#don’t tell me about how your best friend ‘corrects the behavior’ of his autistic child and not expect me to get fucking livid about it.

[should-be-sleeping]

youre autisic correct? (i dont remember who i follow that is sorry if im wrong) my little brother is autistic and im trying to teach him how to be nicer. his school friends have taught him how to hit people and cuss and spit at people, i want to help him understand why thats not nice, he thinks its funny. thank you so much for the help!!

I am, yes. This is cumbersome to answer because I’m not sure what your brother is like. I don’t know his age and autism varies a lot from person to person, like some are verbal and some aren’t. Some have sensory issues, some don’t. Some are easily influenced, others are not. Some you see a lot of ehcolalia, others practically none. Some are in special classes or schools and some are mainstreamed. The variables are numerous.For example as a child I had a severe aversion to touching other people at all, so I never went through a phase where I might hit someone else because the idea of touching them was repulsive.But, I’ll try to offer some advice/insight both as an autistic person, the parent of an autistic person, and a person who has dealt with a great number of young children both autistic and not in general. It’s a little long, so I threw it under a cut.(Read more…)

To start, I would say to try explaining it whether he’s verbal or not and if you need to, break it down into simpler cues. Like the PECS icon or ASL sign for “stop” if receptive ID is something he’s still working on area great tools. A hard “stop” and then shutting down the scenario will convey that it’s not acceptable behavior over time. It can be tricky when harmful behaviors crop up in kids in general because they are too young to understand why they shouldn’t be mean (like emotional cause and effect isn’t really a thing until much older) and if the child is more expressive than receptive it can be even harder to help them find alternative means for whatever they are actually trying to express. Rarely are harmful behaviors actually wilful acts of defiance.Giving them the power to remove themselves from situations entirely as needed is what generally helps the most as many “negative” stims and echolalia are triggered by overstimulation or stress. So teaching a kid to recognize when things are getting to be too much and letting the kid say, “All done,” or “Break time,” and remove themselves to another room away from everything else can prevent a lot of these behaviors in general. When they feel trapped in a situation or area, they are more likely to express harmful behaviors in trying to cope with it.For example, if given the choice between spitting on a peer or going and using the computer or tablet for 15 minutes in a quiet place, I’m willing to bet they’ll choose the later. Positive reinforcement works better with kids overall. If you respond to their hitting someone by hitting them, you’re only showing them that it’s okay for people to hit people. You know? A better method is just, “Why hit someone when you could be doing this totally cool thing instead? Here, let’s play this game you LOVE or have this snack that is your favorite (or whatever).” Aim to try to offer the alternative before violence is actually carried out so that it doesn’t seem like a reward. Like the instant a peer interaction starts to go south, offer the alternative.What I also see a lot is autistic kids playing out “skits” of things they saw at school as a form of echolalia. So they do things like hit people or spit on them and maybe even repeat a phrase in association with that act repetitively because they saw someone else doing it and it just becomes A Thing for a while. My son, who is autistic too, often echolalia’s his teacher’s reprimanding other students (we hear a lot of, “Max, no! Chloe no climbing! Jojo, shoes on!” etc.) Sometimes your response to this is the “amusing” part as you are raising your voice or behaving “new and differently” for reasons they don’t understand yet. At times the best way to break a habit is to pretend it isn’t happening until they move on to the next one. I know that is harder when the habit that’s been formed is potentially harming someone but patience is really the key. If you have to react, keep it simple to limit how interesting your reaction seems. Around here a disinterested, “Mn, no thank you.” tends to work way better than any sort of overt frustration which is found very interesting more often than it’s curbed any behaviors.You can try working on zones of regulation (color coded moods, basically, to make them easier to recognize) as a way for them to learn their own boundaries and those of others, but you will have to be consistent. If your brother has a speech therapist or OT, you can talk to them about ideas that they can reinforce as well. Getting “same” input from multiple sources is really helpful in forming and reinforcing positive coping mechanisms.I hope any of this has helped at all. Feel free to send me additional details if you’d like more specific advice. But ultimately it’ll be patience and persistence that’ll help you both the most. You can also pull the kids aside that are teaching him these things, intentionally or not, and explain to them the damage they are causing. They may not care, but if you threaten to tell their moms/dads, you may find they suddenly care a whole lot more.

