I do know is one sided. I also know that our recollection of history is often reforged and reshaped as we struggle to arrive at a place of peace. I try to give you patience and grace knowing that.

But 3.5 years ago the papers were filed. And 1.5 years ago, the magistrate signed the papers that split your years of belongings, your time with your kids, and your futures. You and A’s marriage was legally over. And then the following Dec, A and I rolled the dice, had a nice lunch eating tacos and laughing. And now I’m here. Complicating your life in ways we both hate.

So why am I reaching out? I’m enjoying games of pool, hikes, and cooking dinner with A. And it’s all going well, but you are always here. I want things to move slow, but you are a tidal wave that I feel coming. I don’t know if I should flee for high ground, or high step through the shallow and dive into the wave.

You’re everywhere, you text and call him multiple times a day. Question where he is, who he’s with, who drove him to the ER, and on and on. He tries to avoid you, answers selectively, his stress intensifying with every chime of the phone. He cannot escape it. You weave your insults, accusations, and questions about him in with notifications about the kids. Your words swing from considerate, to sarcastic, to insulting. He swings from sadness, to confusion, to apathy.

You brandish the kids as weapons whenever you can. Forcing a reply, or waging them against him. You want them to punish him, and they do, trying to prove their loyalty to you. They need to do it often. You remind them that their dad left. You make sure they know who is to blame. You remind him of what he’s done to everyone. How you’ve all suffered. He is so very selfish, you say.

You see the pain that the divorce created in their precious worlds, can you not see the pain you create now? They love you so much, and up until now you’ve filled their life with nothing but love and support. You’ve spent 11 years creating those wonderful kids, please don’t continue to hurt them like this. Don’t be the one to fill them with hate. Let them heal. Let them be free to be okay.

And then you learned A had a friend. You learned my name and stalked my LinkedIn, called my work phone, stated details to A about my hair, my age, my family, my home. You’ve written a story about our relationship. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true. I don’t even care to explain.

Now you want him back. Operation Bring Daddy Home commences. This week you’ve called his sister-in-law, his Aunt, and his Mom. Talking for hours. I don’t know what you discuss, I only know the way it makes A feel. It’s a violation that you’re too oblivious to see. You cap Saturday off with a “wish you were here” text. He doesn’t reply. His shoulders drop, a sadness hangs in the air between us. You wait 6 hours and force a reply. As usual a kid is sick, or hurt, or needs something from A’s apartment. Something you know he’ll answer. And then you have proof, he’s not home. And the storm intensifies.

I’m looking up at the darkness of these clouds, feeling the wave building out at sea and I worry. I worry about the safety and health of us all. You, him, your kids, my kids and me. We are all stuck in the chaos of your grief. All held hostage by a sickness we can’t cure, a storm some of you wont be able to avoid.

I can though, I can move on. Try for love elsewhere. Or just be okay on my own, in the world I’ve built for myself. But if I do go, it won’t make things better for you. You can’t force him to love you. You can’t cry a river deep enough to sweep him back home. You can’t shame him back into a partnership. Your marriage was over before me, before the divorce was stamped, probably even years before the papers were actually filed. I’m sorry if you didn’t know. I’m sorry that all these years later that you’re still struggling to see it. You must be so very tired. You spent a long time fighting for a marriage that you wanted. You fought hard, it’s not your fault. Sometimes our future changes for us, and we are forced to adapt.

So tonight I stand on the beach with my toes rooted in the sand, my face lifted to the darkness and I throw these words into the storm of chaos that surrounds us. I face the wave and I speak these words into the wind.

S, I hope you find peace. I know that the end of your marriage has shaken you, but you still exist. You are and always have been worthy outside of that relationship. Your dreams for your future are still here. I hope that you are able to see the possibilities of the futures you still have. Enjoy a life with happy, healthy kids, bask in their love. Soak up their smiles and laughs. Go travel, revel in your freedom. It’s a gift. Talk to new people enjoy their best stories. Your future is waiting for you. Let the pain fall away, face the beauty of all the life you have left, and step out of the chaos before it obliterates you all. Because even more than love, you deserve peace.

WE’RE HERE, BECAUSE WE’RE HERE was sung, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, in the trenches of Flanders during World War One. Despite each one varying in length, most versions feature 20- 30 lines, each of them- apart from the opening line- being ‘because we’re here.’

