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GRAVITY

You know those moments, when you listen to a song, everything you’ve been feeling that day suddenly is just summed up perfectly in those few small, innocent verses?
It happens to me all the time, me being a passionate Singer, Violinist, and most of all Thespian, whose Ipod is almost filled with AIDA, Phantom Of The Opera, Next to Normal, Les Miserables, WICKED, CATS, and other Broadway showtunes.
I had been to the UTA (Utah Theater Association: a Conference for theater nerds like me, who want to soak in the rays of prestigious thespians knowledge and skill for 3 days at a college around Utah State) Conference before, last year at Davis University, and had a wonderful experience there, and was feeling the familiar surge of excitement running through my veins, but I had bigger expectations of this year, as our school bus rolled into Brigham Young University. My dad had worked at BYU before, so I knew the layout very well, and knew exactly where I was going to when our drama teacher, Mr. Shelley, told us to go to the HVAC building.
The next hour was a blur of T-shirts, Lanyards, the first few dollars spent on glittering hand made masks, hoodies, waiting for the auditorium doors to open to let us in, and looking and comparing at everyone’s plans for workshops and food as the other schools from across Utah slowly trickled in one by one.
A friend caught my eye and came over to my spot on the bench by the auditorium door we were waiting to get into.
As she walked over, her long, brown hair swishing behind her as she straightened her Blue, White, and Black Drama Council Sweater, she offered me her usual crooked smile when she glanced at my MockingJay pin on my own Sweater, and then gestured to the already marked packet of advertisements and workshop descriptions.
“What workshops do you want to go to, Emma?” “I want to go to Razza Boxes.” I said evenly, choking down my excitement, because Mr. Shelley, my drama teacher, didn’t need to deal with another over-excited teenager, a shrug escaping my calm demeanor.
“That sounds so cool! I thought of going to that, but--” she glanced down at her own packet to make sure she was getting the title right “-- ‘A Dollar On the Ceiling’ sounds more exciting, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I still have nothing to do on Friday’s 3rd workshop block, maybe I’ll go to that one then.” I fingered through my packet, and starred the box next to A Dollar On the Ceiling Friday 1 pm - 2:30 pm.
I looked back up, and my friend was gone to talk to another friend about their workshops, her over dramatic movements making me smile forlornly as the familiar pang of loneliness hit, but it was swallowed down as the auditorium doors opened beside me, and a swarm of excited thespians elbowed their way to get to the front of the line to get through, making my excited jitters raise exponentially.
The girl next to me yelled up to a girl I couldn’t see, “I wanna get front row seating!!” --why she couldn’t have possibly have waited till she was closer, I didn’t know-- making me cringe with the volume.
“I’ve heard great things about this years opening ceremony.” commented Nick a fellow drama council member in his own matching sweater, going around me, to hold open a door to the quickly filling room, and giving me a look that reflected my feelings to the over enthusiastic girl who was now hopping away, her hair bouncing with each step she skipped, down the stairs to the front of the auditorium.
Nick was a genius and a very passionate thespian. He had played Joe Joe in Seussical-- Joe Joe because of his vertically challenged height-- a few months before, and had even assisted in directing the production as well. He was already carrying a “how to be a better actor!” book in his arms, along with a notebook to write down all the notes his brain could come up with.
Going through the open door, and muttering my thanks, I gazed towards the stage, the lights almost blinding, even from halfway across the room, and felt a twang of excitement as I saw boxes, microphones, and chairs set up for whatever performance the UTA board had set up for us.
Settling down into my seat, I looked down at my clock, and pushed through my irritation of waiting the next 20 minutes to see what all those props were for.
“Wanna join, Emma?”
I jumped, and glanced over at Nick who was excitedly drawing row after row of dots onto a piece of lined paper from the notebook he had brought. “What are ya playing?”
“The Dot Game. Wanna join?” he gave a look at the friend sitting next to him, Cassidy, and she looked over at me, her silver grey eyes meeting mine.
“Come on, Emma. It’ll be fun!”
I hadn’t been asked to join in any game in such a long time, that it took me a few seconds to wrap my head around the concept of being wanted, but accepted because I still had 18 minutes to kill, and what better way of doing so by killing these two at a simple game of Dots?
I pulled out a Red and Blue pen from my purse, gave the Red one to Cassidy, and connected the first two Dots to start the game.
17 points and minutes later, the audiences wave of applause and cat calling ripped us Three out of the game, and focused our gaze to the stage where a older woman, with mousy brown hair slowly turning grey, a business looking suit coat and bright Green shirt underneath as she gestured to lower the volume, and was amazed at how quiet it got all of the sudden.
“Welcome to the 35th annual Utah Theater Association conference!” Applause and hooting rang out around me, as the climax of the applause died, she continued.
“This year we have something a little different than in years past.” That got my attention real quick. Was this was a good different? Or a bad different?