[katiasstories]

Twin flames burn out

Twins flames are very different and very rare.  Twin flames are two people in two separate bodies that share the same soul. When twin flames meet and are ready for each other, it is the most enjoyable experience possible on earth. - Arianni Masters on twin flames.

                                                    *

She is a human who I could never read, but our connection made this clear: She was me and I was her.

Sunlight permeated my dull stare when my eyes would meet Sammi’s. In her presence, a force would enthrall me, drawing me to a location that resided deep within the depths of my mind: My “happy place.” This region felt celestial and unexpectedly familiar, and quite frankly, our connection absolutely astonished me. I was ignorant to the fact that another human being on this planet could love every single aspect of me--both horrendous and terrific--until I met her.

Her ramen noodle hair, protruding collar bones, and ice-blue eyes spellbound me from the moment my gaze landed on her.

                                                                *

          I had become aware of her existence during my junior year of high school. My boyfriend at the time had just broken up with me, and my friends had informed me that there was a new girl on his radar: Sammi.

Slowly but surely, her existence grew prevalent in my world. This was no shocker, as it was made clear that she was newly included in my high school “friend group.”

I tried to hate her but I couldn’t. It was nearly impossible.

"Don't worry about Damien. Personally, he's too short. I just wanna use his bong," Sammi had reassured me, speaking about the first boy who had torn apart my heart. I barely knew her but I smiled in response, relief and thankfulness coating my aura. She didn’t owe me an explanation--but that was just Sammi being Sammi.

She was as sweet as the caramel popcorn I was obsessed with at the local farmer’s market. She radiated an energy that I could not ignore. There was simply something about her that differed from any other human being I had ever encountered. A voice in the back of my head whispered that her eyes told a story that her mouth could not. A dark, mysterious tale that never failed to pull me in.

           I found myself daydreaming a friendship with her: In my head we would go hiking and I would bring a bottle of plain, stolen Smirnoff. We would take swig after swig until we were inebriated to the point of no return. Then we would spill tears over insecurities no other human knew existed. The night would end with my heart feeling as if it had been wrapped with a heated blanket.

            These thoughts continued to crash into my mind, as all I longed for was to be understood. Her small, insecure smile told me she could possibly play the part.

                                                            *

As I sit here and write about Sammi, I can’t help but dig my fingernails deep into my scalp and scratch nervously. There is something relieving about creating a scab, picking at it, removing it, and repeating the process over and over again. It is an utterly disgusting and appalling habit, but nevertheless, brings my racing heart to a hault.

Sammi was truly magical, as she possessed the power my anxious habit held. She taught my over-chaotic heart how to beat to the tune of a soft melody--a lesson I had presumed was unachievable for somebody like me.                                            

                                                          *

I was put in a private, Catholic school since the age of five. After graduating the school at fourteen, I moved onto a bigger private school--this time, all girls. Yet again, I was expected to wear a uniform and praise Jesus.

As a kid, it was something I was “supposed” to do. I didn’t question why I wore the same thing every single day, or why I sang songs at church that I did not fathom at all. But this time around, I felt a surge of uncomfortableness flow through my body as I took my first step into the Garaventa center: Carondelet’s cafeteria, paid by some girl’s dad.

I felt like I was wearing a disguise. It was as if I were a grown-up, playing dress-up with the wrong clothes and feeling downright awkward as I observed my silly costume. My faith in my so-called God was dwindling, resulting in a great feeling of shame that varnished every step I took. I didn’t want to be here--but I was supposed to be.

