The living room was dead silent. The only thing you could hear was the sound of Jackie’s pen writing as she signed the consent paperwork; and then that sound of ice cubes gently touching against each other as they melt inside of a cup of sweet tea we had poured for the social worker. I should have added more ice – I thought. Just another thing to add to my unending list of regrets, I guess. ‘More ice’ is what’s on my mind, in order to avoid thinking about everything the social worker just threw at us.

“And again, I know yesterday was very hard for you guys. So, please don’t hesitate to contact me if there is anything else you two need, even if it’s just someone to talk to.” The very nice social worker said -- her eyes full of this fake empathy. She’s probably said that same line to a dozen people today, her folders packed with tons of copies of the exact same consent form Jackie just filled out.
“Thank you so much Mrs. Walters.” Jackie said with a slight nod, as she hurriedly handed over the signed paperwork. I sat there next to Jackie like a haunted statue – mute, still, yet following everything with but only my eyes.
“Now that we have consent for treatment, things should go much more smoothly from here.” The social worker said, as she began to sit up from the couch to pack her things.  She greedily picked up the cup of sweet tea from the end table and chugged every last drop, as Jackie then walked her out the door.

Dissociative amnesia was the exact diagnosis.

It’s what happens when a person represses a stressful or traumatic memory -- is what Mrs. Walters explained – and these memories can resurface if triggered by something in the person’s surroundings.
Traumatic memory: dad is blown up during the Golf War of the 90’s.
Trigger in surroundings: queue possibly seeing his military uniform all over my shoulder.
And from the looks of how my mom reacted towards me when she saw that uniform, she definitely did not want him to go. She seems to have been stuck in a loop -- a constant replay of telling him to not go back to war, to not go back to die… but she had no say.  So, she was left unable to never get passed that anger -- that denial after his death.  

So, my mom’s going to be in the asylum for a few days until she stabilizes, and my dad? He was nowhere out there, as I had thought before… nowhere but six feet underground, and in pieces somewhere out in Western Asia, all the while I was still floating inside a placenta. I wonder did I kick at the sound of his voice, did he tenderly kiss me goodbye over my mother’s tummy before leaving to be grateful, to be used, to make us proud… to make us miserable. “I’ll be back soon” I bet he said. ing idiot. Everyone knows you should never say things like that when going off into a dangerous situation. That’s like saying “I’ll be right back” in a horror movie… and then you’re stabbed to death fifty million times by Ghost Face.  My mom had to… she had to pretend it didn’t happen – so much to the point of actually believing it.  Stuff his memories deep inside a luggage, as if she was stuffing his body into a coffin – because there was no body; hide him deep inside her closet, as if she was piling him up with mounds and mounds of dirt -- because there was no burial. She had to pretend, because it’s never anytime to grieve, to depress when you have two small children to raise; there’s never time to die inside when you have no one but yourself and your offspring—no other family but them, your native language, and the disgusting funds of your dead lover every month as a constant reminder of how stupid he was… how much you want to hate him and can’t… for leaving you alone. I felt something burning inside of my chest… I was too overwhelmed with my own pain, and at the same time – for some reason – I couldn’t help but feel this need to grieve for my mom, as well -- to release that pain she never could release herself… or was this also my pain? Am I grieving for my dad?

“Jo…” Jackie called out to me as she was returning back to the living room, seeing me rush out of it and into my mom’s bedroom again.

Neither of us had dared to enter it since yesterday… leaving it untouched like some sort of crime scene – or maybe we were just afraid of what else we might find. We hadn’t talked about it at all since it happened either, being that I made myself crash with the weight of the jetlag right after everyone left.

I slammed the door of my mom’s bedroom shut, and locked it behind me. “Jo, please talk to me… you know you can always talk to me…” Jackie said, as she held back whimpers. She always tried to act tough for me… it guilted me. I hurriedly walked over towards the luggage again, gritting my teeth as I tried to fight back the tears that were already freely roaming over my cheeks. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything anymore, or ever again. I rummaged through the countless additional letters inside of the luggage… a lot for my mom, some for Jackie and one more for me. I collapsed myself next to the luggage, whimpering softly as I hurriedly opened my second letter.