“We are doing something called the Impact Showcase this year. Where schools from around the state--” Catcalls from behind me “--and even from some out of state --” more cat calling, this time in front of us “--have prepared scenes to show you this morning!”
Okay, this was a good different. I can deal with this different. I relaxed in my chair, and looked at our Teacher to see if our school had prepared scenes to show. The shake of his head saddened me, but I prepared for the next Two hours to sit and watch.
In the next hour and a half I had seen “As Long As You’re Mine” from WICKED, performed by Dixie High, “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors, performed by Sky View High, “What You Don’t Know About Women” from City of Angels performed by Box Elder High, a performance of “Confrontation” from Jekyll and Hyde by Alta High which got a standing ovation, then the woman came back out again.
“Let’s give a warm welcome to Highland High School as they perform their number ‘The Gravity Project’!”
After the respectful applause came, she then went into the introduction, saying that they had as a class came together to talk about their biggest challenges, and that’s when a stab of ice shot straight through my heart. I felt my body and mind seemingly separate, the connection between soul and body stretching. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was myself building walls against anything touching my inner core, my most personal, deep, and wounded part of me, but I ignored it, and listened with half a mind as the woman continued on by describing the process of how this class from Highland brought together their most deep and personal scars and put them into a piece, then one of the girls had found the song “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles, and they had wrapped their piece around this song, and “The Gravity Project” was born. The woman then turned, her Neon Green Pumps giving a little “click click click click” sound as she trotted away.
I hoped that it wasn’t going to be like I felt in my heart. I didn’t want to relive my past. Especially not in front of 700 other kids.
Heart pounding, mind racing, I started glancing at doorways and mentally making plans on how to escape this sudden prison if this got too caustic. I would go to the bathroom, and wait 10 minutes if it got too bad, claiming I had cramps--
My racing mind got cut off by the deep, soothing sound of the Piano start up... Suddenly strapped into my chair by the actors dark, open, aura, I watched as each person came on stage from the wings, their body language screaming discomfort, sadness, anguish even.
“Bullying.” “Low Self Esteem.”
My mind was screaming “BAD IDEA EMMA. GET OUT OF HERE. NOW!!” but I was glued to my chair, by some unseeable force, I was stuck in that cushioned chair, that could have been an electric chair, considering my state of panic and shock.
“Meth.” “Drugs.”
Maybe this really was a bad idea to come to UTA this year. I glanced over at the door, willing it to appear before me and swallow me whole.
Emotion was starting to well up inside me, my glass heart filling up with tears, sorrow, and suffering, pushing against the already cracked interior of my fragile glass heart. Vision now blurred, the crisp, clear actors suddenly becoming black fuzzy moving masses of substance as the lyrics came on.
“Something always brings me back to you.
It never takes too long.
No matter what I say or do I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone.
You hold me without touch. You keep me without chains.
I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love
and not feel your rain.”

It was as if I could see my glass heart, the cracks that were already there starting to split open, the cracks turning into empty rivers, the rivers filling with blood, the blood overfilling the rivers, the cracks becoming deeper and deeper until they weren’t cracks anymore, then one more push, and the glass shattered into a million, tiny shards that exploded out, but then turned around and started stabbing at my real heart, the heart that the glass was hiding, ripping memories out of the cold, desolate box that they came from, and ripping them out into the open, barrenness of my mind.
“Set me free, leave me be.
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall,
just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.”

It was like a flying movie trailer of my past life, some in focus, and some in startlingly clear clarity. And I was an unwilling watcher as my life unfolded in front of me.
“So what did you think of my note, Wesley?” I said casually, walking to the crosswalk to go home from a long, tiring day of Jr High.
I was referring to the note that I had written him before Christmas break -- it was now the middle of January-- and I was getting impatient to hear a response. Any response.
“I don’t want to talk to you ever again. I wouldn’t like you if you were the last woman on earth.”
Maybe any response wasn’t so great as I thought it would be...
That was the first time my heart ever got crushed. I had taken it out of its safe, warm place in my chest, and had open out my palm so he could take it and take care of it. Instead he waited so long, until I started to retreat it back into its spot, then took it away from my hand and crushed it, making it bleed and deform so much it would probably never be whole again.
Depression. Pain. Longing for Love, Hope, Charity, Compassion, Care.
None came.
Stab. Rip. Tear.
Then came the Quizzes.
“Find your true match!” Enticing, empty promises of love and happiness. “What is your perfect date? Find out here!”
But that wasn’t enough. It never was. I stumbled across “Seven Minutes in Heaven”, and the feeling I got was one I thought I wanted, I craved, needed even. More and more and more.
“Seven Minutes” turned into “A Night in Heaven.” I was in so deep by that point, that I had lost any and all friendships. I pushed them away, became violent, vicious, and cruel. No one wanted to be around me, not even me if I was truly honest with myself. Besides, who needed friends when I had my quizes, my empty promises of Love, Caring, everything that everyone else lacked so much?