I gulped and scanned the large, crowded room. The sound of annoying, screeching female voices projected all throughout my ears. Although my surroundings were incredibly irksome, I couldn’t help but yearn to fit in. Strangely, another part of me wanted to be part of the annoyingness. A small side of me wanted to be what I was taught was successful: a preppy girl who worshipped God, got good grades, and could talk to anyone without hesitation.

As I hovered the room, my heart sank to the realization that I could never be what they wanted me to be. They being my parents, teachers, peers, nuns, neighbors, and pretty much every person I had ever encountered in my sheltered life. My heart continued to fall as I picked up my pace, taking in all of the pretty, rich girls laughing together and most likely talking about De La Salle boys--the all boys’ school, right across the street.

I just need to find somebody to sit with, I told myself, silently praying to a false God that perhaps I would run into someone from my old school. Although I had close to no friends from my previous school, I knew someone would feel bad and ask me to join them. They always felt bad.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted Riley. She was short, lean, and tan with golden blond hair always put up into a ponytail. Her eyes were blue and her nose bulbous. In eighth grade, she had liked me because I would constantly feed her seventh grade gossip. We called ourselves “gossip queens” and spread shit like wildfire. Surely, she would invite me to sit with her.

Our eyes met and she instantly looked away, talking louder as if to to tell me, “Sorry Katia! I’m busy!”

I sighed deeply and thought, fuck it. My heart was racing and my hands were clammy as I grabbed a hot lunch from a far-away counter. I paid for my food, and without further hesitation, made my way to the bathroom. The bathroom was the best hiding place--well, any bathroom. As an elementary school kid, I practically lived in one. It was the easiest way to avoid all of the laughter, voices, and familiar faces that I so-critically needed to escape from.

I grew to tolerate this environment. I convinced myself that it didn’t matter that I had barely any friends--all that mattered were my grades, and in turn I would probably end up at UCLA and laugh at all of the dumb bimbos. These dreams were basically instilled in my head--it was something I never thought about. It was something I was told to want.

My younger sister, Elaine, joined me at Carondelet the next year. She felt even worse than I did, and constantly made jokes about the school’s cult-like behavior. She insisted that every student here--except for us--were robots, brainwashed since the age of four by Catholics, who were brainwashed by previous Catholics, and so on and so forth. She sounded silly to me as I started to make more friends and obtain marvelous grades. I had felt the exact same way, but the illusion of rich, privileged girls blinded me. I wanted to be just like them.

“Please. Please. Please. Can we transfer schools?” My sister had begged my parents one day, for the millionth time. My mom looked disgusted. My dad carried no expression as he often did, but I could see that he was carefully dissecting Elaine’s words.

“How do you feel about this, Katia?” He asked.

The thought of public school had never crossed my mind. It never needed to cross my mind. I was taught that public schools were inferior and only contained poor and dumb kids. In eighth grade, every kid who went on to continue a private education was praised and called in front of the whole school. I felt like a princess up there, grinning and feeling like the ultimate role-model. Public school? Ew, no.

This was the brainwashed part of me thinking clearly over the real me--the real me being a human who thinks for herself. She didn’t quite exist, but her presence was there. I knew I was supposed to laugh in my dad’s face at such a suggestion, but instead, my heart spoke up.

“Yeah uh, that would be cool.”

                                                 *

Clearly, I was as nervous and insecure as a human could get. School counselors, a psychiatrist, a speech therapist, and group therapy had convinced me that the chemicals in my head were “unbalanced.”

“Dijeron que eras autista,” my mother had told me in high school. I raised an eyebrow as I mentally translated her words. They said you were autistic.

My dad scoffed, looking at my mom as if she were a clueless child.

“No. It’s called selective mutism,” my dad corrected her, speaking in clear English for my benefit.

I  rolled my eyes. I had “beat” my mental illness in middle school and could now talk to people. Eye contact wasn’t a problem, either. I had shoved every insecurity and self-loathing thought into the back of my head the second I had made it clear to the world that I was “normal.” This was around the age of fourteen, when I left the bubble of private school and entered the larger bubble of high school. I then shrugged in response, reacting as if my parents were talking about an old dog.