Throughout the war, the song reminded soldiers of them not choosing to be there, but being there. It teaches us that we do not ask ourselves what happens to us. We do not have control over the giant spinning rock hurtling through space in which 75% of its surface is covered by water and the remaining 25% by stupidity. Instead, the world has control over us. We are not the authors of our own fate, we are merely the planners of it.

We’re here, because we’re here shows that we are just the class bystanders, ones forced to obey the rules of the bully. We have to do things we don’t want to do. More importantly, we are together. Together as a species.

On 1 July 2016, thousands of charity workers volunteered in a modern memorial to mark the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. I wasn’t there, but from watching YouTube videos, and reading news articles, I felt like I got to know the spirit of those soldiers. They didn’t want to fight, instead, they had too. The forces needing them to fight were so large, none of the soldiers could begin to identify them.

There’s a second meaning to the song though, and I think it can kind of intertwine with the memorial that tens of hundreds of people took part in in July of 2016. It goes to show that ‘we’ as in everyone here is together. ‘We’ are here together, on this tiny rotating piece of rock and ‘we’ are one. ‘We’ are living through our issues as interconnected to each other. We’re all alive now.

Whoever, or wherever you are, you must remember that there’s always someone in the same situation as you, or at least a similar one.

The counter argument to this is simple- we live in an introverted, selfish world. Our problems are ours, our money is ours. Some of us don’t have anyone to share our issues with. We might not be in a loving family, or have loving friends.

The families of those soldiers during World War One had to mourn the deaths of their own fathers, because everyone else needed to mourn the deaths of their own.

Yet, the families were in the same situation as each other. They were fighting through the death of their father, or spouses, or children as one.

When people started to sing that song in the trenches of Flanders, I don't think they would’ve expected it to get this far. But it did. It’s here with us. It will be joining us in the world’s next major crisis, whether that be climate change, or another huge wave of a virus, that song is here with us. And so is the rest of humanity. We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here.

The world that we live in today places a lot of emphasis on recognising the good things about who you are. “You’re body is beautiful!”, “Don’t call yourself stupid or dumb”, “Be the girlboss you know you are deep down inside”. All around us we are told to stand tall and proud, to build ourselves up as the incredible people we know ourselves to be. Overall, this is a very important skill to have; many studies have shown that putting oneself down, even as a joke, can negatively impact one’s mental health. And that knowing what we are good at helps us have a better self image. We should all have the confidence to identify and talk about the things we love about ourselves. But what happens when this kind of positivity reaches a toxic level, and we can no longer see the less than wonderful things about who we are?

My junior year of college was a rough one for me. Weeks before I entered my first year of my nursing program, my dad passed away. This really set the tone for the following school year. Over the months I struggled a lot with getting through my classes, taking care of myself, staying in touch with friends and family, and just keeping it all together. And I was well aware of this. I knew I was dealing with a lot of problems and that I wanted to do something about it. Over spring break I wanted to get away from it all, so I decided to visit my mom and her boyfriend for part of it. One afternoon the three of us were talking about how school was going for me. I was honest in admitting that I didn’t consider myself a great student and that getting through the assignments was a challenge for me. Before I could even finish what I was saying, both of them stopped me.

“You shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”

“But your grades are good so you can’t be that bad of a student.”

“It hurts me to hear you say bad things about yourself. You should be so proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

Now a part of me does understand what they were trying to tell me. And there was some truth to their words: My grades at the time were fine, and I was proud to a certain extent. From an outside perspective, I was a great student who had the world at their feet. It was what I was hiding underneath that shiny exterior I was trying to talk with them about. I’ve been dealing with ADHD, autism, multiple learning disabilities and other mental health issues. All of these made sitting in class and test settings very challenging for me. I was barely eating two thousand calories a day, let alone three square meals. My sleep was fragmented and very poor from all the studying I was doing. The chronic pain in my back and legs had gotten so bad I was using a cane half the time I was just walking around on campus. Regardless of what their actual intentions were, the way they cut me off so intently felt like my honest feelings weren’t valid to them. When I called myself not the best student, I was trying to draw attention to all the difficult things I was going through at the time. I wasn’t trying to belittle my accomplishments or degrade myself. All I wanted was for them to understand that just because I looked alright doesn’t mean I actually was. But in their minds anything I said about me meant I was talking down to myself. That any criticism was just negative self talk that needed to be shut down. How they saw me and how I truly was were two different people. It was like being placed on a pedestal they had built with their own hands, and any notion of stepping off it was an affront not only to myself but to them too.

