Delving Into My Identity as Gray

Delving Into My
Identity as Gray
A Collection by
Catherine E. Foreman
&
Quintas Gray

Reflections
Over the last 4 months, I have (dare I say) completely come into my writing and creative
identity as Quintas Gray, the genderless “in between”. While I very much love my identity as
Catherine E. Foreman, there are far too many restrictions and weighted memories on it to use it
to write freely and fully. I’ve found that Quintas enables me to flow with my creativity and be
unbiasedly whoever or whatever I must for the sake of the piece.
I have spent most of my life writing very personal excerpts of frustration, only ending up
a dissatisfying, typical diary entry, which I recognized as being a creative spark, snuffed out by
overly critical thinking. The older I grew, the more I noticed this being a pattern in every aspect
of my life. I was that spark and I was snuffing myself out before I could ever become a true
flame. I began to believe I wasn’t quite as creative as I had thought. I chalked it up to genetic
narcissism or some such thing and had just about given up on writing anything of soul-moving
worth- I had signed my life away to research papers. It wasn’t until college, in my Creative Non-
Fiction Writing course, that I began to realize that finding my untethered creative identity was
imperative to my wellbeing going forward. While I spent that semester mostly convincing myself
I had talent worth tapping into and that I needed to allow myself to feel more freely (something I
had grown to fear and shy away from as it always led to disappointment in my ability to convey
so many, and such strong feelings), I shifted that practice of feeling into pride and wild abandon
this semester. I realized that I had to drop everything and throw myself off the cliff, and even get
a running start. I had to get over myself, in a sense. For years, I kept trying to stuff my perceived
self into all these instructions for being your best version and being free, but there can’t possibly
be instructions for any part of it.

One of the more difficult things to realize was that Catherine E. Foreman can’t do what I
need to do. That identity as a writer carried me this far, but the journey was far too long and
egregious for her to get us where we deserve to be. She became so calloused by scars, she
didn’t know how to feel the tender things around her. She was so consumed by her pain,
drowning in it, she no longer knew how to write of life outside of it. Her mind was poisoned with
black, like mold on an otherwise perfect piece of bread- one no longer sees the bread as food
once the mold appears. She was brave and unbelievably strong, but she had too many years of
being chained to the floor, and even with freedom available right before her, she would not know
how to live in it.
With that, Quintas Gray became not only a relief, but necessary. However, though this new
identity carries the memories and hurt of the former, it’s with a new mind and a larger carrying
capacity as this identity is utterly boundless.
While Catherine could no longer write outside herself and was bound to non-fiction (even
in poetry), Quintas Gray has opened the door to fiction, allowing me to feel and see like a
newborn, but write like an elder, marrying the newness of Quintas with the “oldness” of
Catherine. Like reading a book that opens your mind to a vast, complicated new world, leaving
you parched for more, so has this discovery been for me. Where I was afraid to write before, I
am now eager and overwhelmed with childlike curiosity.
A hugely noteworthy aspect of Quintas Gray is the last part of the name, Gray, the “in
between”. Quintas Gray is a balance-based identity, accepting the battle that rages within me
everyday with Bipolar Disorder. While Catherine feared the gray agitation of trying to make
sense of the extremes and control them, Quintas can give them freedom from the middle,
finding peace in that gray, appreciating the fierce agitation as a sign of balance. This perception
has allowed me massive amounts of freedom in my writing this semester and as a future writer,

abolishing the fear of “too much”. As one could imagine, it’s bled into my personal life as well,
making me appreciate myself, no matter the identity.
A book that proved to be very instrumental in this discovery was The Art of Stillness by
Pico Iyer. Though he wrote about time management and its effects on the soul, I took away from
it more a lesson on finding one’s free self and the peace and stillness that brings. Again, I found
abandon to be the answer he was nudging me towards. Through glimpses of the lives of various
people, Iyer reassured me that I’m not too old to start over, the years I’ve wasted don’t have to
be a “waste”, and stillness doesn’t have to mean quiet. He was the first person to get through to
me in a soul-deep way, that it is not only okay, but admirable to be me, and he only said it in a
whisper.
Given that Quintas Gray is new to me, I am confident that these new-found strengths
(fiction and fiction-based genres) will only continue to grow and improve, and quite rapidly, I
predict. Though I feel unsure in technique at times, I’m still eagerly moving forward, like a deer
learning to walk, refusing to stop trying because there is so much world to explore. Realizing
that words are legs that can take me anywhere I could ever want to go has shown me that I
need more practice in my wild. I need to push further. I need to dare bigger. Freedom isn’t small,
it isn’t pretty, it isn’t sensible or linear. It’s all of it. It’s everything I am, it’s every identity, it’s the
white, the gray, the black, it’s everything I’ve thought of and everything I will never think of, it’s
further than I can push, but it’s also right here. Inside of me. And at the heart of the progress I
wish to make as a writer, is my desire to continually learn how to open all the doors and write
from the inside out.