At this time, I was now in public school and had a surprisingly solid group of friends. The absence of religion class and rich girls lifted a heavy weight off my shoulders.

                                                                *

It is impossible to drown your demons, especially when they know how to swim. You can cut off their arms and their legs, and still a life-preserver will be thrown in their direction. So although I acted like a “normal” high schooler, my selectively-mute-self was still present underneath. In fact, she was dying to be heard. No one had ever paid much attention to her.

I touch my head and feel a sudden jolt of pain. I squint my eyes as I observe the top of my index finger. There is a single point of blood. Strangely, I am satisfied. I can’t stop my hovering fingers as I reach in for more: More bumps to be smoothed over, more scabs to be plucked off. At a moment like this, the so-called chemicals in my head feel perfectly balanced. It was the perfect distraction from the ill thought of Sammi.

                                                                *

The irony is that I try to ease my nerves over the only person who could ease my nerves. Perhaps it was all in my head, though. I had painted Sammi as a masterpiece: My beautiful twin flame, a human who shared my soul and could virtually do no wrong, since she was a part of me and I was a part of her.

Perhaps that is why I spit and shouted viscous words uncontrollably as I watched warmth paralyze her body one scorching night.

            Fast-forward to summer vacation after my first year of college. Naturally, all I desired to do in my hometown was bask in her presence. I couldn’t help the yelling as she lay there.

I was at Cowell Park and the sun had just tucked itself away to its hiding place. Darkness encompassed the environment, as well as ourselves. Her humanity was evanescing as each second drew by. In my eyes, Sammi committed the ultimate betrayal: She filled up her body with a false feeling of warmth and love, taking away the pain that I loved her for. I was in a state of shock, horror, and denial as rage boiled my blood.

"Godfuckingdammit Sammi!" I clamored, gritting my teeth at the sight of her eyes glazing over.

That night, the sun had put itself to sleep and so had Sammi. The heroin she snorted behind my back became harrowingly clear as she lay there like a corpse, getting up momentarily only to vomit. The taco bell and alcohol I had brought her that afternoon was as temporary as my anger.

The rage subsided with a sweeping feeling of anguish. I suddenly burst into tears as Sammi tried to form a response. She was incoherent and unaware of the reality that overflowed my eyes.

                                                      *

Sometimes I treat myself as if it had been me who had put heroin under her nose. Sometimes I look at myself as if it had been me who had handed her the meth pipe. Sometimes I scratch my head furiously, as if it had been me who was the source of the seemingly, neverending pain behind her eyes.

Convincing myself that I was Sammi and Sammi was me had rotted my brain entirely. We made ourselves responsible for each other’s feelings--a wise choice in high school, considering we looked at one another with nothing but admiration and love.

Sweet, sober Sammi had always carried pain in her eyes. That’s what attracted me to her. She was as insecure as I was, which made our masks transparent almost instantly. We revealed ourselves to each other as the vulnerable human beings that we truly were. Our insecurities gripped and held each other's hands tightly, ultimately convincing me that she nor I would never let go.

What lured me in was the simple fact that Sammi did not  tell me about her pain. Looking into her eyes was like looking into a crowded room--there was so much there, so many people to greet and meet and search for. I constantly found myself sifting through the wreckage that was the crowded room. Sometimes I would find things, sometimes I would not. Failure had only prompted me to try harder.                                              

All I craved was to know more and more. I wanted to scrape off every bump and lump and scab and anything ugly that stuck--kind of like what I would do to my head. Little by little she would reveal bits and pieces of hidden pain. The times she did warmed my heart with an unfamiliar feeling of incredible ease. It was the ultimate high, as well as the ultimate chase. But just like a picked off scab, a new one would always arise. I could never truly get to the center. I could never truly feel satisfied.

        Alas, her depression helped me fall in love with myself. It made sense--she was me and I was her.

