highstandards-nomotivation

[highstandards-nomotivation]

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Your Choice is Vaild

The day was April 8th, 2017. It was the first decent weathered day that seemed encouraging - a day that promised the return of spring. I felt happy and alive and happy to be alive; something I have had difficulty feeling lately. I felt light, like I could float away at any second, so I was in the constant grasp of my partner in the back seat of their mother’s car. As a passenger, I am constantly taking in the environment around me, constantly looking and examining the world. It’s usually a lovely time; taking in the nature and architecture of old buildings, the history a town has. Although that was not the case for this passenger observing excursion. As we approach the intersection of Gordon and College, I could see from a distance there were two men holding signs. I became interested as to what the signs were advertising or advocating, so I made sure to pay attention to them as we got closer. Every spin of the car wheels brought me closer. Closer to something that made me want to whither up in the backseat and turn to dust, something that made me internally sob for hours, something that reminds me of the haunting dreams I am still not able to shake. We just drove by two grown men holding large anti-abortion signs. I only got a good look at one of the signs before I had to look away out of fear of throwing up. The huge sign displayed dismembered body parts from a late-term abortion to shame those considering it, or those who have already done it. Late-term abortions are only done when the fetus is dead, not going to live outside the mother’s body, or the fetus causes too great a heath risk to the mother - so overall not a great portrayal of abortion if you are wanting to deter people from it. Abortion in the way it is commonly performed is the removing of a cluster of cells that have yet to resemble anything human. The cells and tissues are removed either by an invasive procedure using a suction device or the patient is given medication that will pass the tissues without the invasive method listed above. This is what they are trying to shame people about, to guilt people, to drive them to the brink of insanity. That’s where I was for the most of the car ride after that, I was driven to the brink of insanity.

Flashback to 2015

I was in an emotionally and mentally abusive relationship with a guy, who I have now dubbed Satan. Looking back on the relationship I realized I never really loved him, he just manipulated me into what I thought love was and wouldn’t allow me to leave the relationship. I tried to leave a few times, but he would break down and say he would kill himself if i ever left. I took this to heart as my best friend in 7th grade killed himself and tried to contact me right before he did - I wasn’t going to be the reason someone else took their life. So against my better judgement, I stayed. This relationship came with a set of rules, never explicitly said or written down, but highly implied; I could never say no to sex (any form), I could never talk about my passions , I could never hang out with people without him, I could never not have my phone on my person at all times. Those are just a few of the “rules”. I continue looking back and I realize I was never a girlfriend, I was a housemaid, a grocery shopper, a taxi cab, a bank and a sex toy. Mainly a sex toy. I couldn’t reject any notions, I couldn’t make myself comfortable, I couldn't make my sexual voice heard. He would initiate the notion of sex by making the room pitch black and putting on heavy metal music. This is a night I will never forget, not because it was amazing sex, but because it was the night I became no longer one being, but two. He told me he was wearing a condom, like he always did, but tonight he was lying (leaving me to question how many other times he had done this without my knowledge). All the ingredients were collected together to create a life. Egg and sperm met just as my whole world fell apart.

I missed my period, like clockwork my period would arrive and I was over 5 days late. It took me 2 days of sitting in the car outside of the Shoppers Drug Mart to work up the courage to buy a pregnancy test. Once I got back home I locked myself in the washroom for hours. For hours I paced and cried. I already knew I was pregnant, I could feel it. I didn’t want to take the test to confirm it because I knew there was no way I could keep the baby. The only problem is I loved him so much - my baby that is, not Satan. Once I finally took the test, my theory was confirmed. I never thought I could be haunted by something as simple as two little pink lines.

I told no one. In complete solidarity I tried to figure out what I could do. I wanted to keep this baby, I loved him so much, even though he was just a collection of cells… I wanted the baby. I called him spud, until one night I dreamt of holding a little baby boy who I kept calling Addison. I would day dream about raising the best child I could. I was so in love with him and the possibly of the great things he could do in his life. However, there was no feasible way to keep him. I knew deep down in my heart that I hated my boyfriend, and if I were to have this baby I would need to keep in contact with him forever. My parents hated my boyfriend and would not support my choice at all. There are so many more justifications I could give you, but that’s the thing - I shouldn't have to justify my heartbreak of aborting my baby. I would not have been able to give this baby the good life it should get. He was perfect, but the timing just wasn’t right.