Any compliment became a lie. Everyone became an enemy. No one cared, or didn’t care enough.
Stab. Rip. Tear.

Summer passing. The promise of High School, starting anew, was fresh and welcome in my mind. I could be a different person, not be violent and mean. I had seen now that being the way I was acting was not the way to get friends, but it was too late. I didn’t have any friends anymore. My 15th birthday passed, and I hosted a party, inviting all the girls I knew in Jr High, but not one of them told me Happy Birthday.
Rip. Stab. Tear.
The first day of High School, trying to fit in to a group, any group. For most people, they already had groups from Jr High, and went back to those groups. Seeing everyone with friends, and I’m the only one not with a friend, it seemed. I knew I deserved what was coming to me, but was a group to sit at lunch with, too much to ask for?
Rip. Stab. Tear.
While sitting outside, listening jealously to a group of people I used to know in Jr High, but they suddenly pretended not to know me -- out of the blue, a lonely frisbee, riding on the air currents above the football fields caught my eye. I looked down and saw a group of boys and few girls throwing this round plastic disk around, and for the first time in a year, I felt hope.
While I watched them play ultimate frisbee, I debated whether or not to join them. I didn’t think I had heard of a Frisbee Club, but it was possible.
My hope got the better of me, and I stood up and walked the seemingly forever lengthening staircase down to the football field.
I stood on the sidelines a little more, taking off my back pack and jacket.
“You wanna play?” a voice called out, a boy I would later know as Tyler running up to me, panting a little with exertion.
“Can I?”
“Of course!” this boy’s bright personality caught me off guard, but I jogged in and started to play.
After lunch’s game, Tyler came up to me as I was walking back to class, feeling better than I had in months. My feet might have been sore, and I might have been out of breath, but I felt good.
“What’s your name?” Tyler asked curiously, trying to see if my name had been stitched on my back pack somewhere, making me laugh for the first time in a year at his playfulness, and told him my full name.
“Eh, we’ll just call you Lee Lee from now on.”
I had a nick name. A real nick name. I was in a group. It was like finding water after a century of being in a desert. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I said thank you and moved on.
And life was pretty good...
Until...
Rip. Stab. Tear.
“You loved me 'cause I'm fragile.
When I thought that I was strong.
But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.”

It was like knowing the ending of a bad movie, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of the screen behind my eyelids. I couldn’t even blink to shut out the colorful pictures or plug my ears to stop the voices from crawling through my ears.
Until I found Ethan Sorenson on Facebook.
Even then, that was okay. He didn’t bother me, I didn’t bother him, even though he was probably the best guy on our frisbee team, being 6’5” and could throw the plastic disk the entire length of the football field in one try, and you wanted to be his friend, even though he was pretty cocky and loved the spotlight that he shone on himself.
He was fairly mysterious, though, and that in and of itself intrigued me more than anything. I had always liked getting to know people, how they worked, their little quirks and specialties. That combined with wanting friends turned out to be a bad recipe for disaster when he started messaging me on Facebook.
It started out well, as well as it could be with a naive Sophomore girl talking with a pompous, arrogant Senior boy. I didn’t have a phone, let alone a smart phone, so I made do with our family computer in our living room downstairs. Our usual conversation started as follows:
Ethan: Hey
Me: Hey What’s up?
Ethan: Not much. Playing computer Games. whatcha up to?
Me: Same
Then it all changed with one little, tiny, insignificant even, question around November:
Ethan: Wanna Play a Game?
Me: Sure What kind of game?
Ethan: Truth or Dare. You Game?
I didn’t really like truth or dare, but I needed a friend, and had told Ethan all of my past experiences with my Pornographic Literature -- he was even the first one to go and tell me to go and tell my Bishop -- and thought that he would respect my struggles and trials and not ask any questions.
Me: Sure...
Ethan: You start.
Me: Truth or Dare?
Ethan: Dare.
I hated dares, giving and receiving, but I needed a friend, so I swallowed the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and pushed onward.
Me: I dare you....
Ethan: Yes? What?
Ethan’s excitement didn’t help the dark shadow growing in my stomach.
Me: I dare you to.... to sing Hannah Montana while you’re brushing your teeth.
Ethan: Alright.
December came around, like it always does, with a flurry of happy couples, Red and Green ribbon wrapped around boxes, but this time, I wasn’t going to be stuck in the frozen wasteland of Utah where it was around 12 degrees all Winter. I was going to my Grandparents in Florida, where it was a nice 75 degrees the week before Christmas. No complaints there at all.
