For her, it was modeling. For me, it was writing and performing music.
Our music is more alternative, but it’s got that edgy, heavier leaning. We’re not exactly rock, but we do look something along the lines of rockstars with our jacked abs, leather pants and jackets, piercings and tattoos, metal jewelry, eyeliner, and long hair. Our music and our shows are meant for adult audiences. I throw my whole heart behind it and put on one hell of a show every single time I perform. On stage, I’m wild. I curse. I sometimes strip off my shirt, and I get slicked up in sweat. Every so often, I throw in a little racy dance move. However, in real life, I’m actually quite a golden retriever.
I made a decision from day one to honor what my grandmother told me. No smoking, drinking, partying, drugs, or treating other people with disrespect. In her books, that meant avoiding having a lot of casual sex just because it was available.
Some people might think that’s unrealistic, but I took it to heart. My grandma let me go out into the world after my mother put me out of her life for years. She fought like the devil himself to find me and get me back. She lost her own daughter, but even after all that, she didn’t tell me not to go and live my life. She just wanted me to be the kind of personIcould be proud of when I looked back on it all.
I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on experiences. I’ve created new ones to replace the ones I never wanted to have in the first place.
Carissa designs herself to disappear into a crowd. While I was made for the stage, she likes to blend in. She has no idea that she’d stand out anywhere, effortlessly, because she’s so beautiful.
Conventionally and uniquely.
Her hair is dark mahogany. It’s long, but she often braids it or wears it in a tight bun to keep it out of her face. I’ve rarely seen it down. It’s wild and a little bit frizzy with some natural curl, and it frames a face that an entire song could be written about just to describe it. If it were a pop song, it would probably compare her dark eyes to shining stars, her body to that of a goddess, and her unassuming grace to that of a still body of water. But all those songs would fall short of the mark. Words can’t do her justice. She’s not beautiful because of any single feature but because of her strength, her spirit, her compassion, and her kindness.
It’s taken me years of knowing her to gain even a small understanding of what goes on behind her eyes. She’s a tough person to get to truly know. She’s nice to everyone, and she’s kind, right down to her soul. She’s the kind of person who deflects rather than talks about herself, every single time.
I can see why she became a nurse. She’s naturally nurturing, intelligent, strong, and capable. I’ve seen her put others ahead of herself, time and time again. There’s not a single person onthis tour who doesn’t like her or doesn’t think they can talk to her. Her mom is a therapist, not the physical kind but the mind kind, although there’s obviously an overlap. Despite that, Carissa never tries to analyze anyone, but she does have a unique perspective on most situations.
She doesn’t see the world like other people.
So when she sits there and tells me that I can change if I want to, Ilisten.
She tucks a curling strand of hair behind her ear. I notice the way her hand trembles, but even as sick as I am, my gaze goes straight to her earlobe. She wears little crescent studs, two in each ear, that look like tiny twinkling moons. Carissa doesn’t wear any perfume, but she always smells good. Fresh. Like laundry soap, floral shampoo, and fresh air, even when we haven’t been outside. She’s a nurse, but she doesn’t work out of a clinic or hospital, so there aren’t antiseptic smells that cling to her. Nothing carbolic.
Nothing like howheused to smell when he’d come over to see my mom.
Usually, I can push those memories to the dark corners of my mind. I’ve given them their time, and I can’t let them take over.
But my mind conjures the smell like it’s real. My stomach rebels, cramping and surging up my throat.
Carissa has the trash can there for me to bend over. I gag repeatedly, straining until my muscles all lock up and I feel like my head is going to explode and my throat is going to tear open, but nothing comes up. Just a few strands of saliva that hang from my mouth, foul and sticky.
I collapse back onto the bed, curling into myself the same way I used to curl up under my bed, behind the couch, and in the dark and dank closet. Anywhere I could hide.
Fuck.
It hurts.
My body. My head. My heart.
Carissa sets the trash can down. She has a cold cloth that she bathes my face with, wiping my mouth like I’m a kid.
Except my mother never did that for me when I was sick. I had to take care of myself. I was nine years old before I went to live with my grandma and knew what a caring, selfless touch was.
Carissa shakes a piece of gum out of one of those plastic containers. It tastes glorious when it hits my tongue. The mint takes over, eliminating the foul bitterness coating my mouth.
If I were going to write a song about this experience, I’d compare myself to a cretin. Something slimy, sweaty, and completely disgusting. Oh, and a total class A dumbass.
Carissa’s hands are warm, soft, and capable. She finger combs my hair away from my face, stroking my forehead and then smoothing the damp strands back. I want to weep when her fingertips brush over my pounding temples and circle the shell of my ear.
It’s been a very long time since anyoneheldme.
Back when I’d have a nightmare, my grandma would come into my room. She wouldn’t switch on the light. Even as a malnourished nine-year-old, I was almost taller than she was, but she’d curl her body around mine. She smelled like a grandma. Like cookies and knitting, powders and strong perfume, and even a little bit like mothballs.
She’d just hold me, just be there. In the morning, she’d still be right behind me, keeping guard while I slept. She’d tell me that I could let the dark take me, or I could acknowledge it and turn it into something beautiful. She told me there was nothing wrong with me, that nothing that happened was my fault. She said the most beautiful art comes from the darkest places. I didn’t have to be afraid of being up in my head. She helped me believe the world had a lot of beauty, and if I didn’t ever go out in it and open my eyes to it, I’d miss the best parts of living. She was thereason I made it through. She promised me there were other people out there just like me, struggling, even if they hadn’t lived the same life.
She was right about all of it.