December 19th, 2015 - also known as the worst day of my life. On this day I drove myself to my appointment at a women’s clinic (I wasn’t supposed to drive to or from the appointment but I couldn’t tell anyone, I was so ashamed. Thus I drove myself). The whole car ride I cried, and repeated the same word over and over and over and over again: “sorry.” This was not something I wanted to do, I don't think anyone ever really wants to have an abortion - it’s your last resort. I tried everything, I was up day and night planning if there was anyway I could keep this baby, and the results were always definitive - I could not keep this baby. So there I was, sitting in a waiting room all by myself, my entire body shaking and tears streaming down the side of my face. The receptionist came and sat beside me, handed me a box of tissues and told me I was making the right choice. As they called my name I was brought into a tiny room, my crying had finally subdued. My finger was pricked to indicate my pregnancy and I was told exactly what was going to be happening throughout the duration of the procedure. My eyes were dry until the moment I got brought into the procedure room and was asked to take off my underwear - this is when I knew there was no turning back. I lay on a cold table as they insert an IV that has a mild sedative in it so I don’t feel so much of the pain. My legs are placed in stirrups, something is inserted into my vaginal cavity to expand it, and a vacuum is placed in my uterus to suck out the cells. I sobbed the entire time - 50% from the fact I was not going to have a baby and 50% from the immense amount of pain. I thought I deserved the pain that I was feeling so I took it with no complaint. I sat in a recovery room vomiting, my body didn't respond very well to the sedative and pain, with other women who had just gone through the same thing. There was a monumental range of different feelings in that room. Some were relieved, some were sad, some felt guilt and some felt nothing at all. As I was given the okay to leave, I jumped in my car and went home. I laid in my bed for the whole weekend battling tears and horrible gut-wrenching cramps. I became ridden with shame, guilt, and self-hatred. I never dealt with those feelings, I just pushed them into the back of my mind until April 8th 2017.

As I watched the men and their posters fade smaller and smaller into the background, I couldn't stop myself from thinking “what the fuck do they care?” They are men, they should have no say in abortion - they aren't the ones whose whole body changes and carries a life to term. If someone can’t or just doesn't want to have a baby, that’s their choice. The right to safely terminating an unwanted/unhealthy/unviable pregnancy is something that has been gifted to us in the 21st century. I don’t understand why people want to take away someone’s ability to chose the way their life is going to play out. I saw that sign and all I could think about was my little spud. I felt a moment of incredible sadness over what I had done, but then realized that I did what I needed to do to ensure a good life for myself, so that later on in my life I can provide a great life for a child. The whole rest of the car ride I was reassuring myself that it was the correct thing to do. My heavy heart is still heavy, however it has lightened. The self-hatred is no longer there, because the life that I am living right this moment is going to shape my life into a great one. A life that I could use to support and raise a great human being. I feel confident in my choice, and I am beyond thankful I got a choice. I will support anyone who has to go through this process - because I have reflected on my experience and no one has to go through it alone. Your choice is valid, you don't have to justify yourself to anyone, you have to make your life one you want to live. The next time I see protesters, I am not going to idly sit there in my own shock - I will be ready. They tried to take away my ability to be powerful, but I know for a fact that I am a force to be reckoned with. I had to make a choice, and I made it and for once in my life - I am glad I did.

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Values, Strengths, Passions

Equal treatment for everyone, no matter their defining facts/features, is something that takes up a big space in my heart. It fuels me and keeps me thinking how to change the way the world treats its inhabitants. Thankfully my values and passions go hand in hand with my greatest strength - I am extremely empathetic. I constantly find myself putting myself in other people’s shoes, seeing the world through their lens. Seeing how their life is impacted by the set ways of our society that favours the straight white man. Systematic oppression is something inherently wrong with our world. While systematic oppression is usually centred around sexism, many people fail to realize that it is all connected. We can’t abolish sexism without ridding the world of all oppression like racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, xenophobia, classism, and others. They are all connected to one thing, oppressing those who are not deemed powerful due to old fashion beliefs. My strong sense of empathy is an asset that I believe I have incurred to help those oppressed and educate those who are oppressive without even realizing. I have been discriminated against because of my defining facts and features before, which is why I think I have such a strong sense of empathy for others. However, I wouldn't be able to have empathy for others, if I wasn’t able to have empathy for myself.