There was only 1 computer at my grandparents, in “my bedroom”, a small room that had one window, and a twin sized bed with a massive stuffed tiger on top of it I had to move each night to sleep on the bed. It was the perfect room to talk to Ethan to, and so you couldn’t pry me off of that computer with a crowbar if you’d wanted to. If I wasn’t on Facebook with Ethan, I was playing games, or more commonly, looking for more Quizzes, ones that any firewalls --- not that we had any on my computer at home--- or blocks could detect.
After a dare, and a few minutes of playing a game called, “Playing With Fire”, the little Facebook Chat Chime sounded.
Ethan: Done. Truth or Dare?
Truth had always been easier to me than dare.
Me: Truth.
Ethan: Socks or Barefoot?
Me: Barefoot. Truth or Dare?
*Please be truth please be truth ---*
Ethan: Dare.
*Sigh*
Me: I dare you to... tell me the truth on which you prefer: Ipod or Cell Phone?
Ethan: Ohh, you did that on purpose. Ipod. Truth or Dare?
Me: Truth.
Ethan: Do you like V neck or button shirts unbuttoned?
Suddenly “Truth” didn’t seem all that great.
Me: Why?
Ethan: Or I could just stop talking to you....
Me: No! no. Nevermind. I do either. But usually V necks.
Ethan: I think V necks are attractive, but button ups can be too lol.
Me: Truth or Dare?
Ethan: Dare. Of course.
Me: I dare you to tell me whether or not you like hot or cold more.
Ethan: Cold. It feels, good. Um. Mini Skirts or Short Shorts?
Me: I don’t own or like either. Asleep or awake?
Ethan: Awake. Bikini or Spandex?
“Set me free, leave me be.
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall,
just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.”
These Questions were almost exactly like the ones that those Quizzes asked. That dark, warm feeling was back, and I was hooked.
Me: I haven’t tried either. Hearing or Seeing?
Ethan: Hearing... Um Pants or Shirts?
Me: Um... idk.. probably shirts? Shoes or Gloves?
Ethan: Shoes. Um... Perfect pajamas?
Me: Comfortable ones?
Ethan: Um... lets see, shirtless or pantless?
This went on for 2 weeks. If I showed any signs of hesitation, then he’d blackmail me with the threats of leaving, and we’d go straight back to our newly found conversations that he liked so much, and I... if I was being honest with myself, liked the feeling I got with them too. But I started to need more. More and more and more, until later when he said, “So? You’re in that level too.” and “Sure little miss Naughty, why don’t you ask some.” it didn’t even affect me. At all. I was numb, and craving feeling.
Rip. Stab. Tear.
“I live here on my knees
as I try to make you see that you're everything
I think I need here on the ground.
But you're neither friend nor foe
though I can't seem to let you go.”
These conversations went on for so long, and so deep, that on Christmas Day 2010, this is what our conversations came to:
Ethan: Hmm... I dare you to, go to the window in the room and strip in front of it, if no one is outside.
I never did any of the dares he told me to, but if I said that I didn’t, he wouldn’t respond for the rest of the day, and I needed conversation.
Until a few hours later, when this message popped into my chat box:
Ethan: Hey, my mom said I couldn’t hang out with you anymore, sorry. She has asked me to delete all contact with you. Sorry.
Stab. Rip. Tear.
“The one thing that I still know
is that you're keeping me down.
You're keeping me down, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
You're on to me, on to me, and all over...
Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long.”

I was ripped out of my horror life story by the audience applauding the end of the Gravity Project. I knew how the story “ended”, and the unseeable force decided to have pity on me for once in my life and let me go.
It ended with me figuring out on New Years Eve at a Multi Stake Dance that Ethan had put a restraining order on me and the 2 other girls he was harassing. I was livid when I found out that he had told his parents that us girls were the ones who had been harassing him, making him say all these awful, nasty, things.
I had never let go of my hatred for him. It was too easy for me just to keep them wrapped in a nice little box in my heart, telling me never to trust, and to stay alone and unwanted, because then, you never got hurt. No one ever abused you sexually or physically, and you could survive.
But suddenly, surviving wasn’t enough anymore. I needed to live. To feel, laugh, and be happy again. I suddenly realized the box of hatred I had been holding on so desperately to, was gone. I searched myself emotionally for it, and found it had disappeared into the distance. It was like finding that the balloon that you had been holding onto so tightly had somehow slipped through my fingers.
For some reason I felt light, lighter than I had been in a while. I could feel all of the pairs of eyes from all of the other students looking at me in confusion and curiosity as they saw the tear stains from the mascara I had so delicately put on that morning, running down my cheeks, but I ignored them all as I took out a tissue and carefully removed the black rivers from my face. I felt like I had suddenly grown a pair of wings and could fly through the roof if I wanted to. I had suddenly forgiven Ethan Sorenson, and had accepted my scars from the past. I could breathe again.
I looked up to the ceiling, and with gratitude and peace emanating from my heart, sent a very true appreciation letter to the heavens for letting me let go of the shackles of my past, and look forward to the potentially bright future.