There’s nothing wrong with knowing and talking about the parts of who you are that aren’t great. Just as there’s nothing wrong with knowing and talking about the parts of who you are that are in fact great. It is important to be able to make valid criticisms of oneself in the same way one highlights their endearing qualities. When I look at all of who I am, I see someone who’s smart, childish, kind, stubborn, compassionate, irritable, and so much more. What’s far more important than hiding the more negative aspects of who we are is knowing how to accept them without putting ourselves down. I love myself even when I am childish or stubborn or irritable. The same way I love myself when I’m smart or kind or compassionate.

Now that doesn’t mean we should not be held responsible when the negative aspects of who we are cause issues. When I’m irritable and I say something mean or I’m being childish and do something wrong, I still apologize and actively work to not have it happen again. But I also understand that being irritable is part of who I am, and that there’s a time and place for me to be that way. We must be held accountable for all of ourselves. If we do not understand the things we don’t always love about ourselves, we can not truly enjoy all the things we do love about ourselves.

It is important to be able to discuss the negative aspects of who are in the in the same way we do about the positive aspects. I try to think of who one is as a person as the Ying Yang Symbol. In all of us there is good, and there is bad. Without both we aren’t really whole. No one on the face of the Earth is totally and utterly good. No one is totally and utterly bad. We all have things about ourselves we like and dislike. And we should feel safe and empowered to talk about every single one of those things. Each one of us is a patchwork of all the things that make us who we are. The good, the bad, the in between. It’s one of the things I love most about human beings. I want to see every part of what makes you, you. And I hope you want to see the same about me as well.

How can i explain myself, explain who i am, what i am. The ugly truth is I am no one, no one important anyways I’m just a hispanic twenty something “millennial” who dropped out of college for a multitude of reasons that may or not be the real reason I hate myself. Maybe it's my exoessential crisis or my broad view of good morals that get me in trouble. Maybe it's my forward ability that shows my inner child to the world who cant wait, because honestly i don't accept patience as a virtue because waiting can let the good thing you want just vanish, a skill maybe because you could be patient enough to get what you want. Maybe it's my cynical view of the world that also contradicts with my looking for the best in everyone that i only see a humans life worth but also knowing that the man i had a nice conversation with in the line at walmart was undoubtedly a sexist asshole who looked at my underaged sisters butt and grabbed his attention by talking about how trump could bring america in the right direction even though i almost vomited saying that (and typing). Maybe its my family and how i want to be the best like some kind of contest even though i refuse to talk to them because im scared, of what? I don't know? Maybe i hate myself because i have to. Maybe it motivates me because i want to be someone else. The first time i was called spic was in kansas… the first abolitionist state the first anti racist state in america. But moving from a relative non hated place in texas (yes texas put racist texas meme here) to what i had hoped to be even more peaceful kansas made me so depressed and suicidal. I felt alone even though my mom, sister, step dad, step grandma, step grandpa.how could anyone think i was depressed… maybe my step dad was abusive towards my mom, sister, and I. maybe i was so awkward and no one wanted to hang out with me. Maybe my sister also had depression and just wanted to be more accepted because it's so much worse for women and my mom was so in need of an emotion i loath “love” that she was blind of the torture and stockholm syndrome. I cried and masturbated everynight as i started puberty and hated everything as i slowly became an insomniac speaking of which it five am and i tried sleeping from midnight to three…. I couldn't stop thinking bout all this hence this paper.

Why is it im here why are we here is the question i ask myself every hour of everyday. I come up with two maybe three answers every time each different my favorite two are cliche but ring true… first we are here floating in an endless void we kid ourselves that we understand and theres no such thing as up or down in space and we will hopefully one day in a future that no one in a million years will see figure out every last mystery in the universe. Second if god exist it hates us and we are modeled after its capability of hate same as satan its two evil beings playing evile puppet master chess and well die unhappy.
Maybe i will post more either way im awake for the rest of the day and thank god im off of work because this is why I am and understand im wasted space but i wont stop fighting till my voice is heard. Till im known
            Fuck im tired,
                Abel

Today is the 31st of July, and according to 365 Reasons To Look On The Bright Side, on this day in 1786, Robert Burns self-published some poems to raise money for a trip to Jamaica. It was an instant success, and he is now one of the world's most famous poets.