                Amber,

There is just so much I want to say, and I don’t think I have enough ink. I don’t think I have enough time. Things are getting pretty bad here. They’re getting pretty dangerous, so if I’m not able to  keep my promise, I want you to understand a few things when you’re able to.  I don’t regret being here, and I don’t regret the sacrifices I’ve made to offer you, your mother, and Jackie a better future. I knew what I was getting myself into, and I knew the possible price; and so whatever happens you need to understand that it’s no one’s fault. You also need to understand that ‘better’ is relative, kicker. Don’t feel pressured or guilted into thinking that you need to aspire for greatness because of what I’m doing here for you today. I want you to aspire for what you love, because that in itself is greatness. And don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise; don’t you dare let anyone tell you where you’re supposed to be, what you’re supposed to do, where you’re supposed to go, who you’re supposed to be… don’t you dare let anyone define greatness for you. You are great, and you are beautiful exactly the way you are. And wherever you find yourself in life right now -- it’s okay, kicker. I will be proud of you for everything that you are, and for everything that you’re not. I will be proud. I love you. So much. Just don’t ever stop kicking – don’t ever stop trying, and I promise that I won’t stop fighting... and I will try my very best to keep my promise of coming back to you. I just hope that if I can’t hold myself to these words… that you will also never stop being proud of me, too.
 

"Pumped Up Kicks" - Foster The People 
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you better run, better run, faster than my bullet.
 

No. I’m not. “I’m not proud of you…” I muttered in between my gritted teeth, as I tightly gripped onto the sides of the letter. My eyes stung with tears, as I slowly and harshly crumbled up the piece of paper in my hand. The crumbled paper falling in between my knees and onto the floor, as I pressed my fists against my eyes… my whimpers got louder, and louder. I wasn’t sure if I was angry, in agony, or both. I could understand him and my mom not working out – I could accept that! You left because in the long run it would have been better, so much better for everyone involved. No point in staying in an irreparable relationship, right?

I lifted my face from my fists, throwing my head back for a breather – I was panting. I hastily wiped away my tears as I stood up, picking up the rest of the letters with me.

But instead, he left because he wanted more? That’s it? He could be alive right now. We would be in Taiwan, we would be poor, we would have nothing, but at least we’d have each other.

“Stupid… stupid…!” I said under my breath and in between gritted teeth, as I walked towards the door and opened it abruptly. I dropped Jackie’s letters at her bedroom door, where she had made her way to after getting no response from me earlier.

At least I’d have a dad! I’m not proud of you! You were supposed to be here! You weren’t supposed to just leave us… and this whole time I’ve just kept thinking that someday I’d meet him. My whole life I’ve just been thinking that someday I’d find him and confront him… or someday he’d miss me… someday he’d just come back... -- my whole life.

I hurriedly made my way into my bedroom, rummaging through my own luggage this time, looking for whatever work-out clothes. I still hadn’t unpacked since yesterday – I pull out a bra that I don’t recognize to be mine at all…

“Actually… I should keep this” I said, momentarily looking at the bra as I began to place it into my bookbag.
“What? Why?” she laughed.
“My souvenir for popping your cherry.” I said with a huge grin.

They all leave… 

I angrily toss the bra across my bedroom floor, as I then suit myself into my work-out clothes; and before I knew it I was already at the local gym, losing count of the amount of times the front of my feet had slammed against the kicking bag. With my feet protectors lying on the floor next to me, I could only see the red and feel the sting, and that still didn’t stop me…

“Hey, kid.” Said one of the gym employees, as he walked towards me. I ignored him, and continued punishing the kicking bag. “Hey…” he said, as he then picked up the feet protectors from the floor, noticing now more up close what I had been doing to myself.  “Kid, I’m really sorry but we’re about to close up here… kid…” he continued, as his tone had changed from authoritative employee to concerned citizen -- his worried eyes scanning me and the bag. “Alright, that’s enough. That’s enough.” He said with a caring tone. He came up behind me, trying his hardest to pull me away from the kicking bag. “Hey, hey…” he then made his way in front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders, as if he was trying to snap me out of a trance.  “We’re closing, kid. You gotta pick up.” He let go of me and took a step back the moment I raised my panting face t