One would think the most difficult and/or challenging part of this class would have been
this huge journey I’ve been going on about, but I actually found the most difficult part to be my
classmates. I fear sounding like a critical snob, but I was disappointed in the attitude of some
regarding the seriousness of the class. Not that I believe it should be an overly serious class,
but in a space where everyone is opening up the deepest parts of themselves as writing
creatively does, the utmost respect is immensely important and I felt some were unaware or
unconcerned. I think I was spoiled, honestly, by my classmates for Creative Non-Fiction Writing
last semester. They were incredibly respectful, in my opinion, and they seemed to understand
how much gravity writing has. It isn’t just a means to get attention or glory, it’s a very intimate
thing, sometimes tied to serious issues or hurts or loves in a person.
I realize this class was larger, making the smaller group style impossible, but I still think the level
of respect should have been the same. In a word, “naiveté" was the hardest part of this class.
Given the depth of my own transformation this semester, I found it difficult at times to handle the
aloof, obligatory attitudes of my fellow students. Part of this may be the age difference, I am
aware, but this is my honest answer and has been my biggest concern as I felt it stunted all this
class could have and should have been. Psychologically speaking, I think it even affected my
“performance” throughout this term.
Being a newly-recovering perfectionist, I always believe I could have done certain things
better. In this class, I wish most that I could have recited my poem more perfectly as I have
always been ridiculously meticulous when it comes to memorization. In grade school, I had to
memorize twenty-five pages worth of catechism and entire books of the bible. I would always
get over 100% due to my ability to not miss a single word, not even “a”s, “an”s, or “the”s. Yet in
this class, I faltered and felt uninspired to present my chosen poem to the class. It was
meaningful to me and spoke deeply to my situation, yet I knew I couldn’t make the class feel this
passion, and I allowed myself to become discouraged. I don’t mean this as excuses for a

lacking recitation, but rather, I’m finally sharing something I was wrestling with. I don’t do
particularly well with people I can tell are in a very different place than me when it comes to
opening up and digging into a deeper part of myself. Which leads to where I believe I was able
to shine in this class, and that’s my writing.
I really do feel like, even if the writing doesn’t show it yet, I am only at the start of
understanding my full potential, and maybe that skews how I see my work, but I think it shows
through. Putting my pieces together for this portfolio, I remembered how I felt putting together
my last portfolio and the attitude I had going into it and the progress I was proud of then. I
remember being so impressed with my progress, but it’s nothing in comparison to how I feel
about my work this time. A big difference is that before, I cared about what grade I was going to
receive on it. I know that sounds horribly disrespectful, but I assure you, it’s not meant to be.
This term, I obviously want a decent grade, but this work isn’t about that. I didn’t write any of this
for anyone. I wrote this for me. I wrote this so I could learn how to live. At the end of this term, I
don’t need a grade to tell me how to feel about my work. When I saw the grade I received last
semester, I was crushed and felt confused because I thought my progress was fantastic and my
writing was better than I had ever let it be before. This year, I know deep in my soul how I feel
about my work and the impact it’s had on my life and the dire necessity of it. It’s very much
separate from this class, in a way.
Unfortunately, I know that my grade won’t reflect that. While I may give myself a hardearned
A, I will never get to see a true grade for my creative abilities, as our culture can’t seem
to get past its delusional sense of importance in “keeping time”. Creativity doesn’t care about
time or attendance. To grade as though it does is a sin possibly greater than not writing at all.
All my life, I have longed to be able to be a consistent person, a “dependable” person. Despite
my greatest efforts, I have never been able to, and am blessed enough to finally know that it’s
not all on me, as it is nearly impossible for someone with Bipolar Disorder to be naturally

consistent. I am twenty-five years old and I have yet to be graded for my actual work, instead of
my disabilities.
So I implore of you to fulfill my lifelong wish:
Don’t grade my disorder. Grade my work.

Index
Reflections
Poetry
Poetry Is
“Church” Yourself
Home
It Won’t Come Peacefully
Creative Non-Fiction
Gin Consciousness
I Am
Possession
Bleed if I Stay, Bleed if I Go
Sometimes
Stay
Fiction
Embrace Is A Dangerous Game
Hush
Chronicles of Manic Depression
Part One: Identity
Part Two: The Fujiwhara Effect
Part Three: What Does Darkness Taste Like?
Part Four: Hold On

Poetry Is
Poetry is my reprieve
A moment to breathe.
Poetry is my mania
Rushing through me, frantically searching for more.
Poetry is darkness.
Poetry is my memory
Wrought with the sting what has been and what can never be again.
Poetry is my eyes
Gleaming with the newness of each day,
Wincing at the night.
Poetry is my scars
A moving, shifting badge of honor as I live in the sun.
Poetry is the song I haven’t the heart to write.
Poetry is the life I could have.

Poetry is my life without fear.
My life with wings.
Poetry is my silence
My safe place away from the demands, the expectations to be a stranger, the noise of
disappointment.
Poetry is my fuck you.
Poetry is my best.
Poetry is all that I am- all that I’ve got- thrown down onto a page for no other judgement but
mine.
It is the words that I have.
I cannot be more than my poetry.
My poetry is for me.

