It's a winding road, when you're in the lost and found. You're a lover, I'm a runner and we go 'round and 'round.

The feeling of relief after a good cry is comparable to few things in life. As I type I just think one thing, however sinful it is, goddamn it. Hello to all readers, if you're just tuning in, be aware that I am not a people pleaser, but I tell it like it is.

My breath is sharp and punctuated by my shivering, audible even above the music flowing from my earphones and into my ears. Sometimes I just wonder, are there people in similar situations to mine that, like me, don't share it with many or even any. I wonder, do the people I encounter daily know what is happening in my life, or are they maybe even too consumed with struggles in their own, greater than mine? 

I am long since discovering that my mother and I will never cease to fight. But, on Friday, as I drove five hours with her to visit my dying grandfather, I had a fleeting idea that maybe that didn't have to be the case. Once more, I realize how far off that thought was. One more fight, one less day. The thought keeps scrolling through my brain, continuously, just as Krispy Kreme doughnuts do in the factory behind the seemingly quaint dining area. I've realized the worst type of fights are the ones which are inclusive of words beyond the personal sphere, which are shameful, seizing words, that just leave you breathless.

As I sat eating my 3 Minute Brownie, back against my cheetah print pillow that I can't remember life without, I heard my mom's footsteps advancing up the stairs and knew they were directed towards me. She brought in her cell phone, the back held together by a piece of duct tape, an abhorrent yet sufficing solution to her. My father was on the other end, and we spoke for a while, about my mom's and my argument, about my grandfather, about trivial topics. Only a few of the hundreds of words he spoke really registered with me, depositing an unpleasant sting on my argument with my mom. "I don't have any more money and she is having to use her savings to shop for you." Suddenly I knew why she had been so taken aback as I complained about the lack of apple sauce and cheez-its. 

I wish I could draw a cliche picture for you, how I sat with my head in my hands and was so torn up, how I cried, how I sat in dismay at my own ignorance. But, instead, I just used the back of my spoon to smush the rest of my brownie, and strained to hold back tears, to let myself be weak, one thing my grandfather wasn't. I remained immobile, and sucked in my own breath hard, pulling my hair back to keep from falling in my face. I just rested, without movement, my head placed on the edge of the desk behind me. Looking up at my fan, I just wept. I wouldn't look down and allow even more tears escape from my eyes, as I saw that my grandfather is just one more thing neither my dad nor I have anymore of. And I refused to look down, because I am too aware that the bottom is lurking right beneath me, that my white flag stands taller than I do, and that there is no where left for me to run.  .