There are many covert ways of oppression and stifling who one wants to be. Most of this is taught to you in your younger years based off of your parents/guardians view, or just simply your peers. My mother grew up in an extremely conservative home, her values and my values are very conflictive. Although, when I was younger, we had the same views. It wasn't until I was started to feel uncomfortable and awkward about what my mother had taught me, that I began to change my ways. I grew up racist, sexist, and homophobic, because I was not able to form my own thoughts and opinions, instead my mother’s where taught to me since day one. I didn't think there was a variation from the way she thought, I believed it was the correct way of feeling. I remember my mum telling me that I had to shave my legs, I obliged even though I felt uncomfortable and questioning in my head why I had to shave my legs but my dad was allowed to be hairy. I now don’t shave my legs or armpits because I do not believe that I have to just because I was born as a female. I was met with resistance about this from my mother saying that it was disgusting and not to turn into one of those “hard core feminists.” I have debated with her and tried to get her to see the error of her ways, but she is a work in progress. In high school people would ask why I didn't always shave my legs, and my response was always “because I don't have to” - I was met with people calling me a “feminazi” or unhygienic or straight up weird. A lot of gender non-conforming people face this scrutiny - if they present as female but have hairy legs their integrity and validity is brought into question.

I grew up in the Catholic Church, as I lived with my roman Catholic grandmother who lived in Italy for most of her life. The church and its congregates taught me that being gay was a sin. Any lustful feelings you have for the same sex are thoughts of the devil and should not be pursued. I remember sitting in church and listening to the priest go on an anti-LGBTQ+ rant. While I had been taught to agree, I sat there with a newfound tightness in my chest and a heavy pit in my stomach. I new in that moment that I did not agree, not only did I not agree but it made me furious (I would later on realize the ferocity came from the fact that I was a young closeted queer kid). The high school I spent a good amount of time in didn’t have any clubs to support the scared LGBTQ+ kids at a very intensely catholic high school. Religion class was a mandatory class, and taught a lot of questionable content. I don't think it was the curriculum but instead the bigoted thoughts of my teacher - who would constantly go on anti-LGBTQ+ rants and get most of the class agreeing with her. I think in most classes I am categorized as the shy kid, but I was not in that class. My teacher and I would get into heated debates in the middle of class due to her thinking. After the semester was over, the class would go around and write down a bible verse that represents someone in the class and they will be anonymously given. I didn’t receive a bible verse, but instead a small note from someone in the class thanking me for trying to educate our teacher - because they were in the closet and felt like they couldn't say anything out of fear.

I was never taught a non-oppressive/non-discriminatory way of thinking - I had to learn it from the immense amount of displeasure I found in myself when I was being berated for things I didn’t feel like I could change, or things about myself that I was actually proud of. I don't think that everything I know is right, there is no way it can be because I just do and say what feels right. I have not experienced severe oppression or discrimination - but through the little I have I can only imagine how overtly oppressed people feel. My empathetic ways make me see just how oppressive the world it. I want to protect those who are vulnerable due to the society they live in. I want to be able to install a high level of confidence in those oppressed. I want to help rid the world of systematic oppression and oppression in every single form - no matter how “small” it may seem. This is the most important and vital part of who I am, and I am excited to see how much father this part of me will grow in the upcoming years.