:) (Smile) — Description
GRAVITY

You know those moments, when you listen to a song, everything you’ve been feeling that day suddenly is just summed up perfectly in those few small, innocent verses?
It happens to me all the time, me being a passionate Singer, Violinist, and most of all Thespian, whose Ipod is almost filled with AIDA, Phantom Of The Opera, Next to Normal, Les Miserables, WICKED, CATS, and other Broadway showtunes.
I had been to the UTA (Utah Theater Association: a Conference for theater nerds like me, who want to soak in the rays of prestigious thespians knowledge and skill for 3 days at a college around Utah State) Conference before, last year at Davis University, and had a wonderful experience there, and was feeling the familiar surge of excitement running through my veins, but I had bigger expectations of this year, as our school bus rolled into Brigham Young University. My dad had worked at BYU before, so I knew the layout very well, and knew exactly where I was going to when our drama teacher, Mr. Shelley, told us to go to the HVAC building.
The next hour was a blur of T-shirts, Lanyards, the first few dollars spent on glittering hand made masks, hoodies, waiting for the auditorium doors to open to let us in, and looking and comparing at everyone’s plans for workshops and food as the other schools from across Utah slowly trickled in one by one.
A friend caught my eye and came over to my spot on the bench by the auditorium door we were waiting to get into.
As she walked over, her long, brown hair swishing behind her as she straightened her Blue, White, and Black Drama Council Sweater, she offered me her usual crooked smile when she glanced at my MockingJay pin on my own Sweater, and then gestured to the already marked packet of advertisements and workshop descriptions.
“What workshops do you want to go to, Emma?” “I want to go to Razza Boxes.” I said evenly, choking down my excitement, because Mr. Shelley, my drama teacher, didn’t need to deal with another over-excited teenager, a shrug escaping my calm demeanor.
“That sounds so cool! I thought of going to that, but--” she glanced down at her own packet to make sure she was getting the title right “-- ‘A Dollar On the Ceiling’ sounds more exciting, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I still have nothing to do on Friday’s 3rd workshop block, maybe I’ll go to that one then.” I fingered through my packet, and starred the box next to A Dollar On the Ceiling Friday 1 pm - 2:30 pm.
I looked back up, and my friend was gone to talk to another friend about their workshops, her over dramatic movements making me smile forlornly as the familiar pang of loneliness hit, but it was swallowed down as the auditorium doors opened beside me, and a swarm of excited thespians elbowed their way to get to the front of the line to get through, making my excited jitters raise exponentially.
The girl next to me yelled up to a girl I couldn’t see, “I wanna get front row seating!!” --why she couldn’t have possibly have waited till she was closer, I didn’t know-- making me cringe with the volume.
“I’ve heard great things about this years opening ceremony.” commented Nick a fellow drama council member in his own matching sweater, going around me, to hold open a door to the quickly filling room, and giving me a look that reflected my feelings to the over enthusiastic girl who was now hopping away, her hair bouncing with each step she skipped, down the stairs to the front of the auditorium.
Nick was a genius and a very passionate thespian. He had played Joe Joe in Seussical-- Joe Joe because of his vertically challenged height-- a few months before, and had even assisted in directing the production as well. He was already carrying a “how to be a better actor!” book in his arms, along with a notebook to write down all the notes his brain could come up with.
Going through the open door, and muttering my thanks, I gazed towards the stage, the lights almost blinding, even from halfway across the room, and felt a twang of excitement as I saw boxes, microphones, and chairs set up for whatever performance the UTA board had set up for us.
Settling down into my seat, I looked down at my clock, and pushed through my irritation of waiting the next 20 minutes to see what all those props were for.
“Wanna join, Emma?”
I jumped, and glanced over at Nick who was excitedly drawing row after row of dots onto a piece of lined paper from the notebook he had brought. “What are ya playing?”
“The Dot Game. Wanna join?” he gave a look at the friend sitting next to him, Cassidy, and she looked over at me, her silver grey eyes meeting mine.
“Come on, Emma. It’ll be fun!”
I hadn’t been asked to join in any game in such a long time, that it took me a few seconds to wrap my head around the concept of being wanted, but accepted because I still had 18 minutes to kill, and what better way of doing so by killing these two at a simple game of Dots?
I pulled out a Red and Blue pen from my purse, gave the Red one to Cassidy, and connected the first two Dots to start the game.
17 points and minutes later, the audiences wave of applause and cat calling ripped us Three out of the game, and focused our gaze to the stage where a older woman, with mousy brown hair slowly turning grey, a business looking suit coat and bright Green shirt underneath as she gestured to lower the volume, and was amazed at how quiet it got all of the sudden.
“Welcome to the 35th annual Utah Theater Association conference!” Applause and hooting rang out around me, as the climax of the applause died, she continued.
“This year we have something a little different than in years past.” That got my attention real quick. Was this was a good different? Or a bad different?