But it grew increasingly harder to get her to open up. It became apparent that we connected beautifully in altered states of minds, so I used drugs to help win her over, to help me crack the uncrackable code to her brain.

                                                           *

I had given her her first few highs.

After knowing her for over a month, I brought Sammi to her first high school party and opened up a new world for her. I remember laughing when she puked in my dad’s car, as it was her first time dabbling with alcohol. Together, we went up to stranger after stranger in search of that bitter, powerful nectar that our insecure-selves so desperately needed. We ended up receiving a copious amount from a variation of creepy men and overly-nice females.

Months later, I couldn’t help but grin from ear-to-ear as I watched her cackle, her eyes filling up with tears of joy and confusion. She was finally high for the first time.

We smoked everyday: before and after school. When our lives were struck with boredom, we would bring weed brownies to school and watch our day unfold through hazy eyes and lazy smiles. It felt nice to have a partner in crime, someone who understood and participated in your fucked up thought process. I only say this because my friends at the time were not into “partying”, nor leaving their insecure-selves for a night. Sammi was the only one who was down. She was always down. Down to drink, down to hang out with random strangers we would meet, down to represent ourselves as rebellious in contrast to our school selves: shy girls who did what they were expected to do.

And then I found myself rubbing tears off of my face after she told me, “Katia...you’re my best friend. I hate everyone except for you.”

Of course, she was drunk and stumbling as she revealed this information. But I didn’t care. It had been the first time the words “best” and “friend” had been uttered from Sammi’s full lips and directed towards mine. Hell, it had been the first time anyone had referred to me as their best friend. I hesitated until I saw tears form behind her eyes as well. I let myself cry after I told her I loved her back.

                                                    *

One drunken night, I had told Sammi about my past. I told her that I had hated myself all of my life because I did not know who I was. I didn’t have a voice. Her eyes were glossy as she listened to my words. I had never told anybody this--not even my own sister, who was a year younger than I was and very close to me.

Her eyes told me she could be trusted with my sadness. “Katia, you’re beautiful. I can’t believe you don’t see you how I do…” She said, true desolation coating her soft, high-pitched voice.

Silence neighbored us for a moment. She continued, discomfort arising as her words trailed on. “I hate myself too. I always have. I don’t know...I’ve just always felt sad. Some therapist said I should take antidepressants….fuck that shit..I don’t know...I just don’t know.”

She looked down awkwardly, stopping before she spit out more words she would regret. I felt my heart exhaust veneration and compassion after I processed her words. I put my arm around her and we stayed like that for a while. The silence was soothing.

That was the nature of our relationship. We would do stupid things, medicate ourselves; and then talk, cry, or spout feelings of mutual insecurity. I tried to piece together her brain, but found myself defeated, feeling as if I'd been working on a Calculus problem. I knew that her father cheated on her mother, and I knew that she oftentimes loathed her sister. But besides that, Sammi was a gooddamn mystery. It was irritating yet enticing. And although I never got the full story, there was always that pain, that force, that entity behind her eyes that shouted and practically begged for love. That same force stood behind my eyes, too, I thought.

I remember telling her I would never leave her--that she should never feel alone because I would always be there, physically and spiritually. In response, she would look at me with bright eyes, appalled yet overjoyed at such promises. We were both utterly shocked that somebody could love us entirely. But it made sense, since she was me and I was her.

I had lied straight to her face, though. I graduated and it was my time to leave Concord and move up north, three hours away to a farmish-looking town called Chico.

                                                    *

I had, and still have, the desire to wrap her up, put her in a suitcase, and run. The thought of a new life without her weighed my heart down, as if her presence was necessary for survival. She had been a part of my everyday life for the past two years, and now I was abandoning her for college.  We both knew it--and coincidentally, neither one of us said a word about it.

I felt like a traitor meeting new people, going to parties, attending classes, and reciting a new address in Chico. For the first time in years, I felt excited about my life. Everything felt so new, a feeling I was unaware of because I had been stuck in the same place for the majority of my life. The fact that Sammi could not share this beautiful feeling deeply saddened me. Since she was me and I was her, I felt like a thief capturing this new experience without her.

