Under the palm tree
August 2013 I sit in the car, nervous and apprehensive. But very aware that I have to get out and do this. But that does not it make easier, no number of deep breaths is going to get me to move. My palms are sweaty, my skin starts going clammy like a nervous white guy. A part of me wants to reach for the ignition, turn the key and never look back. But the logical and calm part of me convinces the rest of me that if I ever hope to heal and live a normal life, then I need to get out of the fucking car and go pay my little brother a visit. Still not making any progress, I reach for my earphones and my MP3 player. The sweat covering my fingers makes it hard to turn the volume up; Ed Sheeran’s suicide music would really take the cake of Irony at this moment. I pop a bar of chocolate into my mouth, as it melts and I become lost in its goodness (I am fast turning into a chocoholic), I open the door. Swift as a soldier, the car is locked and I am past the entrance before any ...