“We are doing something called the Impact Showcase this year. Where schools from around the state--” Catcalls from behind me “--and even from some out of state --” more cat calling, this time in front of us “--have prepared scenes to show you this morning!”
Okay, this was a good different. I can deal with this different. I relaxed in my chair, and looked at our Teacher to see if our school had prepared scenes to show. The shake of his head saddened me, but I prepared for the next Two hours to sit and watch.
In the next hour and a half I had seen “As Long As You’re Mine” from WICKED, performed by Dixie High, “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors, performed by Sky View High, “What You Don’t Know About Women” from City of Angels performed by Box Elder High, a performance of “Confrontation” from Jekyll and Hyde by Alta High which got a standing ovation, then the woman came back out again.
“Let’s give a warm welcome to Highland High School as they perform their number ‘The Gravity Project’!”
After the respectful applause came, she then went into the introduction, saying that they had as a class came together to talk about their biggest challenges, and that’s when a stab of ice shot straight through my heart. I felt my body and mind seemingly separate, the connection between soul and body stretching. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was myself building walls against anything touching my inner core, my most personal, deep, and wounded part of me, but I ignored it, and listened with half a mind as the woman continued on by describing the process of how this class from Highland brought together their most deep and personal scars and put them into a piece, then one of the girls had found the song “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles, and they had wrapped their piece around this song, and “The Gravity Project” was born. The woman then turned, her Neon Green Pumps giving a little “click click click click” sound as she trotted away.
I hoped that it wasn’t going to be like I felt in my heart. I didn’t want to relive my past. Especially not in front of 700 other kids.
Heart pounding, mind racing, I started glancing at doorways and mentally making plans on how to escape this sudden prison if this got too caustic. I would go to the bathroom, and wait 10 minutes if it got too bad, claiming I had cramps--
My racing mind got cut off by the deep, soothing sound of the Piano start up... Suddenly strapped into my chair by the actors dark, open, aura, I watched as each person came on stage from the wings, their body language screaming discomfort, sadness, anguish even.
“Bullying.” “Low Self Esteem.”
My mind was screaming “BAD IDEA EMMA. GET OUT OF HERE. NOW!!” but I was glued to my chair, by some unseeable force, I was stuck in that cushioned chair, that could have been an electric chair, considering my state of panic and shock.
“Meth.” “Drugs.”
Maybe this really was a bad idea to come to UTA this year. I glanced over at the door, willing it to appear before me and swallow me whole.
Emotion was starting to well up inside me, my glass heart filling up with tears, sorrow, and suffering, pushing against the already cracked interior of my fragile glass heart. Vision now blurred, the crisp, clear actors suddenly becoming black fuzzy moving masses of substance as the lyrics came on.
“Something always brings me back to you.
It never takes too long.
No matter what I say or do I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone.
You hold me without touch. You keep me without chains.
I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love
and not feel your rain.”

It was as if I could see my glass heart, the cracks that were already there starting to split open, the cracks turning into empty rivers, the rivers filling with blood, the blood overfilling the rivers, the cracks becoming deeper and deeper until they weren’t cracks anymore, then one more push, and the glass shattered into a million, tiny shards that exploded out, but then turned around and started stabbing at my real heart, the heart that the glass was hiding, ripping memories out of the cold, desolate box that they came from, and ripping them out into the open, barrenness of my mind.
“Set me free, leave me be.
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall,
just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.”

It was like a flying movie trailer of my past life, some in focus, and some in startlingly clear clarity. And I was an unwilling watcher as my life unfolded in front of me.
“So what did you think of my note, Wesley?” I said casually, walking to the crosswalk to go home from a long, tiring day of Jr High.
I was referring to the note that I had written him before Christmas break -- it was now the middle of January-- and I was getting impatient to hear a response. Any response.
“I don’t want to talk to you ever again. I wouldn’t like you if you were the last woman on earth.”
Maybe any response wasn’t so great as I thought it would be...
That was the first time my heart ever got crushed. I had taken it out of its safe, warm place in my chest, and had open out my palm so he could take it and take care of it. Instead he waited so long, until I started to retreat it back into its spot, then took it away from my hand and crushed it, making it bleed and deform so much it would probably never be whole again.
Depression. Pain. Longing for Love, Hope, Charity, Compassion, Care.
None came.
Stab. Rip. Tear.
Then came the Quizzes.
“Find your true match!” Enticing, empty promises of love and happiness. “What is your perfect date? Find out here!”
But that wasn’t enough. It never was. I stumbled across “Seven Minutes in Heaven”, and the feeling I got was one I thought I wanted, I craved, needed even. More and more and more.
“Seven Minutes” turned into “A Night in Heaven.” I was in so deep by that point, that I had lost any and all friendships. I pushed them away, became violent, vicious, and cruel. No one wanted to be around me, not even me if I was truly honest with myself. Besides, who needed friends when I had my quizes, my empty promises of Love, Caring, everything that everyone else lacked so much?