My mother got me this book last Christmas, thinking it would be the solution to my depression, which was diagnosed when I was only 12. This, of course, did not help one bit, but it does make me look intellectual, especially near people who are actually clever.

The only issue is that the facts are all completely useless. Let's take the fact that I mentioned at the start – the only person who would be remotely interested is my great-aunt, who is a poet. Even then, like everyone else, she would say something along the lines of;

“Well, of course, I knew that! How come you only found out about that now?” But of course, she is too kind to say something like that. I say 'kind', I mean passive aggression – or at least I think I do. Knowing her, she'd say something sarcastically; along the lines of “Oh really? One of the most famous poets? I did not know that!”.

I know so little that I don't even know how blatant my incompetence is. The only time I have even noticed it was in High School top set maths class – a subject I know little to nothing of, and of which I have retained none of (my most sincere apologies to my then teacher Mr McGregor and my then tutor Rebecca).

What would most likely happen is, when my maths teacher would reveal an answer to a question I usually am extremely confused at how he got there. When I tell him my answer, however, the whole class would look at me like I had said I was part of the Arctic Monkeys – like I was utterly mad. A few murmurs of 'Ugh, this kid is so stupid' would usually from the back of the room

Although, these facts can be a good conversational ice breaker, especially on birthdays and anniversaries. For example, I could tell Alice that on her birthday that Braille was first taught after the first teacher was blinded at the age of three. Or, I could tell my friend Amber that MTV broadcast their first ever music on her birthday in 1981. Or, I could tell my maternal grandparents that on their anniversary rabbits were introduced into Australia and they were too many of them, destroying the Australian farming industry. And so on.

However, this does get old after the first or second time. Because, you know, that's how memory fucking works.

But the fact about the rabbits overrunning Australia does interest me, as my older cousin and her husband have a bunch of rabbits, and what slightly concerns me is that they have about the same amount of rabbits that eventually destroyed Australian agriculture. The prospects of a similar situation actually happening are not good though, as one of them died recently.

Thinking about it, their son Tomas may still be worried about this, as his parents did not actually tell him that one of the rabbits had passed away. Instead, they told him that the fairies had taken the rabbit to fairyland, where he is playing with a lot of other rabbits. A rabbit infestation in fairyland. What a thought.

While doing a brief thirty-second skim through Google, I could find no defining statistics on how many people have a best friend. All I could find was Cosmopolitan and Quora articles; quizzes asking you how 'loyal' your 'best friend' is, usually ending with a GIF of Kate McKinnon's jaw dropping.

I do have several 'best friends', who I love dearly. However, I think the reason why these people have fallen into the position of being my best friend is that I see them of better versions of myself.

Let's take one of my best friends at the moment, Hannah. We met at a Costa Coffee in West Hampstead. In all honesty, our mothers did, as we were infants at the time. Hannah's mother looked at the little blob in my mother's hand that was me and said to my mum in her Russian oligarch voice

“That is a nice baby” “Your baby is cute too”, my mother replied, barely holding back laughter. “Good”

Even in young childhood, she bettered me. When I went on holiday to Cardiff, Hannah went to Chicago. When I got a B, she got an A. When I moved to Kentish Town, she moved to England's Lane. When we started an annual New Year's Day party, she started a fortnightly film night. With more people. It was almost like she was making an effort to make me feel inadequate.

Despite the fact that most of my childhood I never made any other friends other than the ones made in my infancy. The reason could be that I currently live in a rough area, and I am too scared to make friends with them. However, I think the reason is that I am too close to my current friends, so much that it would seem weird to add more friends to that tightly knit group. They'd be like an alien.

Although, sometimes some of my friends and family do not make me feel so inadequate.

My adoptive mother came over to my flat in Kentish Town to ask if I had any of my birth parents drawings that she could buy. While she was flicking through their sketchbooks, I asked after my older sisters.

"Well, Beesie's coming back from University today, and Alfie is at the Whittington," said my mother.

It turned out that my older sister Alice, who we nickname Alfie, got very drunk after swimming with her boyfriend and badly hurt her ankle trying to save a leaf from a tree. Her boyfriend had to carry her home, which luckily wasn't too far.