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Invisible Technology

Clothing. Most of us wear it (unless you're a nudest, then… not so much). Most of us spend a good chunk of time in the morning deciding exactly what we are going to wear, how we are going to present ourselves to the world that day. Although there are a lot of people don’t give their clothing choices a second thought, there are a lot of people who do. Take me for example, I currently identify as non-binary (I say currently because that definition fits me at this moment in time, but gender is so fluid I am not putting anything down in stone) so mornings are kind of tricky for me. Am I dressing too feminine? Am I dressing too masculine? What are people going to think of me? Are they going to assume my sexuality and think I am a lesbian? Are they going to think I’m a “tomboy”? These questions swirl through my head every morning as I pick out my attire. So much of someone’s identity is picked up by peers by their choice of clothing, I don’t want to be labelled as a girl or as a boy, because I don’t feel like I fit into either of those categories. But many people will categorize me as female, because not only was that the gender I was assigned at birth, my facial feature resemble someone who identifies as female, more prevalently though - most of my clothes are bought from the “girls" section of stores. While female clothing is not usually my first choice, it was made to be my first choice though out the entirety of my life until I no longer lived at home. If I were to wear a sports bra to try and conceal my chest and a baggy shirt my mum would ask me why I was “dressing like a boy”… which did not help my situation at all because I don't want to look like a boy, I don’t want to look like a girl, I want to look like me, like Sam. This is when I started wearing only baggy sweatpants and sweaters, because sweats aren't typically gendered - however many people thought I was just a slob. It wasn't until I came to university that I felt like I was truly able to dress how I wanted. I came to school and almost exclusively wore dresses because my mum said that it would be the best thing for me. Turns out it wasn’t because I was constantly and extremely uncomfortable. Being away from home and from my families outdated ideas about what it meant to be a human, I was able to find myself and find what I was most comfortable in. I am surrounded by so many people who support me unconditionally and just want me to be happy in my own body, people who never judge me for what I am wearing, and people who don’t make assumptions about who I am based on the way that I dress. I truly believe that clothing is a vital invisible technology, it can completely change the way you feel about yourself and the way that people perceive you. Most people don’t think about the implications of their clothing because they don’t have to, but for a lot of queer and LGBT+ community members, it’s a big part of our life.

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Youth Resources

Interventionist digital project 2

Fixing a city: Milton Ontario...

We would like to employ a curriculum change for students in high school for further drug education. When you are in elementary school you go through the “D.A.R.E.” program or a program with a similar objective. While this is a good start, we believe the education should not stop there. You go through the D.A.R.E. program in sixth grade, although this is a good place to stop it goes a little untouched. In sixth grade there are not many drugs/alcohol at your disposal, they aren’t something in the forefront of sixth grade life. Therefore, we believe that when drugs/alcohol comes into view in high school the past knowledge has been lost. We would like to make a drug education class mandatory for grade 9 and 10, and have it available but optional for grades 11 and 12. Many high school students in Milton, Ontario turn to drugs for a few reasons: there is little to nothing to do, there is poor mental health support and they try to self medicate, and there is just a large amount of drugs in the town. By educating students about the harm certain drugs can do to their developing brain, how it can impact their life long-term, etc. it is our hope that the drug use in teens in Milton will significantly lower. This will work alongside with the youth recreation centre we are hoping to bring to Milton.

A little background as to why we are passionate about this problem. One of the team members lives in Milton and has seen a lot of the issues first hand. There were kids overdosing in the school bathrooms being brought out of the school on stretchers. There were countless arrests on school grounds with youth using or selling drugs. Most people push the issue aside because they think the students are just smoking marijuana and it’s a fairly harmless drug, but the problem is much deeper than that; coke, heroin, xanax, LSD, etc. This is not something that should be happening in one of Canada’s fastest growing municipalities. Milton is a commuter town. Most adults/parents who live there work in Toronto and make the commute every morning and night. There is very little to do for kids/teens. When there is little to do, and hours before parents get home from their Toronto commute, kids get bored and with a plethora of drugs bored kids turn to them as a way of entertainment. We are hoping to combat this by bringing the Fusion Recreational Facility from Ingersoll to Milton. The University of Guelph did a study about Fusion and its relation to youth crime and delinquency: <<http://www.fusionyouthcentre.ca/corporate/images/impact/reports/Impact%20_Youth_Crime.pdf>> This study proves that with the Fusion Youth Centre the youth crime rates and delinquency rates significantly improved in Ingersoll. This program would give youth practical abilities such as: cooking classes with volunteers, building computers and technology recycling, employment resources and workshops and GED and adult learning. Youth will also be able to gain meaningful friendships through: a gymnasium and organized sports, game rooms with video games, television and movies. The youth centre is Governmentally supported, and a year long membership only costs $5.