“Church" Yourself
You wanted a “Rave”,
You’ve got a “Rave”.
You teach freedom and wild, creativity and life,
yet you meet me with bars and expect me to fly?
“There are no wrong words,” unless twenty aren’t “Rave”!
You think you “church” me into your way of poetry?!
Look how well that worked for the rest of the country.
But no, go ahead. You rave- rave on!
Rave about my words- the words I choose.
Rave about my voice that always comes through.
Rave about my creativity and all of its uniqueness.
Then smash it down and curb it with your uncharacteristic rules?!
You wanted a rave,
You’ve got a rave.
You do not know my mind.
You do not give me words.
You cannot church me.
You do not make me fly.
My flight is my own, from my pain, from my life.
You think Shakespeare would be Shakespeare if you’d fettered him with guides?!
Words aren’t just language, words are our tools.

To ravage, to create, to render anew.
With one careless phrase you can end someone’s life.
Where only three words could cause one to begin.
Do you not see the gravity of demanding are from an artist?
Is it not that demand that ensures it is never art?
You’ve given me bars to rail against, I’ll give you that,
but bars they are, nonetheless.
You wanted a rave,
You’ve got a rave.
One cheap, in a cage, forced, and tame.
Rave, Rave, Rave, Rave,
Rave, Rave, Rave, Rave.
Church this.

Home
Christmas lights
Kitten fur
Flannel shirts that fit like dresses
Thick wool socks
Thicker stew
Salty crackers for dipping
Video games
Gatorade
Makeshift desk strewn with journals
Cedar-wick candles
Knitted blankets
Lamps made of puffy paint and wishes
Plants that climb
Family treasures
Pink Floyd banner on the wall
Dirty dishes
Sticky notes
Evidence of projects here and there
Vintage records
Vibraphone
The sound of warmth and safety

Shoes at the door
Timeless glow
Wrapping paper waiting for secrets
Conversation
Pecan pie
Nothing left for wanting
Tired souls
Fuller hearts
My home will never leave me

It Won’t Come Peacefully
Everyone ignores you
You make them uncomfortable
Silently screaming for years, you’re so faded now- so weathered.

Now, when you’re finally needed the most.
You’re unpopular. Nobody wants you to be right. Sometimes I wish you weren’t right.
“It won’t come peacefully,” you beg anyone to listen.
“It won’t come without a fight, and it most certainly won’t come overnight.
You’ll stand and you’ll scream- so many won’t listen, you’ll begin to feel unseen.
But my God is it worth it when that moment finally come- you’ll be worn,
you’ll be faded, you’ll feel weathered to nearly nothing, but you’ll be just one in an army of those
willing to fight- those willing to grow weary for peace and what’s right.
It won’t come peacefully, but it won’t come at all
if you don’t see the need to, for others, take the fall.”

Gin Consciousness
Is it that I ask too much?
Is it that my sense of self-worth or perceived destiny is inflated?
I expect so little.
I watch the swirls of liquor in the bottom of my glass as I tip it to my hesitant lips.
My soul disconnected, in hiding.
It’s wiser this way.
I curled my back against the beatings and somewhere along the way,
I’ve forgotten how to stand tall again.
So many walk with their faces toward the sky,
no fear it might reign down and strike them.
What is this reality that I can see into another, interact with it even,
yet never step foot in it?
I hold my now empty tumbler to my eyes, peering through
to the distortion on the other side.
What trickery is this that I am left alone in this tumultuous world with naught but the
instructions from some foreign land?
I am afraid.
I am always afraid.
In this world, the one they interact with but cannot see as I can see theirs,
the sky and the ground all lie in wait
for a moment to pounce and smother.

I AM
That ache,
That contraction of life-sustaining muscles.
So quickly it begins- a rush of overwhelming feeling- like a knife
suddenly piercing my meaty flesh, only to slowly slice its way
back out again, fading but growing.
A success story, maybe to some.
A goring wound to me.
But I don’t even know you…
Why should your smile bring blood to mine?
Why should the bareness of your distant feet render me maimed?
Why that your prosperity should have any power over my ability
to aspire to what you have achieved?
Are we not equals?
My gutted state answers me, “no”
But while I sit in this pool of my own blood,
why do I bleed for what I don’t even desire?
I want nothing of your life! Not your hair, not your freedom of movement,
not the fruit you’ve bore, nothing of it.
Why are people like you knives for people like me?
Perhaps it is that you do not bleed…

You rise and achieve whilst still intact.
You remain whole while I fall, being all that you lack.
I am all the things that enabled you to rise.
I am the weight you never felt.
I am the blood you never lost.
I am the questions you never had to ask.
I am the fears you never had to consider.
I am the pain that never chained you to your floor.
I am the shame you’ve never had to hide.
I am the desperation that has never wracked your brain.
I am the stress that has never touched the beat of your heart.
I am the lines that has never taken your pristine mind.
I am the darkness you know nothing of.
I am everything that, if you had ever knew, would have you sitting in a puddle of your own blood,
questioning why someone so removed from you has the ability to so physically ruin you.
I am so you can be.
In this dark reality, we cannot be without the other.
The truly cruel part of this that while know nothing of me and my kind,
we must always know of you.
You never see this blood shed for you and because of you.
You will live long and die peacefully.
And because of that, I fear the nature of my own death.
I am your “Falling Man”.