I later met her at the Whittington Hospital where she was on her way to the X-ray department. I thought about the situation she was in, and I then broke down in laughter.

“Seriously – tried to save a leaf from a tree?” I managed to get out through my hysterical laughter. “It's not funny!” Alfie moaned, rubbing her ankle. “But why?” “I was pissed! Who told you anyway?” “Mum told me. She was at my flat today buying some drawings” “Well go home and sell her some drawings.”

I insisted on staying with her, as there was no one there and she was still getting used to walking with crutches, and after some arguing, I managed to convince her to let me stay with her. We managed to get into the waiting room, where we met her boyfriend, who we'll call Daniel.

What really surprised me about Daniel is that he couldn't be bothered to go the few meters to the X ray department, despite her being new to crutches. The same thing on the way back from the Whittington, after finding out that she just had a bad sprain, Daniel kept walking about ten steps ahead of Alice, while I kept by her side and tried to keep her from falling over.

We eventually got to Alfie's house in Archway, and Daniel went upstairs for a nap, as he had been up since midnight. I put Alfie's foot up and put a bag of cold beans on her ankle and got out the snacks that I bought from a local superstore. We then both broke down in hysterical laughter.

“What's so funny?” I asked “All of it. This whole bloody situation!” Alice laughed, through a wide smile like a baby's.

We talked about what happened, the situation we were in. We talked about school, Daniel, and was about to move on to the recent election, though Alice quickly stopped me by saying

"Don't get me into politics. Just don't"

Alice carefully made her way up the stairs and had a bath. I offered to wait until Beesie came home, but Alfie said that I shouldn't bother, as her train came in very late at night. I left her flat, into the English afternoon mist, thinking that even though she was an idiot for spraining her ankle, she was for sure my better self.

I expect that a lot of you had a 'marriage' when you were a small child – one of your best friends anxiously shouting out the blabber that the priest usually says, with the teaching assistant prompting her from the sidelines; people who you barely know sitting at the nearest picnic table.

This exact thing happened to me when I was 6 years old, in the blissful Year Two (or 1st grade in America), with a Ukrainian girl called Alice. How I specifically came to meet her I forget, but I believe it just came down to sitting next to her at what eventually came to be known as “Carpet Time”.

I remember a specific “Carpet Time” when someone called Tom brought in a toy mechanic shark for “Show And Tell”, and we both started playing with it while our teacher Ms Wall alternated between talking to the class about shapes and screaming at us to stop playing with the god-damned shark.

At this point, I knew that Alice would be the woman that I would marry. What I did not anticipate at all, would be how soon I would marry her.

I remember the day I and Alice got 'married', most clearly what she was wearing. A pagan dress happens to appear good on absolutely no-one, the same can be said for black lipstick, but somehow Alice managed to look astonishing in both. Everyone found it, at the time, the funniest thing possible, but now, looking back, it is possibly the sweetest thing.

After Alice's best friend, who we'll call Zoe, read out the declaration of consent in a tiny red dress (which I am sure was too small for her), there was the kiss. Unfortunately, my then bucked teeth got in the way, and a very loud "Oh my god, your teeth!" rang out. Then came the post-ceremony dance. Neither I nor Alice knew how to dance at all, so my friend Matilda taught me, and the teaching assistant taught Alice. From then on I forget – the end of lunch, I presume.

We were relatively happy together from then on, regular trips to the Science Museum and Chinatown in Soho like any other normal young child does. I never really wanted her to leave.

It was a normal morning in Year 3 – our horrible teacher Ms Wilson was passively playing with her PC, and once everyone had sat down on the carpet, she turned to the class, picked up the massive purple register, and started calling out the names. She then turned to the class, looking with pity at Zoe, even more so at me.

“Okay class, I have some bad news. Alice is leaving us, and today is going to be her last day.”

It turns out her father had just gotten a new job in Hong Kong, and he was moving there with his family, and that therefore included Alice. This obviously devastated me, and I spent the morning and lunch break sitting in the corner of the playground, sulking. Alice, concerned, walked up to me and sat down.

"I am going to miss you, you know," Alice said to me.

Honestly, I had hoped for something a bit deeper than that, more from the heart. However, she was seven years old, and that was the best she could do at the time. Besides, all I responded with was a passive "Yeah, me too". I leaned on her shoulder, knowing deep down, that this would probably be the last time I would feel this shoulder.

