Recollecting Hailey

09 June, 2025

Originally written in 2011 | Revisited & released 09 June, 2025

I’m trying to capture myself. I’m not sure when I first got away. I just know that I’ve been gone quite some time.

I started to notice it around age 15. This is when I had my first boyfriend. Craig. I didn’t understand what he wanted from me. I doubt he understood. We both just knew that this was what kids did. We spent our time together watching movies. We would sit on his couch, our thighs touching but nothing more. This was dating.

Monotony crept into our relationship, as monotony is wont to do. We said our goodbyes. We broke up. I didn’t think much of it. I doubt he did.

But I have to say I lost something. Something little had gone. Little, but nonetheless vital. It was like getting a sore on your tongue. It’s such a small, insignificant bump. But you feel it every second of the day. You are reminded by the sharp pain. In my boyfriend or in the movies or in the breakup or in there somewhere I had lost part of myself. But not all of me. Not yet.

I’ve had other boyfriends since then. And I’ve lost more and more every time. But it’s not only them. Other things have taken me away.

At age 17 my grandmother dies. At her funeral, I walk up to the casket. It’s not her. She’s too made-up. So I walk outside and smoke. Across the street I see this dog. A mutt, really. He’s big and brown. Not a pretty brown. A mutt brown. The kind of brown that girls buy hair dye for. He’s sniffing around some weeds. So I call to him. A generic dog call of here boy. This mutt lifts his head and looks left to right. It’s like he’s getting ready to cross the street safely. Just like they tell you in elementary school. He turns his mutt head center and looks at me. His muscles tense and he runs. That happy run that dogs do in movies. The Lassie run. The Benji run. He’s running with that much joy.

Then it comes. A truck. The truck. The only truck to pass down this old Florida road in the past three hours comes. And of course it hits him. Square in the side. And I have to say that took a bigger part of me than any boyfriend ever had.

Little by little I’ve fallen away from myself. People I meet carry pieces of me with them. Like dust on their sleeves. It’s so light they can’t feel it. But I can. I can feel myself disintegrating. I feel my atoms dispersed. I am disappearing.

When I was five I had a birthday party. My mother took a picture of me blowing out the candles. I have this picture. Being five, I was still building myself. I was gaining pieces little by little, creating the person I’d come to be. That’s what kids are. They are people in the making. They are unfinished character sketches. They are collectors of identity.

I babysat at sixteen. I’d get paid 4 dollars an hour. This one baby I sat every Sunday. Noon to six. Joshua. He was 3 months old. Joshua liked to cry a lot. Being sixteen, I didn’t enjoy this. I’d turn on the TV real loud, trying to drown him out. When he was quiet, I’d cradle him. I’d sing to him.

I visited Joshua when he was five. He didn’t remember me. Of course. He wasn’t even one then. But part of me wondered why. Why I wasn’t remembered. I think that took something out of me. Not being remembered. But who can blame a five-year-old?

Sometimes I wonder if other people feel it. The parts of them that are missing. Do they feel them leave as I do. Do they look for themselves too. I feel I’ve lost so much already. I’m so behind in picking up.

I wake up early. The sun’s not up. It’s cold in my room. They haven’t turned on the heater. My roommate’s asleep in her bed. Her breath is heavy. We breathe so shallow when we’re awake.

I take a shower. The water’s cold, of course. I’m on the 5th floor. In Iowa. In winter. I cut off the water and reach for my towel. It’s so cold I don’t want to touch the floor.

I step outside. It’s cold. The kind of cold that bites at your skin. That enters your ears. It’s that cold. Then the wind comes. And it’s colder. I can feel it reaching inside me. Clawing down my throat. Tearing at my organs. I can hear it laughing. I know that it’s trying to get me. Get into me. It’s trying to rip out my heart.

So I walk to class. Gasping. Thinking I’ll cough up blood any second. Thinking this is it. Thinking why the hell did I leave Florida. Thinking of that mutt brown dog.

I’m working on ways to capture myself. There are several methods and tactics I have used. I created a scrapbook. Page one: here’s little Hailey, age 5, blowing out candles. Caption reads: Hailey wishes to be anywhere but here.

Back in high school in Florida, I was eighteen. I was a senior. I was in AP classes. I had some friends. It was a private school. The only good schools were private. We had to go to chapel. Every Wednesday. It was held in the cafeteria/chapel/wrestling practice room/events room overlooking the lake. The walls were windows behind the preacher. There was a bridge in view. Kids would count how many cars passed during service.

I took a religion class with the priest. We were required to. He told us he used to be a biker. Motorcycles. He used to do drugs. Pot. Heroin. Coke. He told us we could do our homework during chapel. He told us we could sleep. He said if we got in trouble, they would send us to him. And he would let us go. I wondered why he was there at all.

It’s all these experiences that took me. They’d take a piece and leave their impression. You see, in order to have all these new impressions, new experiences, we have to make room. We have to let go of things. And this is how we disappear.

