Issue Thirteen

Dear Greta,

You don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Saying so would be self-diagnosis, and you’re not allowed to do that. Your mom almost forbade you to use the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders for research because she was afraid it would cause hypochondria. Don’t prove her right. Everything you’re doing is normal.

Examine your hands. When you make a fist, the crevices turn white. Your knuckles are white and bumpy and the skin around them is patchy red. Your skin is cracking, which shouldn’t surprise you— you’ve been washing your hands repeatedly because you can’t get sick this winter. Sickness would make you miss school and that would make you fail. If you missed school, you wouldn’t know what to do. You’d fall behind and you wouldn’t be able to catch up, so go wash your hands again. You don’t want to fail, do you?

Don’t bother using the Country Apple lotion this time. It won’t heal your hands, only prevent the cracks from bleeding for another day. Besides, it will make your pens and pencils slide out of your hand, so it’s not safe to use until you’re done writing.

Speaking of writing, have you finished your homework? Keep your lined paper out— you have to study for history. Grab two colored pens, a pencil, an eraser, and a white-out pen. Start by writing the chapter heading and the first term on the list in one colored pen. Scrawl everything you know about the term in pencil, and then check your notes. Add everything you forgot in the second colored pen. Repeat for each term; the finished guide will only be five or six pages. Think of this as preparation for the twenty- page guide you’ll make for finals. When you’re done, you’ll know the chapter, but you should still force your father and your friends to quiz you. You were told to get a good GPA freshman year, which means don’t get anything less than perfect. It’ll be impossible to get into college otherwise.

When you’re satisfied, put the guide in your accordion folder and take out your laptop. Open up your novel. Tomorrow is workshop day and you need something for the others to read. They sometimes skip a week, but that’s not a valid excuse for you. You need to write.

Your main character is Julius, and he does have obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’s not like you. You don’t. No one has diagnosed you, so disregard the signs. Ignore the time you yelled at your dad for plating your waffles because you didn’t see him wash his hands. Anyone would have. Ignore all the times you ordered your ice cream in a cup instead of a cone because your hands weren’t clean and you didn’t want to touch your food. When everyone else gets cones, they’re not being safe. Your so-called abnormal habits are the only thing keeping you healthy and passing your classes. Listen to me: you don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Put on some music while you write. You’ve made a playlist for Julius with songs like “Monster” by Imagine Dragons and “Control” by Halsey. You couldn’t relate to him otherwise— you haven’t turned into a monster. There are no demons or awful energy in you. There’s just me.

Write about a test like the one you’re taking tomorrow— a test that could ruin your future. That’s not a rare thing. Every test could ruin your future. Write about checking answers multiple times and still fearing your grades. Write about feeling that something is impossible and having that fear make it impossible. Write about the things I make you do because everyone should do them. They’re normal.

When you don’t know what to write, don’t take a break. Keep writing. You believe in your ability to write in a way that you haven’t believed in your ability to do anything in a long time. If you want that belief to stay, you can’t stop.

Don’t allow making your characters hurt— making them wash their hands a thousand times and have intrusive thoughts and lie in bed just staring at the ceiling because they have too many thoughts to sleep— let you stop hurting. Don’t stop rubbing your hands raw with sanitizer just because you need those hands to write. You also need health to write. Don’t turn your intrusive thoughts into story ideas. What if this campfire burns down the forest shouldn’t become what if the government sends a group of hydromancers to stop wildfires in California? You need to focus on finding the fire extinguisher just in case. Don’t tell yourself you can work out a plotline at night— do it now. You know that when you go to bed you’ll be too busy thinking about everything you’ve done wrong, ever.

Writing for school took your sanity, so don’t think writing for yourself is going to give it back. Not that you have obsessive-compulsive disorder, of course.

Sincerely,

Your Mind

 

Greta Starling is a high school sophomore. She enjoys reading and writing; some of her favorite books are by Adam Silvera and Becky Albertalli. She has been writing for most of her life but this is her first time being published. Follow her on Instagram at @greta_writes.

