Deep inside the dark and hollow world that is my closet lies a monster; a monster that is big and menacing, but gives me comfort and security. In all its essence, the monster could be described as blue and hairy; with three gigantic eyes that just pop out of its body. Today, the monster wraps itself tight around my body, but not so much that it manages to squeeze any life out of me. It took a couple of tries, but it has finally developed the not-so-perfect snug.

Over the past few years my relationship with this beast has become passive aggressive. I have used the poor thing as an umbrella, put it in front of fire hazards, and gotten it ridiculously dirty. I’ve done it all; but sadly as my experiences with this itchy, outdated babe magnet continue, I fail to escape the haunting tingles that swarm through my body every time her name comes up in a conversation.

There are days, when I don’t even have to hear those five letters arranged in her corresponding order to be overpowered by a heavy sense of nothingness. During my unsteady tread towards depression, I found comfort within small things. The bright and cheery motifs of Netflix romantic comedies, the soft and sweet texture of Gelato melting in my mouth, and of course the warm and fuzzy snuggle of Blue; they were all there when I needed them. They got me through the funeral, and entire first week of being alone in the city. This leads me to believe there's something special about them. Until I figure out what it is, I’m never giving any of my favorite things away. I could care less what anyone has to say.
So what if Gelato is high in calories and the spark that sets off digestive issues and stomach pains? Who cares that I’m spending my time watching movies instead of getting my work done? Friends and family would argue I’m wasting my life away chasing the past, but I would describe it more like “making the best out of a bad situation”. Yes, I stand exactly where I started four years ago, when I first plunged into the concrete jungle, but ideally I’m proud of myself for not losing any of my pieces.
I mean honestly; I'm doing fine out here.

I'd even go as far about to say that I'm having the time of life. Living it up in the big apple, making new friends, broadening my horizons, and chasing my dreams. It's all great.

I don't need any hugs or pity gifts to make it better.

If it were up to me, I would've saved Jack and Uncle Rob the time, money, and effort of visiting me by scientifically proving to them that I'm sane. After all, they seem pretty preoccupied with their challenging lives of dealing with the needs of aristocratic clients. They don't need another loon on their plate; I don't think it would be convenient to them either.

You should have seen the looks on their faces when they first found out about my night terrors. Distress, paranoia, an overwhelming cloud of hostility; they looked like could use a session or two.

After what I believed was a never ending interrogation about my lifestyle, and a breakthrough of my most personal insights, I managed to get both of them off of my back by convincing them that I was just homesick, and a little startled by all the lights and sounds of the city.

As I continued to spit out lies, I started to feel bad for playing with their profession, and making a mockery out of their life works, but in a way I was only looking out for them. Making them miss work and cancel appointments was one thing, but imagine the headlines in the papers when people found out that California’s leading psychologist, and one of  Stanford’s most profound  Psychology professors carry the same genes as a failed, pathetic, schizophrenic New York artist.

They keep saying none of that stuff matters; that they come and visit me out of genuine concern and compassion. They want the best for me, they want me to do great things in life, and they want me to move on from all my horrible childhood experiences.

As if I couldn't see right through their pathetic act.

They can keep rambling, and lying to themselves, but I'll always know. They don't care about her like I do.

They want me to forget about her, and leave her in the past. They want me to throw away everything her and I've ever worked for.
They'll never understand.

In a way, I don't expect them to. No one else loved or cared about her like I did; and no one misses her as much as I do.

Her gentle touch; soft and delicate palms that caressed my chin whenever I got hurt. She loved with the utmost sense of genuine compassion; but when needed to, she did what she had to.

I was never a spoiled child. My scraps of bright blushing pink flesh on my legs, and fading artistic splatters of opaque pigments on my arms are a representation of my mother’s love. When given the opportunity I never showed it well, but today I've learned to express my appreciation for the value they carry.

I really didn't want all those toys that I cried for at the grocery store. It didn't bother me that I had to decline my role in the school play in order to work extra hours for the medicine she needed. I can never know for sure, but maybe; just maybe if I would've told her these things, I could-I could-I could-

I don't know. I don't know what I could be doing; but whatever it is, I bet it would leave me feeling better than how I feel now.

It hurts; it really does; having to trail back in your mind for the last memory of the person you love most, and figuring out that it is of a meaningless argument. And that moment; when you try to remember what those ever so glorious last words you spoke to them were, and come to find out you shouted  filthy, stupid, purposeless curse words instead, I guarantee it'll break your heart.

You can always attempt to put the pieces back together. It might seem easy, but in reality you'll be dealing with tiny kaleidoscopes of shattered hope.

Don’t worry; you won't have a lack of friends and family who so generously offer their help. It's nice and all. Pretty soon the presents, hugs, and old memorabilia will come flooding towards you. You'll appreciate it all, but in time you'll soon wish you knew beforehand that accepting it, came at a price.

They'll start off easy on you. It starts by sneaking  a couple of her things away from your room when you're not looking, and before you know it, in five small years your treasured barricade of family and childhood innocence will suddenly be snatched away from you, and sold off to real-estate.

Gone; All of it. The utter and complete essence of her being; locked away in a Miami storage room that you have no access to. You'll think about heading down there and rescuing her belongings from the trapped hell-hole in which they linger. You’ll even start to find some hope, but you'll soon come to realize that if anyone were to find out that you committed first degree burglary and theft, there’ll be therapies and mental clinics for sure.

At a different time, you might have gone through with the whole thing, but luckily, you found your saving grace; that special object that you're able to become one with. For me, it’s Blue.

Over time, I've come to realize that as a naive and scared eighteen year old I was drawn to the bright blue color of the striped sweater in search for relief from the hazy colors of death that veiled the room. In that same sense, I learned that I seized the shabby contorted sweater from the corner of the room, and into my grasp, in the hopes of finding a warmth, that deep inside I always knew, was irreplaceable.

As the years have gone by, I've encountered unfathomable amounts of grief and disparity. I've even considered giving up in my battle with life. I don't know if I'll continue to be successful in my efforts of survival. The years to come seem to compile in front of me as a scattered, unknown path, but if anything in my life is certain, it's  the security of knowing that a piece of her will stay with me forever as long as this worn out, torn piece of blue fabric remains clutched within my grasp.