Writing to Save Yourself

Saturday night, I got in a fight with my parents. The screaming match was more than I could handle and memories memories memories were pushing to the forefront of my eyelids. I slipped into my room and quickly realized the futility of tears, so I dug under the pile of clothes that had become a carpet of their own. And I found my wallet. And I left.

I still don't know why I took my wallet.

True to form, they hid the car keys before I had a chance to take them. I walked for a directionless hour along SR-92 headed west. And I was sobbing walking along the curb. Not one car stopped. Not even the ones screaming music from inside the rolled up windows. I laughed. Why did I think cars would stop for a teenager walking alone in the dark? I'm no celebrity.

My shirt was thin, and my hands were cold. And I called but you didn't answer. You didn't call back. You were probably making out with your girlfriend. I just wanted to ask if you could drop off a sweatshirt, preferably with some pockets. Or ask if you could help me find a way to sneak into the church because I hate asking to spend the night.

The headlights were starting to make me self-conscious.

And I thought about how I should have taken a shower before I started this pilgrimage because my hair was sticking up weird.
I laughed because teenagers think they are significant.
But that only made me cry harder.

And I know you can't freeze to death in forty degree weather. But if the grass is wet, and your sleeves are short, you just might.

And I know that you will never know what it is like to have the police called to your own house to assess property damage from punching a hole in your own wall.

Or what it is like to have the police call your cell phone.

And I know, I know. The breakthrough is finding about that connection that's more than brushing fingertips. The breakthrough is reading a raw, bitter post about love when you're feeling raw and bitter yourself. That breakthrough is writing about your sloppy first kiss and getting ten comments about your peers' sloppy first kisses. Writing about LDS general conference that I did not watch. Writing about praying and disappointing two sets of parents.

But sometimes writing is about talking to the computer screen so you don't punch another hole in the wall.

See I want to punch another hole in the wall, but I wrote this instead. Now I'm jogging instead of sprinting. Now my fingers are moving a little faster than when they look for channels on the telly. Now my breaths are a little less jagged and sharp. The music of my heartbeat is a little more soft and a little more even. Like the intro of a ballad.

I didn't write this for you. I wrote this for my heart. She needed a little breathing room and space to talk.