Page 142 of Outspoken

“No.” She pops the gum in her mouth. “I wore lots of shoulder pads, probably. I avoid looking at those pictures so I’m not reminded about how pretty and youthful I was.” Leaning forward, she asks, “So what is this for?”

I fiddle with my half-finished ship, wiping more excess glue. The pieces are currently gray and I’m not sure I’ll have the patience to paint it once it’s fully assembled. “Nothing. Just something to do. I used to build kits like this when I was younger. I’ve gotten clumsier since then, so I don’t think my pirates will be able to sail the seas. But they’ve got a home.”

Jackie laughs again. “Are there little pirates that come with it?”

“No, but I could probably find some tiny figurines. Maybe instead of a pirate ship, I’ll pretend it’s a docked party boat and add some lights and speakers.”

“Working lights?”

I shrug. “Sure. I bet I could do that. Could be a fun electrical project.”

As frustrated as I am with how tiny certain pieces are, it’s been fun doing something I used to enjoy. Little projects like this have kept me occupied while I try not to miss Miguel or feel too sad about Paige distancing herself. I’ve tried talking to her—pleading with her to tell me what’s wrong—but she insists she’s only overworked and needs extra rest. I can’t force her to open up, only accept that we’re growing apart, as much as that devastates me.

I think I’m getting better with the whole ‘feeling my feelings’ thing. Crying and building model kits is my life now, besides doing temp jobs and submitting resumes to find steady menial work.

On the surface, I’m pretty much in the exact same place I’ve been this entire past year. Broke. Aimless. Kind of lame and lonely. Yet, somehow, I feel completely new and different.

I’m content with the shittiness. Heartbroken, sure, but content. I don’t feel the constant need to drink or abuse pills to keep myself from falling apart. I’ve accepted that it’s okay to fall apart. Instead of running, I cry and coexist with the darkness. Surprisingly, the darkness doesn’t stick around like it used to. It visits, raids my fridge, and then leaves.

Eric and those stupid mantras are right. I’m powerless. But not in the sense that I have zero power. I’m only powerless to the urges and the bad feelings because I can’t control when they happen. My power comes from my choices and how I act.

My grand epiphany is that emotions and urges are simply that: emotions and urges. Nothing more. They don’t magically warp reality to make my life hell.

I do.

Now they come to visit, I wave hello, then they leave. Once I’m alone again, I focus on something that brings joy, like building pirate ships.

And everything is okay.

I feel everything, yet I’m okay.

Content.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not fighting to improve my crappy life. A stable job is my current focus. Also, getting over Miguel, which may never happen. A deep part of me knows he’ll always be in my heart, so I’m working to coexist with that, too.

Jackie stands. “I have to run more errands.”

I get off the floor with a yawn, stretching my cramped legs and pulling the back of my PJ shorts out of my butt. “Why? You just got home.”

“I wanted to drop stuff off and grab a snack, but I have to go to the DMV.”

“Yikes. Well, have fun with that.”

She grabs a small bag of cookies from the pantry and shoulders her purse. “It’ll be fine. I have plenty of podcasts in my queue.” She opens the front door. “Oh, can you mist Hank for me?”

I glance at the jungle in the living room. “Which one is that?”

“The big guy to the right of the TV. Just a few spritzes of water.”

“Sure.”

She leaves and I get the spray bottle she keeps in the kitchen. Since several of the plants look big to me—big leaves and big pots—I mist them all.

When I’m done, I put my hands on my hips and survey the green foliage. “Whichever one of you is Hank, guess it’s just us for the rest of the morning. And this party boat I’m building. I wonder what kind of lights I could put on it. Maybe a tiny disco ball.”

I frown at myself. I’ve been talking to myself more lately. Probably not a good sign.

As I return the spray bottle to the kitchen, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. I pick it up, hesitating when I see that it’s Miguel.

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