Sammi was spiritually glued to my side--she had always been--but her presence felt eerily absent as I began this “new life” on my own. I was stepping into a new chapter with the intent of keeping Sammi at the center of my heart, and I was failing miserably.

“I feel like I’m stuck in a hole,” Sammi would tell me at least once a week that first semester of my freshman year in college.

I would respond with something along the lines of, “Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon,” as if her problems would be immediately be solved by my presence.

So I would constantly find myself a sluggish zombie on my uncomfortable dorm-room bed, contemplating thoughts of Sammi. No human I had met in college could even come close to her. I found myself comparing every living thing to our connection, thus feeling greatly unsatisfied. The magic of Chico was fading and her presence was becoming increasingly truant.

So I saved up my allowance and took the four-hour train-ride home to Concord. I had one thing and one thing only on my mind: Reconnecting with Sammi. I needed her as much as she needed me, I thought. And I was convinced the only way I could accomplish this was through a new substance: LSD.

                                                               *       

Right before I left for college, Sammi and I had made a strong connection when we both tried MDMA for the first time together. Feeling as if I were flying, and my head were in the clouds, a warmth paralyzed my body and sang in tune with Sammi's. "Rolling" is what they call the MDMA high. More like, MDMA-zing. My eyes grew wide when suddenly, I had an epiphany.

        "I think I've figured it out. Right now, serotonin and dopamine are flooding are brains, and we feel the same. I know this sounds crazy.. but I think we have the same brain... like, when we're sober... we have the same chemical imbalances," I had said, talking almost a mile per minute,.

"Dude...that makes sense," Sammi responded, her attention focused elsewhere. She was in her own world, too high to process what I had just said. But when she looked at me, I was immediately pulled into that crowded room that was her eyes. In this state of mind, I could swiftly enter the room and vibe with all the people. Suddenly, they all liked me. Her eyes danced and mine did as well. This told me she understood. Perhaps I was more convinced than she was. But in my head it made absolute, perfect sense. My theorized realization reinforced the notion that she was me and I was her.

So what better way to reconnect, then try a new, beautiful substance that could open our minds and let them intertwine? Unfortunately, the random dealer I had contacted sold me fake acid, aka research chemicals. We were unaware until it was too late.

We stuck the bitter blotter papers in our tongues and waited for the nightmare. We were at Cowell park on a Saturday evening. The trip hit us within minutes: We ended up laying there for hours in the dark, curled up in fetal positions and crying. My old friends saved us from the trip, right before the cops arrived due to a call from my dad. My absence emotionally scarred my family, but I was completely delusional because I was stuck in my own rotting head for over ten hours. It’s hard to explain. On research chemicals, it was impossible for me to even speak the English language. Voices turned into other voices, and soon I found myself covering my ears and begging for it to stop.

The trip had done nothing but drift us further apart. On the way back home, I let tears fall from my eyes. We hadn’t connected. I had failed. The drugs had failed.

                                              *

But when Sammi did heroin almost a year later, a part of my brain had slapped itself on the forehead. Face-palm. She had done that herself. She had made that decision herself. She had invited me to hang out with her at Cowell park that summer day. It was her choice and her fault, yet another part of my brain mourned in complete disappointment and shame. Since she was me and I was her, I felt as if I could have held the power to stop her.

But I couldn’t have. My fingers relax and fall from my scalp as I face this fact: There was nothing I could have done, as Sammi was her own person and did not want to be stopped.

            Although we were still each other's best friends, we were no longer twin flames. She came to enjoy the company of humans who were full of more sadness than she was. She came to fill herself with pride as she spoke about her "street life": a life that consisted of robberies, hard drugs, homelessness, and fights.

           Our lives were no longer intertwined, and neither were our souls. Maybe they never were. Maybe referring to her as my “twin flame” was my downfall. I put her on a pedestal, dehumanizing her entirely.  