 

Crossing the Continental Divide is my idea. In the past year, I’ve attended two bar mitzvahs and, watching my friends being welcomed into the land of adults—or something like it—I feel like I’m missing out. My family isn’t religious, so there’ll be no ceremony to mark my own passage from childhood. Casting about for a way to prove my mettle, I picture myself straddling the definitive ridge at 13,000 feet and somehow talk my dad into going.

This is our first trip with just the two of us. Our usual hiking companions can’t make it this time, and we know better than to ask my mom, who has a long list of reasons she thinks our beloved pastime is crazy. My dad and I have been backpacking together since I was nine, mostly in Tennessee, North Carolina, and our home state of Georgia. We meet hikers from all over on these trails, and it’s not like passing someone on the street. There’s an instant connection, a sense of community and common objective. We strike up a conversation with anyone we encounter. We unite to tackle common challenges. Hiking the Conasauga River Trail when I was thirteen, we had to ford the river more than thirty times in thirteen miles, assisting some nervous hikers whose names we never caught. A lush canopy of trees hovers above these southern trails, so it feels to me as if we’re all exploring a protected world together.

After flying to Colorado, Dad and I catch a train in Durango and get off at a trailhead in the San Juan Mountains. From there we plan to spend six days making a loop in the Weminuche Wilderness. On each trip we’ve taken, I’ve carried more in my pack, and now, at fourteen, I split the load evenly with my dad. We bring just the essentials: tent, sleeping bags, water purification system, dishes, utensils, stove, first aid kit, food, and a food canister to keep bears away. And, because June is early in the season, we’ve brought an ice ax and crampons to help us traverse any lingering snow.

I can’t get over the immensity of sky out west. Without the familiar tree canopy, I feel like the shell of my known world has been peeled back. The only other humans we see are thru-hikers making their way from Mexico to Canada. They’ve been charting their progress to arrive at the high elevations in Colorado just as the snow becomes passable. Their entire journey will take four to five months. We share some food with them, and after they move on my dad says I’ll have to make that 3,100-mile trek with my friends.

Dad’s a quiet man. When he spots something noteworthy he lets out a little laugh, and I know to look in the direction of his nod. As we hike along a ridge, we see melting snow forming icy blue pools on the plateaus below us. The sun-warmed water spills off the mountainside, creating cataracts that rush into the canyon. Some of the beauty sneaks up on us. We trudge toward a field that looks from a distance like a swath of unremarkable green. When we get up close, yellow and white wildflowers turn their faces to us, like shy girls who still know they’re pretty.

With a starting point of 8,900 feet, we climb thousands of feet every day, but with all the ups and downs from ridge to ridge most days we lose nearly as much as we gain in elevation. When we hit 12,000 feet, a thick pad of snow, packed down by its own weight, coats the trail. But the path reveals itself to us, and we never quite lose our way.

On the third day, we reach the Continental Divide. My dad takes a photo of me with one foot on either side of the boundary, and then we head on. The terrain is no different.

It’s when we’re ascending a pass on the fourth day that Dad runs out of steam. For years, I had to run to catch up to him. Now, he lacks the strength to carry his pack. I carry my own pack 400 meters, then set it down and run back and shoulder my dad’s. I do this for about three miles, while he slowly makes his way up the trail.

When we reach our campsite, we rest for a long time before I set up the tent and make dinner. A flame-bright sunset outlining the mountaintops dissolves into boundless space as the weary sky casts down her first bright star, silvery and steady. Thousands more trail behind. And we both let out a little laugh at the beauty just out of reach.

 

Stephen Thomas Fuller lives in Marietta, Georgia. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Straylight, Defiant Scribe, and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Anthology. He plans to major in chemical engineering, and he spends way too much time daydreaming about extravagant backpacking adventures.