Possession
You exhaust me.
Aches that have nothing to do with you still haunt me
the way the scars you’ve left me with do.
Damn you to hell. Straight to hell.
I sit through lectures of logic and calculations, yet you fill my mind with blood and smoke.
I can’t see.
Your work never ceases. Not until you’ve hollowed me out just as you did before.
You have exhausted me with my own anger- my own emotions.
Get out of my head.
You continue to poison every relationship I have, flooding the room with all the doubt you
once pumped into my veins and tried to convince me it was blood.
I’ve pulled out the I.V.; it’s everywhere now. No on knows what’s real.
Fear is just another word for oxygen.
I used to believe I was the only person I could trust; you’ve taken even that away from me.
You’ve made a stranger out of me. I am foreign to myself.

Holidays are cold now. No one has found a way to sew back together the tear you rough in
our family tapestry like a quiet knife. Questions full of icy fear rush in like a northerly wind
looking to claim life.
I’m freezing.
You took away my words; you always had the last words. You were my own personal devil,
set to destroy me.
Well I have a question for you, my devil.
What happens when you fail?
You see, you may have been appointed to me, but that means you are stuck with me and I’m
telling you you’ve failed.
Cover me with scars- my own armor!
Blind me- I will hunt you with the senses you honed in me so well!
Fill my mind with anger and chaos- watch me channel it into vengeance!
Poison me- I will grow immune!
Give me fear to breathe- it’s cheaper than oxygen!
Take away my warmth- watch me rise in flame as a phoenix, an all-consuming
fire, burning away the human skin you wear as disguise!
You have LOST.
And I will consume you.

Bleed if I stay, Bleed if I go
I’m going to just die.
So this is what I’m paying for having you at college…warped ideas.
That’s bullshit. Read the Bible.
You love all people except whites.
You’re killing me!
Next thing you know drunks will have rights.
I have wasted my adult years on you.
Your father and I do not bow to the ideals of academia. They are often times educated idiots.
This you also know.
“Hi Linda, I’m on here message arguing with my daughter. I’m upset and can’t think. I need
scripture…please pray for my daughter- she’s so so lost.”
It has nothing to do with whether I’m proud of you or not.
I can’t even do this.
You think God created homosexuals!!!! Because a college said so!
You’re killing me! I’m gonna have a freakin heart attack!
You are so lost.
You never believed this bullshit.
Lord Lord forgive me for my part in Catie being taught lies.
You are not as smart as I thought if you can’t read my freakin’ words.
It was a mild statement. You over reacted.

You don’t even sound like you- you sound confident.
I raised you better than that.
You came off as the expert.
How do you justify throwing out all that we had together?
Who freaking said I hate you?!
I kept you alive!!
You are going to be the death of me.
…
Mornin’. Internet not working…of course. Frontier is supposedly fixing it today.

Sometimes
Sometimes writing is too much.
Sometimes it is so heavy, I can barely move my pen.
It hurts too much- it’s gathered the burdens of many, the cries of thousands and brought them all
to me, for me to be their voice.
It hurts so deeply.
It makes me live lives that aren’t mine, see things I shouldn’t, hear things I wish I hadn’t. Writing
knows no privacy..
It has a good heart though. It only seeks to educate, to connect. I cannot properly be a voice for
someone until Writing has taken me to them and forced me to feel what they feel, to see the
treacheries they do. Once I have wept their tears, I can write their words.
Sometimes writing is not enough.
Sometimes it takes me away as before, but I arrive only to find that there are no words. I see
and feel, hear and even touch, but…words would only belittle and cheapen.
Sometimes less is enough.
Like a caring hand reaching for yours in the overwhelming silence,
Sometimes even less is too much.

Stay
What does one say just before
jumping off a cliff?…
There are all of the words, so there are no words.
I’ve been putting this out of mind for days, but…here we are.
Here we are.
I’m peering over the edge
into blackness below
I’m afraid.
But I think I’m more afraid of myself
than the decision itself…
How will I react short term? Will I flail? I’m still so tired from last time…
Why do I even have to say that, “last time”. Average people my age don’t have to say that- they
don’t have “last times”.
Most people don’t jump twice.

How will I react long term? Will I ever be the same? Will I ever try anything again?
Will I even make it? Will I still be me?
…
…
…
I haven’t the foggiest.
What does one wear to jump off a cliff?
…Does it matter?
Normally these things matter immensely, but…
who am I trying to impress?
It’s kind of like deciding what to wear at your own funeral.
I guess then it’s more about what impression I want to leave…
Oh God, this is real. This is it.
This is really it.
Maybe I get to stay, but…
how often do people survive this
…
…
Standing here on the edge makes me feel quite certain that the reason one’s life only “flashes
before them” before they die is because it alone can be the cause of death. Who can survive so
much emotion, raw and unbound, surging past them in just an instant?

