" Gashes in My Mind "

I closed my eyes and, like my therapist taught me, pictured a happy memory. It was one of my favorites, my tenth birthday cake. A big, chocolate chip cookie cake with too much frosting. On one side was a big frosting party hat, and the other, in the most beautiful frosting print, read “Happy Birthday, Christ.”

Wait. That wasn’t right.

I know my mom. She would have said something about that, since she always did. I thought about it again, and there it was, this big cookie cake with a wedge cut out right over my name, leaving Christ. OK, that makes more sense.

Except it doesn’t.

Mom was a born again Christian. She never passed an opportunity to tell me how Christine comes from Christ and that I had a lot to live up to. I distinctly remember that birthday because, for once, she didn’t say anything cause my dad cut the hat first. Except…

I thought about it again. There it was, sitting on the wooden cutting board with a big, black slice taken out of it.

I was starting to get frustrated, and that was exactly what I was trying to solve with this exercise. I pictured my dad when I graduated high school. He was there, all dressed up as best he could, grinning like an idiot, tears welling up in his eyes, standing alone with one hand clapping futilely against the air like he still had both his arms…

Which he did…

But there he was, slapping nothing, with a big, black void where his other arm would be. And Mom had to be there too, right? She wouldn’t have missed that. But no, just black nothingness.

I tried to remember what my therapist said. He told me I have control issues, and they were part of the reason I had my panic attacks, but that they were all in my…

My…

That thing… that does the thinking? Why can’t I remember that word? It’s such an easy word, like it’s on the tip of my tongue… Oh well, it’ll come to me eventually. But I was starting to forget things, and being a “control freak” didn’t help my growing feeling of panic.

I thought about my puppy. I’d gotten him a few months back after the breakup. He was a cute thing, all slender, tall, with black and white spots. He had so much energy, constantly bouncing and wanting to run and play, despite half his head being gone.

Goddammit! Logically I know he couldn’t live without the entire side of his head, but I couldn’t picture it in my… fucking whatever’s eye. Just a big black wedge of nothing where his face should be.

I went back to the cookie cake memory. There it was, like nothing had happened. Half a cookie cake…

No…

My dad at graduation, beaming at me from the seats despite only being a torso…

What else, dammit! Think… What was I planning on doing tonight? I was going to sit in my apartment, watching The Walking, while I got ready for… something important…

Wait.

Why was I in my happy place?

I went back to the cake. It was almost gone. I forced myself to look at what was missing. I’d assumed it was cut, but the edges weren’t clean. They looked rough. They looked… chewed.

My eyes snapped open. There was a bald man, sitting back, staring at me. His face was emotionless. He held a jar without any label, but his hand was wet. Slick like the side of my head felt. I couldn’t remember how I got here, who this man was, what he did… But I saw a little black something. Something like a… A…

The word wouldn’t come. And I knew it wouldn’t. All I knew was that the small, slimy black thing I saw was in my head. Eating my thoughts.