Along with having little to do, youth in Milton have very minimal mental health support. There is the Milton Hospital and that’s about it. It is known that many kids attempt to self medicate themselves with the drugs that are available to them in the school. The Fusion Youth Centre will provide youth with mental health resources and support.

Overall, there is a lack of youth resources in Milton, and the ones that are available cater to a small demographic. We believe that if we were to give the youth something to do (FUSION) and by educating them on the effects and consequences of drugs Milton will be a better, healthier, and safer place for youth.

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Speaking Subjectively

When I was a small kid I developed a bad stutter (who ever put 3 “t’s” in stutter needs to seriously reevaluate their life). There was little to no pattern to my stutter, sometimes I could say words flawlessly and other times I would get caught up on the exact same word. It was a frustrating time for everyone; my parents couldn’t stand it, I got made fun of for it, teachers got fed up trying to listen to me talk in class. So, I just stopped talking unless it was absolutely necessary for me to do so. I became very quiet and sunk further into myself - from being the shy kid with a stutter, I became the shy kid who never said anything. My third grade teacher noticed and found it very worrisome and alerted my parents to the issue at hand, suggesting I see a speech therapist. Thus, I began speech therapy.

I was no longer able to talk the way that came naturally to me. I was trained to think of every letter, every syllable, how to shape my mouth and how to calm down my brain. It really messed with me, because I loved how I spoke (until kids started berating me for it), I thought I sounded like me. All that got taken away when I was posed into being an efficient speaker. Speaking efficiently comes far more robotic to me than how I used to speak. Although I had a stutter, it felt natural and like it flowed, now sometimes I feel choppy.

On another note, growing up my mum called objects by names I thought were normal, for example: over-easy eggs are called “dippy eggs” at home, Ziploc bags have always been called “zippy bags.” I thought for the majority of my life that that’s what those things were legitimately called, until I received grievance for it in high school. I used to pronounce the word racoon like ruh-coon until I got into an argument with a girl in school about it (the whole class sided with her). I just think that it is so strange that we can go our whole life thinking we are saying something the way it is supposed to be said, or calling it what it is supposed to be called. To one day having your whole world turned upside down when you are told you’re wrong; it’s quite a striking moment.

I believe in owning yourself and who you are, but with speaking and language it becomes difficult. To be the odd one out and be berated for how you say something, or if you stutter, makes it increasingly difficult to own that part of you. I wish I could have owned my stutter but I was so small I felt like I did not have an option, I thought my speaking needed to be “fixed.” When in reality I was still able to get my point across and sound educated at the same time, I just wasn’t in the vast majority of my speaking peers. I think everyone should be entitled to the way they speak, because it is a very important part of who they are.

[highstandards-nomotivation]

UOG Life Line

Interventionist digital project 1

Making the school a better place....

Health services - more specifically the mental health section have been struggling at  the University of Guelph. The combination of the lack of services and lack of information, it can be difficult for students to seek and find  help. The way to combat these issues can be addressed in one simple solution: a chat website run by upper year Psychology students (either offered as a credit or contributes to their grade). Once created this website would be a 24/7 chat network that would offer support to University of Guelph students in crisis (ranging from abnormal stress from an overdue assignment to more serious mental health concerns). The Supporters would help the students through any problem at hand and have the power to not only book appointments for the student at counselling or health services but to also refer to them to emergency services at Guelph General Hospital. The supporters would also have the power to alert R.A.’s if the student is in residence and needs support immediately.

The main focus of the website is the chat, even though there are countless phone numbers you can call, (Kids Help Phone, ROCK crisis line, etc.) when students are experiencing difficulties/a crisis it can be particularly difficult to talk those problems out loud. I know for myself, it is much easier to articulate my problems through writing them down, not speaking out loud. When I was struggling with my mental health I never reached out to the call centres because I was too anxious to verbalize my problems to another person. The chat would be a great way to eliminate that extra stress with communicating out loud. While the main focus of this site would be the chat line there are other pages where students can access different resources such as: a list of coping skills, external sources, a calendar of stress relief sessions and positive affirmations.