So much beauty.
Every ray of sun through the trees.
Every smile and tear, turning into one
as the blur of memories run together.
So much green. So much life.
Shifting, changing, growing.
Dying. Regrowing.
Flying, coursing without distinction,
Color with no name,
Light only accentuated by shadows,
Voices, ageless voices becoming one,
Emotions rushing to become humanity,
Hate, anger, and pain getting lost
in image after image of love
and sacrifice.
And all at once, before your blurry eyes,
is the thing you spent your whole life
searching for, longing for…
Purpose. Meaning.
…

So here I stand at the edge of myself
I don’t trust what lies behind me
I don’t trust what lies below me
I don’t trust myself…
But I guess that’s the thing about standing on the
edge of a cliff
…
There is no safe space
…………
………..
……….
………
……..
…….
……
…..
.…
…
..
.

Embrace is a Dangerous Game - a short story
She warmly greeted my mother with an embrace. As she pulled away, for a
fleeting moment, I could see the knife in my mother’s gut, the smile of satisfaction
exposed on the demon’s face- brimming with teeth, a wide-eyed gleam of hysteria
piercing my mother’s eyes in search of evidence of her cunning success. My mother
gave her confusion, but only for a moment as only I was able to see the blade and
the demon’s true form.
I lunged to stop the demon as she twisted the blade, breathing hot air of
anticipation into my mother’s face, which was now nearly touching the demon’s, but
as my legs moved, the rest of me did not. I looked down, perplexed, only to see the
hilt of a blade already wrapped warmly and securely with my ribbon-like organs. As I
raised my head, there stood the demon before me, her eyes wide enough to swallow
me whole, now piercing my consciousness, her grin of overwhelming delight tearing
her face nearly in two, holding up my hands before me, my palms dripping not of my
own blood, but the blood of my mother.

Hush
Dec. 4th - My family and I went to the airport today to travel somewhere that doesn’t matter now.
I can’t believe we thought we’d actually get to go on vacation. We didn’t get very far. My parents
were aware of the incoming storm, but like most well-off nationalists, thought it would not apply
to them.
We arrived to chaos in the early evening- hoards of cars and busses emptying of people,
shaken from their icy trip, tow trucks with chain-clad wheels hitching up to pull the busses and
less able cars out of the drop off drive. Still, people seemed undeterred. Their plans would go
on. People rushed everywhere so frantically that as we got out of the car, I was almost
immediately separated from my family. Having been watching the skies my entire life, I was
much more concerned with getting indoors to safety. I turned my focus inward and scanned my
nearby surroundings quickly. As my eyes found a small dingy garage-type building, my gut
clenched- I knew it was safest. I bolted in through the shabby looking, but surprisingly sturdy
wooden door and not a moment too soon as the storm rolled heavily in after me. I slammed the
door shut behind me and I watched out the windows for a moment as the landscape became
unrecognizable.
This storm wasn’t ordinary as the typical nationalists wanted to believe it was. I have
been tracking this thing across the Union and listening to the reports online from survivors
before U.N.I.T. took them down. This storm is nothing natural, but entirely man-made, and
carelessly at that. Most of the Union now believes what U.N.I.T. has fed them- humans have no
impact on the weather or the environment whatsoever. They have convinced the people that
successful industry is the only way to truly be safe in this Union. Well now that “safety” is

arreling down on us- a tornadic super-storm, larger than anyone has ever seen. It’s December,
yet somehow this thing is warm enough at its front to rotate, almost like a snow-hurricane…
There are no terms to make sense of weather anymore. Meteorologist don’t know either, but
they’re all bought off now- they just say what U.N.I.T. tell them to. Keep people happy; Keep
money flowing…
As I turned around to face the room, I noticed a couple of men, one a good bit older than
the other. They were seated calmly in the far corner in a run down, almost foreign looking
kitchen with a fire burning patiently in a stone-walled pit. They looked at me with understanding
and welcoming eyes, lined with the same exhaustion that lines my soul these days. I walked
over to them feeling safer than I have in years, even with this beast raging outside. I could
hardly even hear it, to my bewilderment, though I kept an eye on it through the small windows
on the same wall with the door. We didn’t speak at first, we sat comfortably in the silence while I
took in the space, knowing we most likely would be here a while.
It looks like a little repair shop, possibly for the more minute repairs for the planes, if I
had to guess. The ceiling is low and heavy, flickering with the fire, making the space feel
warmer. The floor was dirt, but more compact than any cement I’ve ever seen. The kitchen
reminds me of video games I’ve played with my brother that took place in this post-apocalyptic
future. It has a rusty wood stove, bench seats made out of worn wood and that same ultracompact
dirt the floor is made out of, industrial looking cabinets with hardly any color left on their
hulls, a nondescript sink… I know there’s more to this shop on the other side by the door, but
there’s not enough light over there to make any of it out. It’s odd because while this place looks
dilapidated and smells like an old, rickety farm house, it feels like the securest little cave, tucked
away against all possible danger.

