Exhale.

Circa 1994. You're 12 years old and you have an epiphany. This isn't the celebratory explosion of clitoral consciousness, circa 1993. No, your father has a substance abuse problem. And suddenly you're old enough to know it. There's no table of contents; no credits rolling. It's just you and the world and it's big, and it hurts a little bit.

Ten years later, he dies of cancer that is born in his lungs but rebels in his brain and kicks off in his liver. For two years you cling to familiarity:
the structures of syllabi and introductory paragraphs,
the smells of home,
the security in duty.

Your clever copings can't stop the overwhelm of disconnect. Life rolls full circle. There's a bar of people, a bottle of liquid life lust. You drink. You smoke. You don't eat. You can't eat. You don't sleep. You sleep with people. You loose weight. You like it. You hold high but grip shakily. You hate yourself. You hate him. You hate him. You hate yourself. You don't know yourself. You don't know him.

You just don't know. Anyone, Anything.

Circa 2006. Exhaustion. Rock bottom was ten feet back and you're sitting in the dark, surrounded by lives that are loosing at life but loving the surrender. You quit your third job in six months. You're too intelligent to sell shit but your neuroses renders intelligence a moot point.

Shit girl, are you ever alone. Exhale.