I’m on a date. I’m twenty-two. I’m telling this guy about my theory. Luis is his name. He’s twenty-four. He appears mildly interested. So, where do you think you’re going exactly? He still doesn’t get it. I tell him I’m not going, it’s only parts of me—pieces. Luis is speechless. He lets a minute pass. So, where do you think your pieces are going exactly? He has rephrased.

You see, Luis, I tell him, when you meet people, they change you. When things happen, they change you. And whenever you’re changed, whenever you develop, you are losing something that was there before. We make room for the newness. People influence you. You take their accent. Their way of dressing. Their political opinions. And you have lost yourself. All of a sudden, you are gone. So you have to be careful. You have to catalogue. You have to track. Baby pictures. Journals. Poetry. Everything. You should keep everything, write down everything so that in all of it you can find who you really are and once were.

I realize suddenly that I’ve said too much. I realize suddenly that I should stay away from wine.

So my scrapbook. Page two: little Hailey on Daddy’s knee. How cute. I can look at this for hours. Who is this person so small. I’ve got to hold onto her. I’ve got to create her life for her with these pictures that I’ve filed away. One day I will build her up so tall that she’ll finally be ready to be.

When I was six, I learned about death. I had a fish. He was long and slender. Like an eel but smaller. Like a gray swimming earthworm. I named him Max. I loved Max because he wasn’t like the other fish. He swam differently. His eyes were black bubbles on the sides of his head. I always thought they would pop if I touched them.

I loved how Max could bend. He could bend unlike any of the other fish. He was more agile than them. Max was acrobatic. He’d swim in zigzags. He’d twirl. He was graceful and delicate. The other fish just wobbled. Back and forth across the tank they wobbled. Max, on the other hand, flew.

I came home one day to Max performing a backbend. I was astounded. I’d never seen Max do such a thing. His pointy nose was in the gravel, his bubble eyes open wide. His back formed a perfect arch. His belly up. His tail fins in the gravel two inches from his nose. There he was. Incredible. I yelled for my mom to hurry look before he stopped.

Max didn’t stop. My mother came in time. She did not seem as excited as I. Perhaps she’d seen Max do this trick.

People always say that when people die, they take a part of you with them. This makes me feel understood. What people don’t realize is that when people are born, they take a part of you too.

When I’m twenty, I’m in the hospital. My best friend is giving birth. Rebecca. She is twenty-one. It was a mistake. She’s sitting there sweating and breathing. Bodies are amazing under physical stress. She’s panting real hard and groaning. Her face is so red. All I can think of is hot coal.

She’s gripping my hand with the unrivaled force of a woman in labor. Her nails dig into my flesh. Hair is stuck to her forehead. She’s in a hospital gown with little blue flowers repeated a million times across it.

The doctor’s sitting on a stool. He’s between Rebecca’s legs. Just looking. He seems rather engrossed in something. Not Rebecca. Something in his head. He decides it’s trivial for the moment and, sighing, tells Rebecca she’ll have to push soon.

She pushes. Each time her hands dig deeper. I’m sure she’ll break the skin. She pushes and groans. Her face turns purple and red. I no longer think of coal. She pushes and throws back her head. Her teeth are clenched. Her face distorted. I do not recognize this colored mass of flesh.

She pushes and it comes. The doctor pulls out a baby. The smallest version of a person. It’s purple and red like its mother. It’s wiggling with eyes closed. The doctor asks if I’d like to cut the cord. Rebecca nods. She cannot let go of me. So the doctor comes to me with this baby and this mess and this cord. So I cut it and feel like a butcher.

So I have written poetry. Since a child, I’ve written poetry. I used to write for my teachers. Whatever they wanted to hear. They loved it. They all kept it. And I kept writing. I’ve catalogued them now. They’re all in a book. Like my scrapbook. But words instead of pictures.

My mother hated talking to me. Not everyday talking. Real talking. About life. About love. About death. About sex. She wanted no part of it. My sexual education consisted of the class they taught us in 5th grade. And my cousin reading the definition of sex to me from the encyclopedia when I was four.

When my mother and father decided to separate, my mother did not want to talk. So my father had to. This is how I learned of it.

Hailey, he said, Mother and I are going to separate.

My father was a man of few words. My mother was a woman of none.

I’ve made sure to hold onto what I can. I record my voice. I record my thoughts. I journal. I’m sure that if I lay out all my findings, I will be able to see myself. If I combine it all just right, some picture of myself will form.

One of the biggest pieces I’ve ever lost was to Roger. Roger is my prom date. For senior prom. My mother snaps a picture of us at my house. I have this picture. Roger has dark brown hair. Almost black. He spikes it with gel he gets from Walgreens for $3.99.

It’s warm outside. Humid. The sun is down. We wave goodbye to my mother and get into Roger’s car. Roger is 19. I am 18. I don’t know him very well. He came to my school this year from Georgia.

At the prom I find my friends. We make a group trip to the bathroom. The guys wait patiently. They ask me about the hotel. I don’t know about a hotel. People always go to hotels after prom, they say. I feel rather uninformed. We all apply a layer of lipstick and head out into the dance.

