She remember a little girl, pigtails, tiny nose pressed against the window watching, as the world rushed by, traveling together all of them, crowded into the small car, going, somewhere. Every year was somewhere, educational Mama called them, road trips to places not home past so many homes that were not home it made the little girl sad. All those people she will never know and who will never know her, she felt tinier than the little frame that lied about her age. She was school age but still mistaken for much younger. Her smile was easy and her laugh infectious but always there was that sadness. Her Mother worried about the sadness for she was far too young to know such sadness, where had it come from? This little child, always so old in her eyes, was nothing like the girl she had dreamed of so many years before. Reality never quite syncs with your imagination. So many years later that same little girl, all grown up but still feeling so very small, still feels that sadness when driving by houses on her way home from work. She cries, more often than not during the ride, about so many things and nothing. It doesn�t make any sense. All the people around her seem to do everything so much better. Even the bad times are handled with far more courage and grace than she can muster up to go from house to work and back again. All the while she wonders what is wrong with her. The voice in her head (sounding somewhat like her mother and somewhat like every person who had ever sneered about her) constantly reminds her that she is less than; less than all the others around her.

It wasn�t like the other people had easy lives, God everyone suffered through their own personal hell. Mama always called it their �cross to bear� and as crosses went she couldn�t complain but there it was, all the time, the sadness, disappointment, taunting her and the voice (sometimes a chorus) insisting that if she were better, smarter, life wouldn�t be this hard. But life was hard. Every day she dragged herself out of bed and drowned the voice in the drone of the shower and turned the volume up on the car radio just to make the thoughts, the deadly, damaged thoughts, go away for a while. It wasn�t so bad around other people, well it was but she could get lost in the comedy. She could make them laugh and by extension she could laugh and then she could pretend that she was happy. It was the in between time that stole her soul. In between work and home, home and class, awake and sleeping that was where the demon dwelled and no matter how she tried to hold her head up he would drag her down into the pit. There the sadness waited for her. It waited patiently for her to slip up and then it could consume her. The only way out was to do something, anything, preferably physical. She wondered how many of the people around her were hiding, was there anyone else hanging onto the edge?

There are lots of folks who have let go of the edge, and that�s usually where I come in. They call me when someone has attempted suicide or hurt someone and I have a small practice but normally I don�t deal with functioning mental patients but there she was and she needed me and I guess I knew deep down that she was one of the lost among us. We all feel something for the gravely ill, be it pity, sympathy or disgust (you know you have crossed over when you begin to feel true empathy) but every day a woman or a man standing next to you at the water cooler and in line at the bank is straining to hold back the flood, stuffing down overwhelming emotions in order to survive.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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