In reality, we were simply two insecure humans who had met each other at the right time, but that time had passed. I was continuing my life in hopes of a better future, and Sammi was continuing hers in hopes of a better tomorrow. A tomorrow filled with cash, drugs, and excitement--a fucked up version of high school that I know will only lead to nothingness.                                     

I had given Sammi unlimited opportunities to climb out of the hole she was in, since she had always promised she would live with me in Chico. But she didn’t have the strength to get out of the hole that was Concord. I thought and convinced myself I had enough strength for the two of us--but I didn’t. I soon came to realize that Sammi was not ready to leave Concord, nor did she want to. She tried to convince everyone she was content with her choices: her choice to not go to college, her choice to continue living with her mother, her to choice to simply work, and her choice to find fulfillment in wandering the streets at ungodly hours of the night.

The thought of her sharing a room with me fills my heart with an overwhelming heaviness. It feels like a silly daydream now--something that maybe could have been at one point, but will never be due to shitty circumstances.

People change at their own will. They make their own decisions, and whether or not they were influenced to do so is irrelevant at the end of the day. However, to say that I carry no guilt would be a huge lie. To say that my eyes are not swollen at this moment would also be a lie. But now, I do know this:

She is not me and I am not her.

                                              *

I still do not fully know who I am, but I am on a quest. I want to live my life happy without the aid of drugs, and without the aid of Sammi. Perhaps I will major in Journalism, maybe English. I have no idea, to be perfectly honest. All I know is that I will never fall onto Sammi’s path.

When I returned home after the night she first did heroin, I stumbled into my bathroom, ready to puke. But my first instinct was to look in the mirror. I peered into it, looking at myself as if I were observing an expensive artifact. My hair was curly and tangled, my makeup was almost absent, and my eyes looked heavy-set and wide. I was an absolute trainwreck, but in that moment, my heart fluttered and my lips twisted themselves to form a small smile. I looked absolutely beautiful. I don’t know why I did, but I did. That crowded room staring back at me reminded me I was human--and the fact that I could deal with that was utterly stunning.

Sammi never learned to like her own crowded room. Instead, she opted to shoo everyone away with numbing drugs like heroin. Little did she know, they always came back, and in larger numbers.

That crowded room I had always loved vanished the second the drug dispersed itself throughout her body. Suddenly, the room was empty--there was nothing to be heard or seen, just the sound of  chirping crickets and a horrifying white noise. When I entered that blank room, I knew we were not the same.

Because if we were the same, and she loved me, then it made no sense that she hated herself. It made no sense that she would continue going back to a controlling boyfriend who fed her heroin. It made no sense that she did not want to better her life with me in Chico. It made no sense that she didn’t want to better herself in general. It was simple math. That’s when I told myself, “Shit. We were never twin flames.”

And although I realize this now, Sammi still never fails to pull me in. She still withholds a power that is simply unexplainable. “We can’t choose the people we fall in love with,” my friends had always told me, usually defending themselves from a shitty boyfriend. Now I find myself thinking about this excuse. It is the only explanation, because if any of my friends lived a life like she did, I would drop them in less than a second.

But her golden hair, her icy eyes, her frail body, her blood red lips...they were all so excruciatingly beautiful to me. The drugs fucked her up even more, leaving her skin paler and her body skinnier than it had ever been. Oddly, she was even more attractive. I hate to admit it, but you simply cannot force yourself to stop loving somebody. Trying to forget about her correlates to a comical joke in my mind.

I wish I could change everything. Sometimes I wish I never met her. If she had never met me, perhaps she would be in college. Perhaps she would be happy. But shit happens. I didn’t feed her heroin and I didn’t force her to stay in Concord. I have to remind myself of this at least one-hundred times to keep my fingers away from my scalp.

I love Sammi, but she has rotted my head. It is time for her to leave my mind--it is time for her to be replaced with something else, like everlasting love towards myself. That’s what it’s all come down to, and has always come down to: the love I have for myself.