Heaven is a Place in My Head

I feel weary today.

My mother picks me up from school and I am silent on the way home; my teacher is worried because I’ve stopped engaging in class. Today, I fell asleep at my desk with my eyes open — yet another new side effect to accompany a new medication. I wish I was normal.

At the dinner table I pick at my food, moving it around my plate without really eating anything. My mom is already asleep on the couch. I think she needs a new antidepressant. I don’t yet realize that her mental health is not my responsibility. One day I will but, for now, I unfold the blanket on the chair and tuck her in, set her alarm for the morning, turn the TV off, and get ready for bed. She likes that I always follow my designated bedtime even when there’s no one watching to check. I want her to stay proud of me for something and integrity was last week’s spelling word.

I usually cry while I’m brushing my teeth. My mom noticed and started putting affirmations on my mirror, but it made me so angry that they didn't seem to be true that she stopped. I miss them.

The door is closed and I’m alone with myself and the reflection that shows me just what my classmates think is so funny. Yesterday, I got called an Oompa Loompa and it hurt my feelings more than it should have. Today, I brush my teeth — maybe if I scrub hard enough I can get rid of everything that makes me so ugly. I wish I was pretty.

I emerge from the bathroom and my eyes are red and puffy. I walk through the dim hallway to my bedroom and get into bed, turning over to look at the photo of my dead father I keep framed on my nightstand. I wonder what he would think of all this medication I’m on. I wonder if he’d like me or if he’d be disappointed at how I’ve turned out to be. I wonder if he’d be ashamed that I sometimes dream of killing myself when he didn’t get a say in his heart giving up on him in the middle of the night.

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately — part of the reason I’m on the medication that’s been making me so tired. My psychiatrist says it's because I have generalized anxiety. I am living in a constant state of fight or flight and my brain is always on the go, wondering what people think about me and if I looked stupid a few hours ago when I was walking and tripped on a rock. Was anyone looking? Did they laugh? I hope not. She says that I should picture myself in my happy place. Somewhere I feel safe, where no one there is going to judge me. She says this should help me sleep. Find your happy place. Maybe it's your room, or playing with your toys.

I like my therapist better. She’d know that none of those things appeal to me. My room is a prison and last month I had a breakdown because I thought one of my dolls was staring at me. In a prison, trapped with haunted toys. The opposite of a happy place.

Last week at church, the ushers handed out flyers with the Footprints in the Sand poem printed over a background of an empty beach with nothing but footprints.

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In Each I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints; other times there was only one.

During the low periods of my life I could see only one set of footprints, so I said, "You promised me, Lord, that you would walk with me always. Why, when I have needed you most, have you not been there for me?"

The Lord replied, "The times when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you."

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I think my dad is watching over me the same way God is in the poem. It makes me happy to think about it, like maybe I haven’t lost a father after all.

I roll over and make room on the other half of my twin bed, like I do every night. Sometimes I get night terrors; sleeping alone scares me, but my mom’s rule is that I have to at least try to sleep in my bed before going to her. So, I make space for my dad to lay with me until I finally doze off. Then, he can go comfort my mother while she dreams. I know she needs it.

I picture my happy place — not my room or playing with my toys, but an empty beach with nothing but footprints. I follow the footprints until I see a man sitting on a lone tree trunk. He is dark skinned, clad in white. He stares contemplative at the sea. Daddy. My steps pick up speed and soon I am running. Behind me, I leave a trail of footprints alongside his. Finally I reach him and I tumble over to him, clinging my arms around his neck. He chuckles and hugs me —firm, solid, familiar — but he does not speak. He pats my back and stands, guiding me to sit with him on the tree. I sit beside him, resting my head on his shoulder.

Our breathing in sync, we watch the waves together.