Like a moth to a flame, I couldn’t stay away from the windows for long. The storm visibly
spun slowly outside, a sickening mix of black and sharp white, carrying impossibly large items
far up into its core, only to toss them aside like a killer whale toying with its seal. The fear in my
gut turned to worry for my family. I wondered where they would have gone and if it was as safe
as this place.
“They’re shutting down the airport finally.” the younger man said seeming somewhat pleased as
he was watching the news on his phone.
“They have never shut down this airport before- not for anything. Not even war.” replied the old
man.
I was surprised to hear either of them speak, but happier to hear that U.N.I.T. was forced
to acknowledge the irregularity of this storm more, so I decided not to comment on my surprise.
I ducked and pressed my face to the glass so I could look up into the heart of the spinning
mess, mesmerized by it’s massive power, yet still, not even a shudder from the bones of this
little structure. I felt like I was safely watching some horrific end-of-the-world movie, naively
hoping the “good guys” win in the end. With my ear pressed to the window, it sounded like all of
the air outside was screaming great guttural gasps at the top of its lungs. I watched closely to
see if I could make out any of the rubble flying past the windows. Aside from the occasional
obvious semi trailers, it all looked the same- streaks of color, blurs of large, dirty, white motion
that came close enough to the window, it made me jump.
That was enough for my nerves for a little while so I decided to put my mind to
something else. I wandered over to the unfriendly-looking fridge and found some chicken,
though I couldn’t tell if it was fully cooked.
“The oven works,” the old man offered, seeing me investigating the bird. I followed his eyes to
the old wood stove and awkwardly placed the chicken inside. I shuffled over to sit beside the old
man at the fire.

“Aedus,” he said looking at me with sweet and deep, sparkly eyes, “Aedus Hearth.” He had a
calloused old hand outstretched towards mine. “And over there is Dan.”, he said as my hand
met his. Dan waved, looking a little uncomfortable, but I was learning that he just looked like that
most all of the time. After a bit, I took the chicken out of the stove and we tore pieces off
together like a little mismatched family, chatting here and there. We still haven’t spoken terribly
much, but from what little we have said, we all seem to know what the other is thinking.
…It’s 2 am now and the weather has shifted more to a colossal winter storm. Everything
in the area is completely shut down, either because they chose to head home for safety or
because their business was destroyed by the first section of the storm.
For the first few hours, I was still afraid the storm would tear this hovel to pieces and
paint the snow with our blood, but after so many hours of abuse, and still no sign of wear, I feel
this place really was the best choice. I think it’ll last the night without question.
Last I looked, I couldn’t even see the drop off center across the way anymore, whether due to
the density of the white curtain of snow, or because the building is gone, I’m not sure. I’ll have to
wait till morning and hope my family is thinking the same thing about me.
Dec. 5th - When I woke up this morning, Aedus and Dan looked as though they never left their
seats, though their faces showed they had, at least long enough to look outside. I didn’t want to
look. As much as I wanted to know if my family was alive, I also didn’t. I’d just hide here in my
warm cave. Reluctantly, I pushed back my scratchy, but effective blankets and bunched up the
makeshift bed against the far wall; I wanted to sleep as close to the fire and as far from the door
as possible.
I clambered, fearfully, over to the windows. White. And just beyond that white was more
white. I couldn’t quite make anything out. I glanced back at the guys sitting, staring forlorn at the
fire. I wondered for a moment, in my groggy state, if they were even real…almost as if he could

hear my thoughts, Aedus looked up at me with a glint of compassion in his eyes, though he said
nothing.
I grabbed the door knob as though it might be rigged with explosives, shut my eyes, bit my lip,
and pulled it open. White filled my lungs like a flash grenade, pushing me back into the room. I
staggered and once I had caught my footing, Dan was standing nearby, holding the scratchy
blanket out to me. I wrapped it around my face, leaving only the squint of my eyes, pulled my
gloves out of my jacket pockets, and braved the white again. Once out the threshold of the door,
I realized part of my inability to see much through the windows was massive drifts taller than
me, nearly packed against the windows. Luckily there was a ledge over the door side of the
shop that somehow allowed enough space between the wall and the drifts to get out the door. I
dug my gloved-hands into the drift just outside the entrance and climbed to the top which swept
up over the rooftop where the wind and ice were playing a deadly game of tag in the open air.
From up there, I could see over some of the drifts enough to see that at least a small section of
the drop off center was still there, even if only barely. People were scrambling like ants to a
massive military beast with tank treads. It looked to be a transport vehicle amidst a platoon of
equally massive vehicles, some with plows and obstacle removing contraptions.
This would cost the tax payers for sure. U.N.I.T. refuses to set up funds or budget for natural
disasters because they’ve gotten too unpredictable and deadly, but all the while, they tell us
everything is normal… This isn’t freakin’ normal. But, tomorrow, everyone will forget how bad it
was and they’ll buy right into the lies all over again.
I slid back down the icy mound to bid farewell to my new, ever-mysterious companions- I
had to go find my family. Back inside, I told Aedus and Dan of what I saw and my need to leave
them. Aedus rose to meet me. He was a sturdy old guy- slow, but not for a lack of ability. It
seemed more like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. He stood in front of me for a
moment, grabbed my hands, and looked into my eyes. I felt a strange spark of hope and

