When She Was Me

by Marlee Bush

The counting helps. It’s like moving a pot of water off the stove before it boils over. Keeps all my bullshit inside. Keeps me normal.

The thing about good memories is they eventually get overwhelmed. Like a giant tarp filling with water until it collapses, leaving everything beneath ruined.

That’s how Cassie is. The words that break on other people’s tongues slip right off Cassie’s.

Except I don’t need God to forgive me. I only want to forgive myself.

She laughs under her breath, and it all just feels awkward. Meeting living people. I’m not good with warmth and heartbeats. How can I know this woman when I haven’t seen her pale arm on a coroner’s table? When I can’t imagine what she thought of as she died?

How simple the life of a spider must be. How misunderstood.

Like a child with a power tool. She doesn’t know how to use it, only knows that she wants to, and if she isn’t careful, she might hurt herself.

“Give me a break. You adults think you know everything. But I see the six coffees a day my teachers are drinking, my mom’s wine after work and margaritas on the weekends. Don’t get me started on my dad at the casinos. They’ve got much bigger problems than me chilling with a joint occasionally. They’re hypocrites.”

This is the part of my anxiety that no one understands. The distrust in myself. But I don’t have to lie to myself or anyone else.

“I thought only sinners are supposed to sweat in church, Pastor Smith.”

When I was little, I never let my feet down beside the bed, too afraid someone was hiding under there, waiting to grab me and drag me under. But as an adult, I learned that the monsters under your bed are the least of your concerns, and in the light of day, it all just seems so silly.

Here’s the thing about memories. You can’t control or choose when they come to you.

“Fitting isn’t it, love? That we’re born the same way we die. By blood.”

We girls would grow like gnarled tree roots, turning and twisting together.