Any compliment became a lie. Everyone became an enemy. No one cared, or didn’t care enough.
Stab. Rip. Tear.

Summer passing. The promise of High School, starting anew, was fresh and welcome in my mind. I could be a different person, not be violent and mean. I had seen now that being the way I was acting was not the way to get friends, but it was too late. I didn’t have any friends anymore. My 15th birthday passed, and I hosted a party, inviting all the girls I knew in Jr High, but not one of them told me Happy Birthday.
Rip. Stab. Tear.
The first day of High School, trying to fit in to a group, any group. For most people, they already had groups from Jr High, and went back to those groups. Seeing everyone with friends, and I’m the only one not with a friend, it seemed. I knew I deserved what was coming to me, but was a group to sit at lunch with, too much to ask for?
Rip. Stab. Tear.
While sitting outside, listening jealously to a group of people I used to know in Jr High, but they suddenly pretended not to know me -- out of the blue, a lonely frisbee, riding on the air currents above the football fields caught my eye. I looked down and saw a group of boys and few girls throwing this round plastic disk around, and for the first time in a year, I felt hope.
While I watched them play ultimate frisbee, I debated whether or not to join them. I didn’t think I had heard of a Frisbee Club, but it was possible.
My hope got the better of me, and I stood up and walked the seemingly forever lengthening staircase down to the football field.
I stood on the sidelines a little more, taking off my back pack and jacket.
“You wanna play?” a voice called out, a boy I would later know as Tyler running up to me, panting a little with exertion.
“Can I?”
“Of course!” this boy’s bright personality caught me off guard, but I jogged in and started to play.
After lunch’s game, Tyler came up to me as I was walking back to class, feeling better than I had in months. My feet might have been sore, and I might have been out of breath, but I felt good.
“What’s your name?” Tyler asked curiously, trying to see if my name had been stitched on my back pack somewhere, making me laugh for the first time in a year at his playfulness, and told him my full name.
“Eh, we’ll just call you Lee Lee from now on.”
I had a nick name. A real nick name. I was in a group. It was like finding water after a century of being in a desert. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I said thank you and moved on.
And life was pretty good...
Until...
Rip. Stab. Tear.
“You loved me 'cause I'm fragile.
When I thought that I was strong.
But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.”

It was like knowing the ending of a bad movie, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of the screen behind my eyelids. I couldn’t even blink to shut out the colorful pictures or plug my ears to stop the voices from crawling through my ears.
Until I found Ethan Sorenson on Facebook.
Even then, that was okay. He didn’t bother me, I didn’t bother him, even though he was probably the best guy on our frisbee team, being 6’5” and could throw the plastic disk the entire length of the football field in one try, and you wanted to be his friend, even though he was pretty cocky and loved the spotlight that he shone on himself.
He was fairly mysterious, though, and that in and of itself intrigued me more than anything. I had always liked getting to know people, how they worked, their little quirks and specialties. That combined with wanting friends turned out to be a bad recipe for disaster when he started messaging me on Facebook.
It started out well, as well as it could be with a naive Sophomore girl talking with a pompous, arrogant Senior boy. I didn’t have a phone, let alone a smart phone, so I made do with our family computer in our living room downstairs. Our usual conversation started as follows:
Ethan: Hey
Me: Hey What’s up?
Ethan: Not much. Playing computer Games. whatcha up to?
Me: Same
Then it all changed with one little, tiny, insignificant even, question around November:
Ethan: Wanna Play a Game?
Me: Sure What kind of game?
Ethan: Truth or Dare. You Game?
I didn’t really like truth or dare, but I needed a friend, and had told Ethan all of my past experiences with my Pornographic Literature -- he was even the first one to go and tell me to go and tell my Bishop -- and thought that he would respect my struggles and trials and not ask any questions.
Me: Sure...
Ethan: You start.
Me: Truth or Dare?
Ethan: Dare.
I hated dares, giving and receiving, but I needed a friend, so I swallowed the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and pushed onward.
Me: I dare you....
Ethan: Yes? What?
Ethan’s excitement didn’t help the dark shadow growing in my stomach.
Me: I dare you to.... to sing Hannah Montana while you’re brushing your teeth.
Ethan: Alright.
December came around, like it always does, with a flurry of happy couples, Red and Green ribbon wrapped around boxes, but this time, I wasn’t going to be stuck in the frozen wasteland of Utah where it was around 12 degrees all Winter. I was going to my Grandparents in Florida, where it was a nice 75 degrees the week before Christmas. No complaints there at all.
