I don’t know why but there seems to be this inclination in society to assume that hobbies are a thing that everyone has. There has never been an activity I enjoyed so much that I would rather do it than anything else. I don’t know if it is because I've been so caught up with achieving my goals that I've forgotten what it is like to enjoy life. Or maybe I have spent too much time escaping into other people’s lives. I have always desperately wanted love and acceptance. I don’t know why “desperate” feels so dirty to me when I type it. When I imagine desperation as a thing, it is a groveling creature. It is thin and haggard, grasping onto every passerby but being completely and utterly ignored. It is gross to look at, smelly and covered in pus or something. People notice it of course, occasionally when they look too close but pity and revulsion are the only emotions that can be elicited when seeing such a creature. They do not speak of it out loud but the whispers might as well be shouts when you are alone in a room full of people who smile at each other but not once at you. So when I talk about my desperate need for affection, I remember it with shame. But that was elementary school and middle school, when I didn’t belong anywhere. High school was different. I had found my place in music. I was exposed to the rock alternative scene with dark lyrics that gave a voice to a kid that was broken. I clung to the few acquaintances I had and made friends and soon people were smiling at me. I was fat and awkward but I liked Three Days Grace and Breaking Benjamin. “The World is Black” and “Pain” were a few of my favorite songs. And if over socializing is a form of self-medication, I think I've been high on the experiences of others for far too long. I wonder if it is because I have spent such an incredible portion of my life avoiding my own thoughts. When you despise yourself, it is hard not to erase a part of you as well. I’m thinking back to a time before this overwhelming sorrow began to engulf my life but it has been a Headliner for my act for so long. Then I see it; five years old with a flower in my hand. The small back yard was big for a girl my age. Chasing squirrels and catching frogs. And then when I was nine bunnies. I wanted to be a Veterinarian but a Doctor told me I had to get perfect grades in school and I knew I couldn't do that. I wasn't smart enough. I always brought home the angry alley kittens to my mom. Dogs, cats, mice, rabbits, chickens; there have always been animals. I remember a dream from long ago; Australia: when I was 11 I wrote an essay about why I wanted to go to the beautiful rain forests. I remember dreams of camping in the mountains and bird watching. I remember beautiful flowers in the neighbor’s yard. I tried to plant some of my own. It was the right season and they were fine seeds. 10 cents a pack. I bought three or four with change I had scrounged together. I plucked all of the grass out of a small square plot and used a ruler to measure the seed depth. I watered them every day but they wouldn't grow. When I was 15 I wanted to be an environmental scientist or maybe a park ranger. But I nearly failed science. I decided to work with people because I seemed to be pretty good at that.

But you know something? It wasn't even really my fault. Those flowers never grew because they were in bad soil. And that soil had been there long before I was old enough to even conceptualize a garden.