A few years ago, I heard a quote that Mr. Rogers had said about what happens when tragedy hits: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping’” (Fred Rogers). This quote took me back to the day of June 1st, 2011. I woke up thinking it would be a normal day. I went to school and once leaving I noticed the greenish eerie tint the sky held. It was an extremely hot and humid day, so a thunderstorm to change this was long overdue. I walked a mile home like I did every day and once home I was greeted with my grandmother rushing me inside. She informed me with a quiver in her voice that there had been tornado warnings.

The weather alert alarm is a noise I will never forget. To this day, whenever I am watching T.V. and the test alarms come on, my heart races, and my mind goes back to the day of the tornado. After a half hour of watching my two brothers and I, my grandmother began to sense our unease as we looked out at the green sky, wondering if the warnings were something we should take seriously. In a panic, we called my mother, who was late getting home due to traffic.

She answered the phone as if nothing was wrong. She said calmly, “We get these warnings every year,— we live in Massachusetts! We have nothing to worry about.” By the time she got home, the calm in her voice had vanished. She had heard that the tornado had formed, and we had minimal time before it came our way. She grabbed snacks and rushed us into the basement knowing we could be down there for a while. From the basement, we heard the roaring winds and loud thunderous sounds. It was as if a God was banging on the sky. I looked out the tiny window we had in the top left corner of my basement and saw debris flying all over and witnessed the windows of my mother’s car shatter. I looked away, hiding my face. We began to pray, “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, Ame– CRASH!” All we could hear was glass shattering, and the crashing of an object into our house. We huddled and attempted to wait for it to all pass, but knew our house was in a fragile state and worried it could not stand any more of the storm.

My mom stood up and told us to follow her. She told us that we were going to huddle, stay together, and run to my neighbor’s house, hoping their living conditions were better than ours. I knew from the sound of the crash that our house was in bad shape, but I never would have thought I would walk up the basement stairs to see a fully grown pine tree taking up the space of my living room. My younger brother yelled, “It smells like Christmas in here!” not old enough to realize the tragedy that just occurred. We were all in shock but came out of it quickly as our adrenaline kicked in. We stuck to our plan and stepped outside to run to our neighbor’s house. Once outside, I looked out at what used to be my neighborhood, now a space covered in huge pine trees, cables, and wires. I looked to my right, to see the Cathedral High School scoreboard on my neighbor’s lawn. We lived a mile away from Cathedral. It was all too much to take in at once, yet we kept running, being careful of downed power lines until we arrived at my neighbor’s house. They let us in willingly, and were relieved we were okay. Once the wind died down, we walked outside again. The whole neighborhood was checking on each other, asking if everyone was okay.

If not for my neighbors’ care and motivation, I would have never left my basement. After seeing the effect the tornado had on my neighborhood, I was afraid it would happen again especially with the unsettled weather in the days following the tornado. Once returning home from my neighbor’s house the day of the tornado, I went straight to the basement and did not come upstairs for two weeks. It was my neighbor George, the kindest man you’ll ever meet, whose words pushed me to leave and go outside. He softly spoke, “Everyone misses you. Let me make you a promise. I promise it will not happen again. I want you to come upstairs one time, and if you hate it, you can stay down here forever. Just come upstairs and see everyone that is helping.”

It was amazing to see people come together immediately after the tornado. Everyone helped each other out in a time of need. I saw families I’ve never seen before pulling wagons filled with bottled water and sandwiches for the neighborhood, along with the National Guard attempting to normalize the neighborhood I used to call home. It took the entire length of the summer for us to be able to see the ground of our backyard. At some points, we had up to thirty people at a time volunteering to help clear out our debris. As for the tree that split our house, our neighbors cut it all up, cleared it out of my home, and used a tarp as a temporary wall. The tornado brought us all together as a community and made us respect each other all the more. Block parties on the yearly anniversary date of the tornado became a ritual and the tornado soon became a story to tell.

 

 

Lydia Ryan is a senior at Minnechaug Regional High School. She hopes to be a journalist in the future. She enjoys hanging out with friends, binge watching her favorite TV shows, and spending time with her two brothers.