There was only 1 computer at my grandparents, in “my bedroom”, a small room that had one window, and a twin sized bed with a massive stuffed tiger on top of it I had to move each night to sleep on the bed. It was the perfect room to talk to Ethan to, and so you couldn’t pry me off of that computer with a crowbar if you’d wanted to. If I wasn’t on Facebook with Ethan, I was playing games, or more commonly, looking for more Quizzes, ones that any firewalls --- not that we had any on my computer at home--- or blocks could detect.
After a dare, and a few minutes of playing a game called, “Playing With Fire”, the little Facebook Chat Chime sounded.
Ethan: Done. Truth or Dare?
Truth had always been easier to me than dare.
Me: Truth.
Ethan: Socks or Barefoot?
Me: Barefoot. Truth or Dare?
*Please be truth please be truth ---*
Ethan: Dare.
*Sigh*
Me: I dare you to... tell me the truth on which you prefer: Ipod or Cell Phone?
Ethan: Ohh, you did that on purpose. Ipod. Truth or Dare?
Me: Truth.
Ethan: Do you like V neck or button shirts unbuttoned?
Suddenly “Truth” didn’t seem all that great.
Me: Why?
Ethan: Or I could just stop talking to you....
Me: No! no. Nevermind. I do either. But usually V necks.
Ethan: I think V necks are attractive, but button ups can be too lol.
Me: Truth or Dare?
Ethan: Dare. Of course.
Me: I dare you to tell me whether or not you like hot or cold more.
Ethan: Cold. It feels, good. Um. Mini Skirts or Short Shorts?
Me: I don’t own or like either. Asleep or awake?
Ethan: Awake. Bikini or Spandex?
“Set me free, leave me be.
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall,
just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.”
These Questions were almost exactly like the ones that those Quizzes asked. That dark, warm feeling was back, and I was hooked.
Me: I haven’t tried either. Hearing or Seeing?
Ethan: Hearing... Um Pants or Shirts?
Me: Um... idk.. probably shirts? Shoes or Gloves?
Ethan: Shoes. Um... Perfect pajamas?
Me: Comfortable ones?
Ethan: Um... lets see, shirtless or pantless?
This went on for 2 weeks. If I showed any signs of hesitation, then he’d blackmail me with the threats of leaving, and we’d go straight back to our newly found conversations that he liked so much, and I... if I was being honest with myself, liked the feeling I got with them too. But I started to need more. More and more and more, until later when he said, “So? You’re in that level too.” and “Sure little miss Naughty, why don’t you ask some.” it didn’t even affect me. At all. I was numb, and craving feeling.
Rip. Stab. Tear.
“I live here on my knees
as I try to make you see that you're everything
I think I need here on the ground.
But you're neither friend nor foe
though I can't seem to let you go.”
These conversations went on for so long, and so deep, that on Christmas Day 2010, this is what our conversations came to:
Ethan: Hmm... I dare you to, go to the window in the room and strip in front of it, if no one is outside.
I never did any of the dares he told me to, but if I said that I didn’t, he wouldn’t respond for the rest of the day, and I needed conversation.
Until a few hours later, when this message popped into my chat box:
Ethan: Hey, my mom said I couldn’t hang out with you anymore, sorry. She has asked me to delete all contact with you. Sorry.
Stab. Rip. Tear.
“The one thing that I still know
is that you're keeping me down.
You're keeping me down, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
You're on to me, on to me, and all over...
Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long.”

I was ripped out of my horror life story by the audience applauding the end of the Gravity Project. I knew how the story “ended”, and the unseeable force decided to have pity on me for once in my life and let me go.
It ended with me figuring out on New Years Eve at a Multi Stake Dance that Ethan had put a restraining order on me and the 2 other girls he was harassing. I was livid when I found out that he had told his parents that us girls were the ones who had been harassing him, making him say all these awful, nasty, things.
I had never let go of my hatred for him. It was too easy for me just to keep them wrapped in a nice little box in my heart, telling me never to trust, and to stay alone and unwanted, because then, you never got hurt. No one ever abused you sexually or physically, and you could survive.
But suddenly, surviving wasn’t enough anymore. I needed to live. To feel, laugh, and be happy again. I suddenly realized the box of hatred I had been holding on so desperately to, was gone. I searched myself emotionally for it, and found it had disappeared into the distance. It was like finding that the balloon that you had been holding onto so tightly had somehow slipped through my fingers.
For some reason I felt light, lighter than I had been in a while. I could feel all of the pairs of eyes from all of the other students looking at me in confusion and curiosity as they saw the tear stains from the mascara I had so delicately put on that morning, running down my cheeks, but I ignored them all as I took out a tissue and carefully removed the black rivers from my face. I felt like I had suddenly grown a pair of wings and could fly through the roof if I wanted to. I had suddenly forgiven Ethan Sorenson, and had accepted my scars from the past. I could breathe again.
I looked up to the ceiling, and with gratitude and peace emanating from my heart, sent a very true appreciation letter to the heavens for letting me let go of the shackles of my past, and look forward to the potentially bright future.