When I was a kid, my mother used to come to me when anything was in a knot - literally. She'd hand me chords, chargers, headphones, necklaces, you name it. I was incredibly talented at deciphering the secret paths they all seemed to slither into. I would wrangle them by the neck like snakes, and show her proudly the straight lines I could create. It was fun for me, I loved the challenge and the thought-process. I loved how my mom needed my help with something.. I loved the way she'd smile and say "how did you do that?" with a very proud tone.

I was the first to rise to the battle when a friend or teacher needed help unwrapping anything with two ends. I'd stare for minutes at a time deciding which way to go about the situation, I'd often times puzzle myself into a state of frustration. I'd think out loud and scratch my head for the entire duration of after school care if it meant I got to see that same smile my mother had. That same tone of "you did it!". I wasn't crazy obsessed with praise, I didn't need the attention, it just felt nice that I was capable of contributing a helpful hand. It made me feel like I could do something someone else couldn't, like I had a special eye for resolving tough situations. It was a little talent I had, it wasn't much - but I was damn sure proud of it.

So naturally, I was struck with sadness when a girl named Madison in my 2nd grade classroom told me she didn't want help undoing the tangle in her shoe laces. Even more so when she came back the next day with velcro shoes and stated to me that her mom had to cut the laces of the last pair. Well, I called Madison stupid - which was soon proclaimed as catastrophic since I had to sit out at recess that day and was told to move my green card to yellow. "Some knots are too tight, you can't undo them all". My teacher nonchalantly spoke these words as she sat down next to me on a bench during playtime. I pondered the thought - then decided, undoubtfully, that Mrs. Richardson had no idea what the hell she was talking about. As years went by, I never really acknowledged her remark. To be honest, it never even crossed my mind.

I didn't think it ever would. Until one day, her nonchalant statement crossed the busy intersection of my intellect - her words were slammed going 80 mph by disappointment .. right into my bruised heart. I suppose they never looked both ways, but who am I to say they didn't see it coming?

I'm getting ahead of myself -

When I was in middle school, I met a girl with dirty shoes, one hell of a dirty mouth, a tamale temper and a heart that had been unknowingly covered in gold - she simply couldn't see it, she could only feel how heavy it was in her chest. I watched her struggle to come up for air on days her soul weighed her down. I witnessed her strap any type of drug or alcohol around her ribcages as some sort of life-preserver. Her mood traveled up, down, forwards, backwards, even sideways. When I thought she was going right - she'd ricochet left and hit me hard on the way there. I don't know if she knew it, I think she was ill aware, but I followed her every step of the way trying to untangle the mess she had created for herself. I'd trip and fall over these snakes that coiled around each other. They'd hiss and curse, they'd warn me and when I'd lay hopelessly trying to find the breath to catch up, they would revel in it.

The thing is, Reader, she would let them in. I swear to God she'd welcome these beasts in through back doors. They'd slither through her small intestines and feed on the parts of herself she was oblivious that she needed. I could smell venom and rotting flesh and it became clear she couldn't save herself.

This damned knot - it became tighter.

It became a torture home for anyone with claustrophobia.

It became taut.

I would beg and plead for slack, but before long - there was nothing more I could do. I found my limbs tied to her secrets. My hair was caught in her words. My self-esteem latched onto her opinion. I was part of the most painful parts of her, I was living in the pits of her troubles and mistakes. It was dark, and I couldn't seem to find my way out. A released hand would grasp the ties around my leg only to be pretzeled back into what most call "devotion". I simply stayed put in the quicksand chest of a 14 year old girl.

I was hungry to the point of delusion, I'd feed on the fantasy that a miracle would save us both. I was thirsty, enough so that I would sip on false hope. I couldn't see the light, my pale skin was clear evidence that I became a recluse. Chill bumps payed the mortgage on my thighs, because I couldn't afford to be warm anymore. I developed callus upon callus by throwing these creatures around trying to create a straight path to redemption - not only for her, but for both of us now.

I found home in the vacant cave of her faith, and was held prisoner by a mistake with really really shiny scales. He was much smaller than the others but wore a sense of entitlement proudly on his newly shed skin. It hit me in an instant, that he was the first. This tiny, powerful, bastard opened up doors for a whirlpool of disaster when he devoured my good friend's innocence. As he coiled a tail around my neck, I knew he was going to end my loyalty there. I was going to be a living, breathing catacomb filled with a bunch of deadly memories.

In my moment of "this is it", I discovered I was terribly wrong. If I couldn't save her, I needed to save myself. Before he could crucify my shaky hands, I grabbed the last shard of self-esteem from the dusty cabinets in my bravery's office. I cut my limbs free with a quick swipe to long green tails, I made a dart out of the closest exit and left footprints in her ears. The clean air choked me with shock and I couldn't stop running with joyful tears pouring down the sides of my cheeks, I felt free for the first time. But feet will catch up to you, I tripped into deep and muddy puddles of guilt and had stains in some of my favorite emotions because of it.

Now, when I go to drop off my stained optimism at the dry cleaners - I have to give tedious instruction. I can't afford for something so fragile to fall apart. I can't mix the feeling with others, I'm nervous it might gain a different tone. It must be washed alone, because I fear no amount of money or scrubbing can untangle the tragedy of being unfamiliar with my happiness. Some people call it separation anxiety, I call it appreciation.

I loved untangling knots.

I still do.

But I can't say I'm opposed to using scissors when things get too tough.

Appreciate your circulation, treat it with respect. When someone's troubles cause you to turn black and blue, it might be time to cut the rope that cripples your joy.

And if you are struggling to let go -

I've never been a mathematician. Hell, I have failed more math tests than I've failed at winged-eyeliner. But I do know One. In fact, I know him quite personally. One, well, he is a very small number; been said to be the smallest whole number to hold any value. You see, my friend saw him as something small. She gave him keys to the most vulnerable parts of herself, and allowed him to house-sit when her heart needed a vacation. One started inviting Another over to play in her abandoned awareness. Another brought friends, and before she could even shut down the party, her whole fucking home had been demolished. Neighbors tried to call her before it got too bad - but there is only so much you can do when a person pulls their self respect from the outlet - not a single ring of a phone will get through.

As for her -

She must have heard me leave that day, and the footprints, they must have echoed in the drums of her ears. Enough so, she couldn't seem to hear anything else. Perhaps the sound of my exit awakened her motivation. She began to see doctors to treat the beasts within her. I've heard it since that a special person went much farther than I did, someone unhinged her shielded chest. They removed the snakes as a whole and breathed life back into her frail smile. I heard she discovered her heart's value, and she keeps it in a safe place. I suppose at the end of the day, I just wasn't the right surgeon.

And as for you, Mrs. Richardson, if you ever read this, I'm glad I gave it a shot. Maybe I loosened it up for the next person in line - I suppose that's something you and I will never know.

And Madison - At the end of the day,

Laces might create knots that can be cut away - but you can't silence Velcro's awful noise.