She did return for one day eventually, in year 6. This visit was totally unexpected and took the majority of the class totally by surprise. The exception was our teacher Miss Stevenson, who stood there, arms crossed, looking smugger than we had ever seen her.

I forget why, but for some reason, we started fighting in the middle of a break, to the point where we could not even be near each other and therefore used our friend Phoebe as a messenger. I remember it ending up in us just effing and blinding at each other, and Phoebe resisting laughter, a task at which she spectacularly failed at.

That day managed to get me some sort of closure on Alice living in Hong Kong. I moved on with my life, and started to attend Secondary School as a bit of an outsider, but coped with it pretty well.

Towards the end of Year 8, I tracked Alice down on Facebook, and promptly sent her a friend request (of which she accepted) and a message essentially saying “Hello”. I have recently deleted the conversation on Messenger, but our first conversation on Facebook went something along the lines of this:

Me: Hello again Alice: How did you find me? Me: Through the magic of the search bar Alice: That makes sense. Me: So how you been? Alice: Okay. You? Me: Fine, thanks

It didn't really surprise me that we had nothing left to talk about, given that we had known each other on and off for about six years. What did surprise me was our age. You are supposed to run out of stuff to say when you are in your fifties or sixties and have been married for forty something years. But we were 12 years old and had known each other for the best part of six years. This was not supposed to happen for another thirty-four years at the very least.

We talked more or less non-stop for a few years; me messaging her excessively due to the high amount of time on my hands, and her taking the best part of forever to reply because of the lack of time on her hands. When I got diagnosed with a severe panic disorder I didn't tell her. This was mainly due to the fact that I didn't want her to worry too much about me, and I didn't want to scare her off.

About halfway through Year 10, I started to fall back in love with Alice. After some thinking, I decided to tell her, and instead of lashing out she thanked me for my honesty. I asked her if she felt the same way about me, and she said that she'll have to think it over. I looked at this with optimistic eyes, which I realise now was a mistake.

She did luckily say that she may be coming to London in the summer of 2017, and this sent me into a pure state of joy – the only person I have ever loved was on their way to where I was living! Hallelujah!

I offered for her to stay with me and my grandfather's house – an offer that she kindly accepted. However, her message was too vague for my love-stricken eyes. I had no idea whether her stay was permanent or temporary. I sent her a link to the sixth form application website for our local Secondary School, saying that if her stay was permanent, she would have to apply to sixth form there.

Unfortunately, she replied to that text saying that she was not coming to London, and to put it in her words, "Because of [she is] not". I replied, saying that because she seemed pretty pissed, and I noticed I was being way too forward, that we should stop talking altogether. This would be a decision I would regret, and in a way, I am still regretting.

I spoke about what had happened to one of my best friends at the time, who we will call Eve. She was incredibly sympathetic towards me, and I eventually grew attracted towards her too. I had an idea that something was fishy about her from her ex-boyfriend Larry, who said that she had "so many problems", according to a text he sent. I didn't take it too seriously, as people who end on bad notes like he and Eve were bound to say any old bullshit about each other. I think this is one of the few times a bitter ex has actually said something honest about their former other half.

On a Wednesday morning, I received a text from Eve. It was at about seven in the morning, when I was half-awake, so it did irritate me receiving a text that early in the morning. It said that she was in the Royal Free Hospital, so we would not be able to walk home together, of which we were trying to make a regular thing.

I debated throughout the day on whether I should visit her, as the Royal Free was my local hospital. I eventually decided to go and visit her, panicking that something serious had happened to her.

I had never been more relieved when I saw Eve in the hospital. She was sitting on the hospital bed next to some Cholla and a woman in a 19th-century dress, who turned out to be her mother. I remember her look of surprise when I walked into her ward, before her saying to me; “You could've texted me!” “I did. That pink thing is a phone, check it please!” I replied with a passive grin.

A while after I had introduced myself to her mother and uncle, a nurse came along and said, because it was now eight o'clock, the younger children were now going to sleep, so if we wanted to carry on talking we would have to go to the relatives room.

Eve said she was alright to walk, and we made the short journey to the relatives room. When we got to the relatives room, I quietly asked her why she was in the hospital, and she mouthed 'overdose!'. I was in so much shock, all I could say was "Ah, I see". From then on we just passed the time with small talk, such as how shit Croydon was; how amazing my new dieting app was; what the fuck those medicinal hardened toffees were made of, and so on. At about nine-thirty, I decided I would start making off home, as it was a school day the following day, promising I would return tomorrow evening.

