Stephanie Cooper 

2022

The amber beams pierce her hungry eyes. They complement the specks of blue her iris holds. She has known many blues: new, old, warm, and cold. All one hundred and twenty seats aboard this fast-speeding plane stay in their seats-pacifists. They are fastened and fixated on the window that keeps them safe. Sip your tiny drink, eat your crackers, and don't dare crack the glass for fresh air. As the sun rises, the amber rays project off her like a drive-in theatre. Every spec of who she is plays in front of her, the magical and the formidable- all equally meaningful. It is a long walk to the plane's wing from her window as she escapes, and everyone will shout, "stupid," "you're too old," "she can't do it." Life is a collection of decisions, and when the plane lands, she will change and exchange her fear for feat. May she never forget who she truly is and the orange, golden, and yellow sunshine she holds- just beyond the horizon but right in front of her eyes.

As someone who struggles with mental health, I easily dismiss who I am and what I know I am capable of. So when I am pressed and pushed into a space where I feel judged or disliked, I recoil; I feel devastated, but then I recover. It is a vicious cycle that I hate for myself, and I have tried my hardest to overcome it. However, living in my head does not always allow me the opportunity to keep the brightest parts of me in the forefront. They often lay just beyond the horizon, inaccessible when I'm anxious.

I am making strides because I recently found a way through it accidentally. Sometimes I do the only thing I know how when I feel boxed in, I head to the gym. I took it out on the treadmill while I had to pace my breathing because anxiety is still anxiety. I was in a doubting phase again, triggered by a small collection of words. Five minutes can change everything in the mind of someone not ready to be in recovery mode. I dip in and out of these two people I call "me." I have grown to hate the weaker side, although I know she gives me my beautiful vulnerability and my soft heart. She is also a catastrophizer, and she reminds me of my imperfections. She won't let me breathe, she wants me to trip, and she wants me to stay inside my seat on the plane. Clawing my way out of that state of mind can seem impossible, and I was about thirty minutes into what is usually days of living in it. Thirty-three minutes was how long I let her steer my mind this time. That was all she got from me, which means I am slowly learning and recovering.

Music has always been a potent tool, a healing pill I cling to. I happen to love punk music when I am working out, primarily heavy covers. A song came on as I was running, breathing, and overthinking. With its empowering melody turned upbeat, the words shouted at me like I was talking to myself. I am sure everyone knows the song. I am going to throw in some of the lyrics sporadically:

Don't you forget about me

Will you stand above me?

Look my way? Never love me?

Will you recognize me?

Call my name or walk on by?

Don't you forget about me

I immediately realized I had dived into self-doubt and forgotten the powerful and talented creature I am. I had forgotten about me- the influential, beautiful, persistent person I identify as the most. She was reaching out to me, begging to regain her grasp on my mind. I let her, and just like that, within 5 minutes of music therapy, I came back to being aware. I returned to the plane's wing, ready to absorb the sun, and I vowed to remind myself of who I am if I went back there. I am not anyone's collection of thoughts about me; I know who I am. I know what I am worth. I know I must stop squinting at the sun and open my eyes. I know there is more to find, but it may burn to get there. I'm ready.