text: My mother always told me. It was a familiar theme of conversation. She would say “if you keep doing these things, nobody is going to like you”. “These Things” was never clearly defined. The best I could surmise was that it roughly translated to “whatever makes you the way that you are as a person”, but that was an educated guess at best really. It seemed *anything* I did warranted a reminder, even when I hadn’t tried to get myself into trouble. I always felt so cold when she spoke like that, like my heart had been injected with some kind of coolant so that my blood was freezing into thousands of tiny prickling shards all over. When I got older, I would learn to inject my ~~veins~~ words with enough heat to ~~numb~~ combat it. “My friends like me just fine.” She smiled. It was not a warm smile. “Because they don’t have to deal with you all the time. When you’re an adult, things will be different. My job, as an adult who knows all of that, is to pass that knowledge to you, and your job is to *listen*, not argue.” Every time she said that word, *knowledge*, I would get distracted. It was one of the few words she said where you could still hear a heavy hint of her accent every time, though she would deny it fervently if you so much as implied that she had any kind of accent at all. They say that a person’s real accent becomes more prominent when that person is tired, drunk, upset, or angry. I had a penchant for making the adults in my life all of those things all of the time, it seemed. I knew a *lot* of different accents, at least. She continued regardless of my distraction. I was, after all, meant to be *listening*. “Right now, school forces you to spend time together. But years from now, when there is no school or dance class or youth group to make them see you all the time, it’ll be up to you guys to invite each other and make plans to see everyone. And they will stop coming, and calling, and inviting you, *mark my words*. Just wait a few years, I’ll be *more* than happy to tell you I told you so.” ...... “......*You* like me.” “I don’t like you. Sure, I *love* you, because I’m your mother so I have to, but I certainly don’t *like* you. And once anyone spends enough time with you to learn and know the real you, neither will anybody else. There’s a difference between *liking* someone and *loving* someone.” Oh. Well, maybe, it didn’t matter if people liked me as long as they lo- “And *I* only love you because *I’m* your mother. Nobody else will have that obligation, *they will leave you*. People usually don’t tend to love people they can’t even stand to be around, let alone like, unless they *have to*. They don’t have to. So just watch, because one day, *nobody* is going to like you, not even yourself, and you are going to be a very, *very* lonely little girl. And it will be *nobody’s* fault but your own.” ...... ......I don’t really remember how the conversation went after that. I never did find out what “These Things” really were, or how I could stop doing them, though not for a lack of trying. For a while, years later, it didn’t matter. For a while, I was more loved ~~and more liked~~ than I *ever* could have imagined or hoped for, surrounded by so much warmth I was sometimes scared I would burn up. I was also scared that if I got too used to feeling warm, the cold would feel even more bitter upon its inevitable return. And then- just when I had *finally* decided that my mother was wrong, and the memory of those particular words failed to make me feel even chilled anymore, and I was sure that I would certainly never ever ever feel *freezing* ever again- that warmth gradually slipped away from me, as I willingly scrambled to burn myself on the embers in a ~~futile~~ desperate attempt to stay warm and received nothing but the stinging stench of acrid smoke and choked lungs full of ash in return. The cold *did* hurt more upon its return, as I had just gotten used to its absence before it came back with a vengeance, so I was able to relish the bitter victory of being right about *that* at least- even though it meant I was wrong about almost everything I had previously been so sure of, and therefore had to exist with the *knowledge* that my mother was right, *mark her words*. As the familiar cold settled in, it stung so fiercely it almost reminded me of burning all over again. There is a special sort of quiet brutality in finally finding something you never quite dared to hope you would have, then having it pulled cleanly from your grasp no matter how much you fought. It’s almost an act of mercy, a kindness, to go without and never truly know what you’re missing, rather than to know and to *feel* the empty, aching hollows the absence leaves behind. I am wary now of even a spark, too scared of forfeiting my reclaimed numbness just to burn to even consider striking a match and daring to feel anything but cold *ever* again. She certainly did tell me so. ...... Sometimes at night, years after I’ve stopped needing to strain my ears to listen for angry footsteps and voices but ~~compulsively~~ devotedly continue to do so anyway, when it’s quiet and I’m alone and ~~begging~~ ~~sobbing~~ ~~pleading~~ wishing that I wasn’t as charred memories play on a hazy loop in my mind, I wonder if I was missing the obvious the entire time, if “These Things” simply meant talking, moving, thinking, feeling, breathing, *living*. And if maybe, just *maybe*, if I stopped, someone might like me. ...... Sometimes, if I keep the TV on during at night, sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I’m not alone during those hazy moments between the waking world and sleep. Currently, a documentary plays across the screen, casting the walls in a soft blue glow that is almost ethereal in the still darkness. A man on the screen is demonstrating methods one should employ to stay warm enough to survive alone in a blizzard long enough to wait for help, should one ever manage to land themselves in such a position. He explains how crucial it is to find a dry, safe place to take shelter and build a fire, teaches his audience how to use the bare minimal tools and materials to produce a tiny, dancing flame. He does not explain what to do if you have no tools and materials, however, nor how to find such items should you find yourself lacking. He also does not mention what to do if there is no *help* on the way. Those possibilities aren’t even acknowledged. I’m only half awake, but it still doesn’t escape my attention that there’s some sort of metaphor, or irony, or something to be found there somewhere. ...... ............ I’m so cold.