Mel Mallory - Survive and Keep Surviving

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Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mallory, Mel.
Title: Survive and keep surviving / Mel Mallory.
Description: New York : West 44, 2022. | Series: West 44 YA verse
Identifiers: ISBN 9781978595927 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781978595910
(library bound) | ISBN 9781978595934 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Childrens poetry, American. | Childrens poetry,
English. | English poetry.
Classification: LCC PS586.3 M355 2022 | DDC 811.60809282--dc23

First Edition

Published in 2022 by
Enslow Publishing LLC
29 East 21st Street
New York, NY 10011

Copyright 2022 Enslow Publishing LLC

Editor: Caitie McAneney

Designer: Katelyn E. Reynolds

Photo Credits: Cvr (watercolor background) Oksana
Telesheva/Shutterstock.com; cvr, p. 1 (hand drawn font)
Azuzl/Shutterstock.com.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

Printed in the United States of America

CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CW22W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-398-2504.

If you took a sampleof my life,put it under glass,peered at it with amicroscope:things on the outsidewouldnt seem so differentfrom yours.Im this normalgirl.I have a mom. A dad.Theyre not together anymore, but its not so bad.Look a littlecloser.I have a mom (who works day and night to pay for my surgeries, medicines, appointments, and more).I have a dad (who moved to Arizona after I got sick and I havent seen him in two years). Look a little closer.I have a caretaker, Mrs. C (because I cant take care of myself).Look closer.I am this normalgirl (on the outside).But inside, I am broken. Heres the secret of my life:You have tosplice it open,dissectthe cells.Microscopic, miniscule,nanosized.Its a little differentwhen you zoom in. (I dont want anybodyto zoom in.)

Mel Mallory is a writer and mental healthadvocate. She has a B.A. in Women and GenderStudies and a minor in English. Her work isinfluenced by her own experience being disabledand living with psychosis. She currentlylives in Maryland with her two guinea pigs.You can find her at www.melmallory.com.

Years ago, my paranoiaand delusions grewlike an invasive plantin my moms garden,with vines that trailedthroughout our houseand coursed throughthe entire town. Psychosis wreckedeverything in its path,and now all I can dois weed the garden.Apologize, smile, andkeep my head down.But what happensif the roots of the plantare still buried?What does recovery meanif the plantgrows back? Its the end of seventh period.Im still thinking aboutwhat Kendall Wilson said.At lunch, I slippedand spilled French frieson her jacket. Ketchupsprayed everywhere.Im so sorry, I mumbledand looked away.It was an accident.She smiled. But I couldtell she was mad.Just dont go allpsycho on me, she said. I drive to Dr. Lewiss officeseven miles away,between a nail salon and caf.I can smell traces ofburnt coffee and rubbing alcoholfrom inside his waiting room.The receptionist greets me.Good afternoon, Mara.I dont even have to sign in.She knows me. Im a regular. In this very office,I learned all aboutpsychosis.psy cho sisnounDictionarydefinition:A mental conditionthat causes youto lose touchwith reality.You might hear,see, or believe thingsthat others dont.Many peoplefully recover.But other times,symptoms lie low,ready toattack again. His smooth white wallsare covered in posters.Men climbing mountains andballerinas pointing their toes.Each poster comes withits own cheesy quote.Believe in yourself!Never give up! Id rather be surrounded by blank walls. No mountain men. No ballerinas. I tell Dr. Lewiswhat Kendall said.He raises his eyebrowsand leans forward.Rests his bearded chinon one hand.He asks if shes my friend.I shake my head.So why does it matterwhat she thinks?I stare at his blue button-down shirt.He never wears a coat or tie.(My dad once saidhe dresses unprofessionally,as if it matters.)I shrug, butKendalls words stillreplay in my head.Like a bad commercialon a steady loop.I wonder if shethinks Im crazy,like everyone else didback in ninth grade,when they whispered,Shes psychotic! Dad watches TV from the couch.Mom scrubs dishesin the kitchen sink.She looks up as Iclose the front doorand kick off my shoes.Her short hairsticks up in the back.Her lips look chapped,like shes beenbiting them.How was school? Fine.And Dr. Lewis? Good.We both dont knowwhat else to say.I disappear upstairsto avoid anotherstaring competition. When I was a kid,Mom wouldtake me to workwhere she decoratedmodel homes.She said there wasa science behindangling the furniture.Draping the curtains.Making each roomfeel like part ofthe perfect home. Mom wants our houseto look just as good as therooms she decorates for work. Our house rules: If you use the kitchen, you must wash the dishes right away. If you pick a book off the shelf, you must put it back in the right order. If you drop a hand towel on the floor, you must replace it with a fresh one.Everything must appearlike no one actuallylives here. Last month,Mom put plastic wrapover the couches so theywouldnt get scratched.Dad couldnt helpbut roll his eyes.Youre out ofyour mind, Julie.Its just a sofa.But Mom doesnt careif he complains.As long as he doesnt puthis feet on the table. I prefer to be inmy bedroom,away frommy moms rules,my dads irritation.In my room,the walls arepainted plain white.(Eggshell, if youask my mom.)There are nothrow pillows,framed photos, orcool pieces of art.All I have is atwin-size bed,a dresser, and abookcase full ofpaperbacks.My room isntanything special.But its the one placeI can breathe. On my corkboard,theres a calendarI printed from onlineand a photo ofupstate New York,where Ill live next year.Im counting downthe days untilgraduation.Until I can existoutside the bordersof my bedroom. Downstairs, I can hear Dadturn up the volume on the TV.I remember when he met Dr. Lewisat our first (and only) family therapy session.That was years ago. Right afterI got out of the hospital.The three of us crammed togetheron the tiny office couch.At six foot two,Dad looked like a giant.He had just come fromthe office and was stillwearing his suit and tie.(The green-striped tie thatmy mom had never liked.)I could see his five oclock shadowand bags under his eyes.Dr. Lewis stared at Mom.Mom stared at Dad.Dad stared at the clock.When asked how he felt,Dad looked nervous.Like a contestant on a game showscared to give the wrong answer.