embraced him so tightly, I could feel his old bones. I still don’t know what it is about man…his
eyes bore into my heart. He saw me…
As he pulled away, he grabbed my hands again and said “Until next time, Saskia.” in a way that
made me believe there’d be a next time. Smirking at the question clearly written on my face, he
turned to Dan who had stood up to say his goodbyes. He awkwardly waffled between a hug or a
handshake so I put him out of his misery and shook his hand firmly. A smile crept across his
face and it was the most comfortable I’d seen him look.
I’m going to miss these men like they’re my family, I thought, a little surprised at the thought as I
headed towards the door. I smiled back at them once more, taking in the warm comfort until my
gut reminded me that my family was still in question. I opened the door and pushed myself out
against mother nature and climbed my way to the vehicles.
Dec. 6th - I’m home now. I couldn’t find my family at the crisis center back in town so I waited for
additional military transportation vehicles to arrive and take us to our neighborhoods since the
vehicle that I rode to the crisis center was designated to finding and retrieving survivors. Though
it didn’t make sense to me that my family would be home and not at the crisis center, I had to
believe they were alive. Once I arrived, there were there! Home! Acting normal, even, and didn’t
seem quite as relieved to see me as I was to see them…I’m not sure why they weren’t looking
for me…
Everything seems different now. They haven’t spoken at all about the storm, they only told me
that they were in the airport drop off center with everyone else. When I told them anything of
where I had been, they stayed silent for the most part, and didn’t really look at me- they just
stared at whatever their hands were busy with at the moment. I keep touching my face to check
that I’m still alive and real. I even dropped a plate on the floor to see if they’d be upset at the
very real and alive me or be confused at some ghostly presence obnoxiously dropping plates in

the other room. Mother yelled and gasped and yelled some more so I knew I must be alive and
real…but somehow it didn’t make me feel any better.
While I was raiding the refrigerator, my brother, Hewitt, was excitedly going on about
some restaurant our parents and he had been talking about going to. As I was pulling a bowl of
orange slices out of the fridge, I kept glancing at Hewett’s face as he sat on the adjacent
counter, searching for exposed circuitry or wires or something. Seeing a bowl of pre-peeled and
sectioned orange slices in my family’s fridge was already bizarre enough, but their happiness
and seeming denial of the last two days was unnerving. They have to be robots. Don’t they? It’s
uncomfortable to think something so ridiculous about your family, but the alternatives are that
I’m delusional and out of my mind, or I don’t exist…
Apparently we’re visiting grandma and grandpa once the roads are clear. Maybe things
will make a little more sense then.
Dec. 13th - It’s been a week. It’s stopped snowing and the roads are finally cleared. Not that it
matters anymore.
I woke up this morning and nearly fell into the cycle of forgetting and moving on that is now the
nationalist way, the “unified” way. “Unity. Nationalism. Industry. Trust.” I’ve never bought it.
I got dressed and melted down the stairs to my family I still wasn’t convinced weren’t tampered
with somehow. For crying out loud, this place makes me sound like some conspiracy quack, I
thought as I grabbed leftovers out of the fridge.
Everyone was pretty quiet this morning. I assume it’s because we were going to actually leave
the house again and they’d be faced with the ridiculous amount of snow- the snow and ruin
caused by the storm they don’t want to talk about.

We piled in the car awkwardly and remained mostly silent on the way to my grandparents’
house, save for the few outbursts at timid drivers who couldn’t get over the twelve foot piles of
white memories along the sides of the road.
We arrived and reluctantly got out of the car, each of us. I wasn’t sure I wanted to add
more people to my life that would make me question reality. Inside, we weren’t greeted by hugs
or smiles, just casual “hellos” and uneasy standing about. There was a handful of aunts, uncles,
and cousins scattered here and there, paying no special attention to the fact that anyone had
even come in the door. My grandmother ignored me completely as I squeezed past her to get
into the living room. I touched my face and a lump found its home in my throat, until a warm
voice called to me from across the room. My hand fell to my heart, relieved to be real. My
grandfather motioned for me to join him on the sofa, to which I gratefully obliged. I missed
familial camaraderie more than I had realized. As I walked closer to him, he looked so much
younger than I remembered somehow, almost like some trickery of the eyes. I sat down next to
him and he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, smiling so genuinely at me, I
forgot how unsure everything has felt lately.
“You’re a good kid, Saskia, you know that?”, he said squeezing me closer for emphasis, “you’re
a good kid.” He looked up at everyone else in the room for just a moment as though he was
confidently challenging each of them. He returned that confident smile back to me, immediately
make me feel like I used to as a little girl.
“I know you’re tired, Sas, but I’m proud of you.” I pressed my nails into my palm to wake myself
up. Instead just blissful pain. I glanced up to see the reactions of my family- Grandma left the
room with some sour expression distorting her face, my dad though…he had the slightest smirka
familiar smirk, but not because it looked just like Grandpa’s. I decided I wanted to keep that
memory so I took no notice of anyone else in the room.

