SAD EYES.

one.

I've never understood why life works the way it does, and I don't think any of us understand just how vulnerable the wrong look or the wrong words can make someone feel unless you're that 'someone.' I've always been that 'someone.' I've always been the one to look away from my problems, but still keep my anxieties no more than a step away. I've always kept quiet, but this year was a different kind of quiet.

I didn't dress up for my first day of school--I didn't wear makeup, and the first outfit I could dig out the moving box was a pair of tight jeans ripped at the left knee and a white t-shirt three sizes too big for someone with sharp lines and deep crevices like me. But as you could guess, my appearance was the least of my problems in life. In fact, impressions didn't mean a thing to me--I somehow always knew I'd end up being the one cast aside despite any effort I tried at being social. Eventually, one learns to give up. . . and that's exactly what I did after time and time again of moving to each new school.

After making my way through the apartment and slipping into a pair of black sneakers me and my mother often shared, I picked up the plain backpack that seemed unusually light for an average first-day-of-school trip. Despite knowing I had the correct number of notebooks, a sum of pencils, and the keys, I was still fairly nervous I had forgotten something. I drew my gaze over my shoulder, taking a glance at the apartment to make sure I hadn't left anything in plain sight.

Our apartment was small--two bedrooms, one bathroom, and an assortment of kitchen appliances next to the living space. The table, cracked and chipped on the edges, didn't seem to harbor anything of importance to me or my school supplies. All that sat on the table was a stack of boxes and my mother's small book collection. No decorations have ever been displayed among the entirety of our many living spaces; my mother said they were a waste of space and money, which only drew me to see behind her words.

Anything we took with us when we moved had to be crucial to our well-being. My mother had some money left from her past occupation, and we get government grants for the fact that my mother is a single parent with a recovering addiction. We were poor and didn't throw our money at the next best thing; we spent money on what could calm our nerves or ease our lives. For example, we both had books to occupy our time. Ever since I was young, I would always look to escape, and a book was the easiest way to do that without abandoning my mom. I would read anything, but my particular favorites growing up were autobiographies and dystopian novels; something about reading about others' real life hardships and a world where nobody had it perfect seemed to keep my on my sane side.

With moving and recovery, my mom couldn't focus on anything. I often noticed her trying to read a book, but she couldn't stay in a world other than the real one for more than an hour without the fear of sinking away again. I wondered the effects of her former addiction; would she die before I graduated? Could she stay sane until her 35th birthday? Would she even make it past forty?

She was sad, my mother. Some nights she was bitter, some nights she was filled with fake happiness. . . but every night, she was sad. I could tell because the emotion was not foreign to me; I often had to hide the effects of my depression, though. If I showed any sign of such weakness to my mother, she would crumble. She would deem herself a failure among parents, when parenting is all she wanted to do with the rest of whatever life she had. Sometimes I wonder why I'm all she has, but then I stop wondering and realize that she was too afraid to even leave the safe space she makes for herself so many times over. I realize that I'm all she has because I'm all she's tried to keep since she started trying to recover. She threw away the white powder, she threw away my father. I'm all she could keep without regret seeping over her.

I pondered going back to bed and just laying there until my mother came out of her room and noticed I was still home. I mean, I've done this about five times now--first days at a new school, I mean. I was getting awfully bored of the concept, and as soon as I started to really progress at something, people would notice and start asking for help on their work. I didn't want to help people--I didn't even want to talk to anyone. In fact, I haven't spoken more than two words to anyone other than my mom. What's the point in making friends if I'll always have to leave them the same way my mom left my dad?