My entire life I’ve been stuck in a maze, a constant downpour with each soaking corner hiding something new. Each time I think I’ve found an exit it’s blocked by mud-covered nightmares.

Waiding through the black liquid I find these gates. A giant man in blue screaming at his failure of a child at one, the next holding a sister whose only comfort is violence. A few rows down I’ll find two little girls cowering against each other, their only safety is the other’s shakey hands. These gates steal my memories.

Some exits seem open, a friendly smile covering the disgust, I walk to the opening just to be ridiculed, beaten, and pushed back inside. The faces of those I trusted now look at me with disgust. These gates leave scars littering my body and mind. The black liquid starts dripping from my eyes and down the walls here, going too much farther will make me drown.

Some gates are tiny crawl spaces made for a child. Books cover the ground like tiles, unfortunately, the safety these books have can be just as risky as nothing at all. Black oozes from the cracks in the spines, not enough to harm but enough to worry.

Sometimes I’ll stumble upon a gate that blocks my sight. These are a gamble, they usually take me to a cold place with thorns lining the walls and a fountain overflowing with black rainwater - filling the space deeper than I’ve ever seen. My muscles give out as I struggle to keep afloat. I shake as I try to get enough air into my lungs, it’s never enough to slow my raging heart. There’s nothing I can do to change the outcome, I always blackout. Even when I escape the pain lingers and I am unable to move for hours, sometimes even days. My heart has given up on me.

There are a few spots where I can rest safely; three pavilions scattered across the maze. They always show up when I need them most.

The smallest one is covered in vines and holds buckets of pencils and stacks of paper. Binders and notebooks scattered on the ground, and a table with drawings, fabric, and colored pencils. My creativity lives here, he’s small but strong and will always let me cry on his shoulder; his black eyes store compassion and knowledge.

The large, white one is always the same, a comforting beverage and the open arms of my friends. Warm, dry tables with computers as we search for our futures, knowing these times won’t last forever but cherishing them all the same. The only black I find is my reflection in my tea, sometimes I wonder if they can see it too.

The old, wooden one looks like it has survived wars, it holds a sunbed and a small table.  The soft blankets give me comfort like no other. Music plays on a record that never starts and never ends. The pillar farthest from the bed is covered in an inky black but I still feel safe, the comfort surrounds me like clouds. I always leave feeling rested and calm, even if I didn’t sleep.

These may just be temporary peace but it gives me a reason to move forward.  I haven’t found a way out of this maze, and to be honest I’m not sure I’ll ever will. But I have hope and that’s enough for me to keep looking.