We’d always gone to a friend’s house. Maybe other people had gone to a hotel. Not us, though. We were good kids. I find Roger. What’s this hotel thing I ask him. He seems as surprised as I do and shrugging, asks me to dance.

Roger drops me off at 11pm. We say goodnight. And that was all.

Doubt is what replaces much of what a girl once was. Doubt of looks. Doubt of brains. Doubt of character. Doubt of any and all valuable and lovable traits. Soon a girl is filled with so much doubt she no longer knows anything else. Especially herself.

I’m twenty-two again. I’m on a date again. This time it’s Mitchell. I’m watching my wine. I’m listening to him. He’s telling me about his truck. I can’t understand, but I nod. He asks me what I do for fun. I say I’m a collector. He asks me of what. And of course I can’t lie. I tell him of pieces. Of lost pieces. Like broken bottles, he asks me. No of people. Of me, I say. I’m collecting lost pieces of me.

Again silence. Awkward, this hobby of mine. I decide not to elaborate and sip on my wine. Mitchell begins talking about trucks. I nod.

We go on a second date. This time to the movies. My choice. I figure it’s safe. In the dark I can’t talk. Someone else’s story will take up the time. Someone easy to understand. We watch a drama. I can feel my heart pulling itself towards the screen, offering itself to the characters. I close my eyes. Not now. I can’t lose you now.

Mitchell walks me to my door. We kiss goodnight. His truck is running. The exhaust is billowing. He asks when can he see me again.

My scrapbook. My poems. My journals. My sound bites. All of these catalogued, recorded, and kept. All these files of me. There is a person here.

My gut is wrenching. I’m digging fingernails into porcelain. My body is heaving. Hair is falling in my face. I’m cradling the toilet. I’m watching all of this. I’m waiting to feel empty.

I come out of the bathroom. Hair is in place. Fingernails intact. I sit down at the table. My friends look up. Welcome back, they say, want dessert?

I smile that I’m-so-bad dessert smile and ask what they have here. Long list of delicacies. We all laugh that we’re-so-bad dessert laugh. We all order something.

Searching for yourself as I do can pass as normal if you’re careful. Everyone has scrapbooks, pictures, old letters, journals. Everyone has their own memorabilia. Mine just happens to be more extensive, my intention more defined, my search far more profound. We are all of us unconsciously searching. I have just woken up.

Back in Florida, I’m watching a horror movie with my boyfriend and his friends. This is a new relationship. I do not know these people. The movie is May. May has no friends. People cannot understand her. May decides to make a friend from the perfect parts of others. She kills them, cuts them up, and sews them together.

Everyone talks about it after. It’s bloody. It’s weird. It’s disturbing. It’s creepy. I say I thought it was funny.

I never hang out with these people again.

Really, I’m just writing an autobiography. Only it’s interactive. Three-dimensional. Alive and growing. It is not static as other book-bound pages are, aging with time and growing out of date. Mine continues on with every day as I slowly collect myself with every minute second moment that arises.

In 4th grade all the girls made fun of the dark hair on my legs. They laughed at me during music class. They pointed at me in gym.

One night I came into my mother’s room and woke her to ask if I could shave. She sleepily told me yes. I had to remind her in the morning. She found a razor and helped me shave for the first time.

In music class the girls pointed, teasing me for shaving. I stopped, letting my hair grow back. Two weeks later, the girls had begun to shave. Again they laughed at the dark fuzz covering my legs.

This was a game I could not win.

As a child, things seem to hit harder. But it’s a delayed pain that you feel once you’re older. It hides inside of you for years, just festering and waiting. And you think something’s wrong with your life right then but really it’s just you as a child hurt and waiting for recognition.

So I’m twenty-one. I’ve babysat since the age of twelve. I’ve seen birth. And I’m pregnant. Not belly-out-pregnant. Yet. It’s brand-new, flat-stomach, no-one-knows-unless–you-tell-them-and-then-they-don’t-even-believe-you-pregnant. This was not intentional.

There begins to be an influx of babies. In the grocery store, on the television, at the mall. I start seeing them everywhere. And their mothers. So loving. So ready. So there for their children.

And there’s me. Frightened. Confused. Already feeling like a murderer. Like a menace to the children I see. Feeling like their mothers should guard them from me.

And then there’s the clinic. White walls. White ceilings. White clipboards with white forms. Who are you and where did you go wrong? Please sign here.

So they drug you. You’re not really asleep but not really awake. And they tell you to relax. And something inside of you dies.

So they put you in a recovery room with the other women. And the drug starts to make you really hot. And there are women around you stripping. Pulling off their gowns, yelling, and moving around the room in a frenzy of sweat and panic. This is a common reaction to the drug, you are told. This is another day at the clinic.

So I’ve lost so much, you see. Every day. Every second. It’s all falling away from me. But I’m finding it slowly, and pulling it back. You have to see it. You have to see how this works. Just reading this can’t you see? There’s a person here. Can’t you make her out? Construct her, build her, create her from these pieces here, these tokens of a life laid out for you or anyone to paste together and say, “I know you.”