External sources that would be offered in the External Sources tab:

http://thequietplaceproject.com/thethoughtsroom/?page=thethoughtsroom&lang=

http://thequietplaceproject.com/90seconds

http://thenicestplaceontheinter.net/

http://sleepyti.me/

https://29a.ch/sandbox/2011/neonflames/

http://ww3.safestyle-windows.co.uk/the-secret-door/

http://www.cse.unsw.edu.au/~geoffo/humour/flattery.html

http://chooserecovery.tumblr.com/Websites

http://just-another-blogging-recoverer.tumblr.com/post/83344912162/head-to-toe-self-care

[highstandards-nomotivation]

Narrative Story

I reluctantly enter the world after being brought back to life by the doctor’s cold rough hands. I do not want this life. I know that I should not be here and I try so desperately to rid myself of the impending doom that will be my primitive years. My heart beat slows and slows, they try stimulating me but it makes my heart beat drop even further, to the point where it is no longer beating. Here I am happy. Floating, being nothing, dissolving back into the body I was created in. It’s dark... peaceful... until I am cut out of my mother and brought into a world I wish I hadn’t seen.

Damn, those doctors are good, I guess it’s their job to save lives, even unborn babies. I am poked and prodded for hours or days... I have yet to develop a concept of time. All I know is I want to be held by someone who loves me. As I am finally gently laid into my mother’s arms, I hear crying. No, not crying... sobbing. I hear a “please not now, I can’t look at her” my mother says weakly, as my father steps back into the room with alcohol lingering on his breath.

An old lady shows up and runs right over to where I lay. I see something strange, her mouth is curled and she is flashing her teeth. There is a sparkle in her eyes... is this a smile? I am unfamiliar with those. She picks me up quickly but tenderly, I lean against her chest hearing her heart beat fast and strong. In that moment I know that it was indeed a smile. She radiates happiness and love, finally I am held by someone who loves me. I scream out of joy, don’t blame me... it’s the only way I know how to communicate. As I scream I hear my mum yell “shut her up or get out of here!” but I quickly forget that comment because the old lady rocks me back and forth, whispering, “shhh, Nonna’s here, Nonna’s got you.” Nonna...? Nonna. I can tell I’m going to like you already.

As I grow my mum does not touch me, Nonna does not let her anymore after the bathtub incident -

When I am submerged in the water for the first time, I am reminded of the womb. It is warm and safe, out of harms way - but suddenly I start to panic. Something is not right... I could breathe inside the womb but I can not breathe here... Oh come on, I just got the hang of it! They took me off the machine I’m supposed to be able to breathe by myself! I just want to breathe!

Pressure. There is pressure on my chest, forcing me down - pulling me up above the water and then pushing me right back in. Water fills my lungs, there is not supposed to be water here - it hurts... it burns... everything starts to fade... I feel no more pain, I have no care in the world - I don’t even care if I never get another warm and loving embrace again... Suddenly there is a blinding light -

I must have made quite a fuss because Nonna says she was worried and came in the bathroom just in time. My little fingers were cold despite being submerged in warm water. She got the water out of my lungs and started to bounce me up and down, trying to make me stop screaming. Over my wailing I hear my mother, sobbing, yet again. I look over at her, she is soaking wet and curled up in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, muttering the same word over and over and over again: sorry.

Sorry... I hear this word a lot: Sorry, I can’t hold her. Sorry, I can’t... can you feed her. Sorry, I just need to sleep. Sorry, you need to shut her up I can’t hear her right now... The list goes on and on and

on and on. I am able to speak early on in my life, but the only word I know how to say is sorry.

At this point in my life I have two best friends. Their names are Nonna and Nonno. I never have to apologize to them. Nonno loves taking me outside to pick figs from the fig tree and playing in the yard. We run around in the backyard for most of the afternoon with the dog -

it’s one of our favourite hobbies. Some days I can’t get Nonno out of bed... some days he walks instead of runs... some days he is brought to his knees because of a coughing fit. He starts getting slower and slower as the days go on. His posture becomes small, I never saw him as an old man before, but suddenly thats all I can see. He doesn't get out of bed anymore, his muscles have rejected his want to play with me. His body is no longer in agreement with our love of playing.