“You have to keep going, Sas. You have to stay strong. There are so many that need you and
that’s why you’re here, don’t forget.” he continued. I felt emotion welling up in me. My
grandfather has always been very keen on name meanings and the importance of living up to
them, like it’s a duty and a privilege to have a name of weight chosen for you. Since I was a
baby, he felt my name carried a great deal of weight and reminded me of it often growing up,
“Saskia, the protector of humanity. You have a lot on your shoulders for being so small, little
one.” Though he reminded me time after time, something about this time felt infinitely more
meaningful than all the others. The narrowness of his eyes told me he felt it too.
I couldn’t tell you what he continued to talk about as he began conversing with others in the
room. I just sat there, his arm still around my shoulders, basking in the deep tones of his voice,
and the humanity in his laugh, and though his mouth spoke to everyone else, I felt his soul still
speaking to mine. Still feeling like a small child, I relaxed into the couch and soaked in the firelike
warmth for a while.

Identity - Part one of Chronicles of Manic Depression
How could you ever
think that?!
You’re a scattered mess!
You couldn’t even keep
your word!
I am brilliant who am i? YOU ARE AN IDIOT!
Seriously?!
You’re pathetic!
You can’t keep anything
straight!
I am mature who am i? YOU ARE A CHILD!
You’re a baby!
You fail constantly!
You should feel like an ASS
for ever feeling that!
You’re a freakin’ joke!
I am powerful who am i? YOU ARE KIDDING YOURSELF!
Everyone can see you’re weak.
You’re selfish!
You’re full of darkness!
You’re no better!
I am kind who am i? YOU ARE A MONSTER!
Give up.
You’re blind!
You’re sick.
You’ll snap someday!
You’re a selfish snake!
You can’t handle it!
I am trustworthy who am i? YOU ARE A LIAR!
I am independent who am i? YOU ARE A JOKE!
You’re naive!
You’ll let them down!
Why do you
even try?!
You can’t even stand on
your own two feet!
You still need
your mother!
You suck the life out of people!
Everyone can see through
your act!

You’re worthless!
People pity you.
You’re a pathetic louse!
I deserve respect who am i? YOU DESERVE NOTHING!
You’re freakin’
Trash.
You can never earn respect!
delusional!
who am i?

The
Fujiwhara Effect - Part two of the Chronicles of Manic Depression
I am fully two souls- one shimmering great, silver light, boundless and eager, clear-headed and
brimming with good and hope.
The other simply falling. No flailing of limbs or shouts of despair, just falling. Almost as if in a
sitting position. No concern for the bottom; I don’t think I’ll be so luck as to find one.
Where these two souls meet is where I begin to turn “gray”.
How does one find rest in the mere moment that someone flying upwards through the air meets
someone plummeting downwards?
That moment is panic.
That moment goes against, nay, shatters the process of the mind of both. As the mind of the
falling soul begins to embrace death, it is in that instant, overtaken by the great sense of hope
exuding from the rising soul, disabling the mind to fully accept and prepare for the inevitable.
Simultaneously, the mind of the rising soul is ever-joyful, dreaming of new paths to explore, new
worlds even! Yet, at that instant, the bliss of such flight is darkened as that soul realizes- sees
for the first time- there are injustices in the world. The weights of the guilt slows the ascent, the
sight of such pain blocks out the fresh sun.
That moment creates “Gray”, the ruler of agitation.
The unexplainable everything and nothing all at once.
It would be better to be blindfolded. The falling soul might not even feel sad but for its
knowledge of the rising soul.
But alas, there will always be that passing of souls- there will never be “truly happy”, nor will
there ever be peace in the sadness.
There will only be Gray.

What Does Darkness Taste Like? - Part three of Chronicles of Manic Depression
What does darkness taste like?
I am only half an expert, but
I can tell you, in your mouth, it feels
dry and sticky and oozes
from your lips like drool from a
slack-jawed dog.
It stains your clothes, your hands,
your heart, your friends.
The more you try to wipe it away,
the more it spreads and seeps in.
Its flavor is that of your favorite
childhood treat- the one you
over-indulged in that one time
and you threw up for weeks.
It smells like that day someone
told you how terrible of a person they
thought you were, so you
proved them right.
It feels like the evening after ingesting
food-gone-awry when all of
your organs are clawing to get outside
of your body.

It sounds like the time you turned
your back on someone in need
because you were too busy.
It’s richly seasoned with every
damning thought you’ve
ever shot at someone,
and from my experience, it’s
best served with a fine, vintage glass
of self-potty and a salty side of regret.
Enjoy.

Hold On - Part four of Chronicles of Manic Depression
…I am…a decent person…
I am a decent person.
I am a decent person.
I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I’m a decent person
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I’m a decent person
I’m a decent person
I am a decent person. I am not a monster.
I AM a decent person
I’m not.
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I’m DECENT
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