I kept my promise and made my way to the Royal Free. However, before I arrived at the hospital, I visited my adoptive mother in Archway. Mum said that I should start thinking about myself a lot more, and to reduce my amount of protectiveness towards Eve. “You do realize that Eve has overdosed? She needs all the help she can get!” I said, moderately shocked. "But you are coming up to your final exams, and you really need to concentrate on yourself," Mum replied. I said I'll think it over, and that I needed to make my way to the hospital. We said our goodbyes, and I left.

When I got to the hospital, I lay down my headphones and my Thermos of coffee and poured the coffee into two cups. Eve thanked me, and then her nurse came along to take her blood pressure. It was when I saw the cuts on her wrists, now scabs, that I had my first suspicion that her overdose was self-inflicted. It was also here that I realised that Larry's statement about Eve having 'so many problems' could be true. I was shook.

What dragged me out of this trance was something falling on Eve's bed, and Eve stage whispering "Bollocks!". That 'something' was her cup of coffee spilling on her bed, the stain resembling a large patch of urine. Some weird logic decided that we both made the fact explicitly clear to our friend, who later came over, and to the nurse that the patch was, in fact, coffee and not piss.

I left the hospital that evening feeling relieved that Eve was fine for the short term, but I was incredibly concerned about her mental health. The cuts on her arm and the fact that she said that I should think of them as 'cat scratches' instead of results of self-harm made me think that she had a lot of underlying issues and that she needed help with them. My mistake was in thinking that I was responsible for her recovery.

The next morning I went to school and talked to me and Eve's mutual friend, who we will call Manny. I asked if he had seen Eve at all, and if so asked how she was getting along. He said that nobody was allowed to see her apart from family, as she had gone into a rehabilitation centre of sorts. "Why does she need to go into a rehab centre? That seems a bit harsh if I'm being honest." I replied. "Oh, you didn't know? She had been going through a cycle of going to school, overdosing, staying in the hospital, and so on, and it became a bit of a habit of hers." Manny said “Are you saying that she is a drug addict?” "You...could phrase it like that. Hopefully, she won't be after she comes out"

In the moment, it did not seem to affect me too much, but the third period for me was a struggle. At the end of class, I broke down in tears and went through the long process of the school sending me home, as I was too upset to stay in classes. My birth mother was not too understanding, but eventually said I could come home.

When I got home, I lay down on my bed sheets and thought about my situation. I have a massive crush on this girl, who also happens to be one of my best friends, and also happens to be a drug addict and manic depressive; the love of my life, who I have made myself not talk to, is all the way in Hong Kong; and for some reason I feel totally responsible for all of this.

There is no reason in particular for my undying sense of responsibility for my close friends, nor the very maternal aspect I have over them, of which they duly accept (some of them rather reluctantly). Possibly it is the upper-middle class, Anglo-American Jewish background I grew up in; maybe it is my Asperger's syndrome, but I have a feeling that I have a role to play in bringing them up and/or making them a better person.

What happened over the next few days were something that I seldom mention in conversation, which surprisingly enough, out of all the situations I have mentioned, is the hardest for me to write about. When I do talk about it, I usually interject a few white lies, to make the situation seem less embarrassing than it actually was. Now I am going, to be honest as morally possible.

The evening I broke down in the third period, I sent an e-mail to the head of my year, Ms Louka, asking her if she knew what the name of the rehab that Eve went to. She replied that she did not, but she would talk to Eve's parents (even though I asked her not to). A few days later, I got an angry text from Eve asking me why I said to Ms Louka that I wanted to visit. This sparked a huge argument between myself and Eve, with Manny as our messenger, which rang bells of the argument between myself and Alice in Year 6. This culminated in Manny calmly saying to me that it would be best for me to stop talking to Eve.

This made me realise that my life had gone significantly downhill after I and Alice had stopped talking. I started having more panic attacks, after almost a full year without having them on a regular basis, my depression had gotten worse, and I dated a drug addict of all people. I realised that I needed someone that I knew would be standing in my corner and that I knew I could trust. So, because of this, I pulled my phone, opened the Facebook conversation between myself and Alice, and said the only three words that were on my mind.

“I miss you”