I ask Nonna why he can’t play with me anymore and she tells me something I wish never heard: Nonno has fallen ill. He is so frail... so small. They say he has cancer, of the lungs, brain, blood, liver, and bone. Years of smoking, drinking and factory working has eaten away at his body, leaving him bedridden. The cancer took away his smile, my favourite accessory he wore. In one swift movement it took his life away. He lay on his death bed, it’s hard to tell what is his body and what is not - there are so many tubes and machines keeping him alive. My family surrounds him, knowing that he will be leaving us soon.

Someone had brought him “get well soon” balloons a few days before. As if balloons were going to help the situation at hand... but I love balloons. So, cradled on my Nonna’s hip, I reach over excitedly to grab the balloons. As she looses her grasp on me I fall right on to Nonno’s chest. I hear his ribs crack under my falling weight, the gasp of his breath, the scream of my father once he realizes what I have done. I am whisked away faster than I can even fathom. As I get one last glance of my best friend his body no longer looks familiar - it’s so stiff and broken... I did that... I did that... I destroyed him... Dad didn’t take it so well, I killed his father, he couldn't even look at me for a solid month. He wouldn’t talk to me, he never glanced at me, never even hugged me... Then dad started drinking even more...

Dad throws things now, bottles, plates, chairs. I am a moving target and he misses - “sorry”

Dad drinks so much vodka, whiskey, beer, wine. But I get in the way too much when he drinks - “sorry”

Dad yells at the top of his lungs, I cower, which makes him yell louder... “WHY ARE YOU SCARED OF ME?!”

“sorry...”

He chases me around the house, beer in one hand, the other is balled into a fist out of rage “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I shriek, trying to find a way to escape. This is when I learn that hide and seek is quite a fun game to play.

I’m still best friend’s with Nonno. He comes to visit me sometimes in my room. Dad does not like it much, he gets very angry when I talk to Nonno. He says to stop rubbing it in his face, to stop bringing him up, to stop lying or something... its hard to understand him when he talks and drinks at the same time. Nonna says I can still see him because he is my guardian angel, that makes me smile (something I have trouble doing these days). I constantly feel like someone is behind me, and I used to be very afraid of that feeling, but I find comfort in it because I know it is just Nonno looking out for me. Nonno isn’t mad at me for what I did.

One night he sat on my bed and whispered “principessa” to wake me up, he said “thank you, I did not have the heart to leave you guys, I was holding on to a fraying rope and I didn’t have much longer... thank you principessa, I’m so sorry that it’s so hard, I’m sorry I didn’t raise my son better. I love you and I will always be here for you... never forget that.” I will never forget this night for as long as I live. As I grew I saw less and less of Nonno, but I still felt him around every corner and in every breath. My heart still skips a beat every time I hear the word “principessa.”

I don’t remember when things got better, one day it just did. Dad pours himself a glass of orange juice during breakfast instead of cracking open a beer. Dad gets sober. He gives me piggyback rides now and we joke around. There hasn't been a time where he has actually said sorry. He doesn’t need to because I can see it every time he looks at me. The regret hidden behinds smile, the wariness in his caress. He feels pain for the past, the same way I do. We don’t venture into the past very much these days, but he always says he's never been a fan of drinking when we do. I know dad, don’t worry, it’s okay.

One windy fall day, my mom reaches down and grabs my hand while we are walking with Nonna through the forest. I can’t remember the first or last time mum made contact with me affectionately... There is a feeling of electricity and warmness that I have only ever felt from Nonna and Nonno. Does she love me finally? Am I no longer viewed as a mistake? For the first time in my life my mum tucks me into bed at night. I can’t sleep - I never can. Usually Nonna comes and lays with me and rubs my back until I drift away. Mum hears me crying and comes to my room. I hear her hesitate outside my closed door for just a moment, take a deep breathe and then slowly open the door. She sits on the edge of my bed and just stares at me, I stare right back, her eyes start to glisten with tears. “I’m sorry” I hear her whisper. “I’m sorry” I repeat back, my voice small and shaking as my mother breaks down and hugs me for the first time in both of our lives. I smile, I feel her cheeks tense up into a smile against my face. I know, in this moment, that the darkness is parting.