My inability to answer an MCAS prompt

It's funny, actually, that so many writing prompts involve choosing a relaxing place. The irony that I of all people am tasked with teaching 13-year-olds how to best organize their thoughts into an MCAS response is... well, we'll talk about that later.

I always do what I ask my students to do. Maybe not immediately, or in the exact same way, but I would never ask them to try a strategy I haven't tried myself. As a result of this, I've tried to do the MCAS prompt about a special place I go to relax. And... I can't.

I wasn't an overanxious kid, as far as I know. I'm sure I was as demanding and outspoken as I am now, if not more so, but I wasn't so high-strung that I never relaxed. I just can't remember relaxing places from my youth that I went to with any regularity.

I remember moments, not place with broad, overarching feeelings attached to them. My parents' bed was one place I remember going to cool down. They always had silky sheets that were crisp and cool against your cheeks, and this comforter with a nubby design that I loved to pick at (and that my mother, naturally, loved. I remember their pillow shams, the stiff ruffled edges, so full of ... pillow stuffing... that I thought they might pop. I remember the darkness in the air, even in the bright mornings, and I remember a velvety blanket we used only occasionally. I remember that I had to lie a certain way to attain maximum comfort between my mom and dad.

I remember hide and seek. My brother and I spent years trying to craft the perfect position to hide in. We were positive that if we crumpled the covers up JUST SO, then the seeker wouldn't notice the human body rolled up in them. I don't think we ever succeeded.

But I also remember traumatic memories tied to that bed. I remember running in the middle of the night, zig-zagging across the living room, and hurling myself at them, only to be picked up, tossed over a broad shoulder sack-of-laundry-style, and carried back to my bed. I remember how far away the floor looked from where my head rested on my mother's shoulder as she carried me. I remember throwing up all over her, en-route, the puke staining her blue nightgown in streaks of dark navy. I remember how they used to calm me down.

Leah, look at one spot on the wall. Tell me five things you can see, five things you can feel, and five things you can hear. The first time a guy really hurt me, like, treated me like garbage, I dug my fingernails into my palms and pretended you were asking me to do that again.

So, what do you do with that? What if your memory isn't compartmentalized by emotion? I mean, I'm not worried about my life. I think it's a good thing that my memories are so multi-faceted and vivid that no place ever evokes solely one feeling. But still... it makes you think.

And ramble, clearly.

Loveyouall-lw

PS: Being a writer means...
-Sometimes you have to write, even if it's late, because the thoughts bubbling inside your head are too much to sleep.
-Sometimes you can't fully enjoy something in the moment, because you're already thinking of how to express it in words. This, however, lets you enjoy it later.