I unlock the front door to our house and am immediately greeted by Kyzon, as per usual. He knows my schedule, knows when I should be expected home, and will wait for me by the door. Kyzon acts like a dog. "Look who's home!" I hear Sam exclaim from the kitchen. "Yeah. I'm home. Did you miss me?" I chime as I walk through our shotgun style house, through the living room, through the bedroom and into the kitchen. Sam is at the stove range heating up last night's leftovers. "Of course I did! You know I always miss you when you're gone," he says, planting a kiss on my forehead, "How was the shrinkity shrank?" I laugh, "Shrinkity shrank was...interesting." Sam smiles in a told-you-so fashion, "So you're all fixed up now, right?" I wish Sam would stop poking fun at the fact that I'm seeking resolution to some of my underlying issues. Will he ever understand? "No, how can I be 'fixed' with a single one-hour session?" He smiles and kisses my nose, "I think you are just fine. You are way too hard on yourself, and you are your own worst critic. You know this. I tell this to you all the time, my love. Are you going to continue to see this shrinkity shrank?" Yes. You do tell me these things. But I don't feel them. That's the problem. "Yes, I go back Thursday. I'm supposed to go twice a week for a little while." Sam stares into the pot on the stove and appears to be in deep thought, "Well, you know I support your decision, I just hate it when you don't find whatever it is you are looking for, I guess an answer, from these shrinks, and then you always seem to feel worse.." He is right about that. I have cycled through these therapists and none have helped. I often leave their counseling feeling even more ostracized from society than ever before. "Honey, this one seems like he might be on to something. It's either totally insane or right in the ballpark of what I need. Time will tell, but I have to try." He looks at me and smiles warmly, "Eve, you are so beautiful, and that fiery determination of yours might as well make you a Fire Queen!" I laugh, "Haha! What?! I thought you always likened me to an Ice Queen Bitch! Haha! When did that change?" Sam smirks, grabs me by the waist and draws me in for a kiss, "When you're hot, you're on fire, when you're cold, you're frigid. You tell me!" We laugh and go about eating dinner.

"So, I meant to ask you," Sam says as we clean up the kitchen, "Those co-workers of yours, have they calmed down the hatefulness, or was it bad today, too?" Today, I shut it out. I'm done with it. "Uh, well, I ignored them all today. If they were envying my physique or my eating discipline, I didn't observe it today." Yeah, today was quite pleasant actually. I should tune them out much more often. "You shouldn't ignore them, honey, the Universe will keep presenting you with those situations until you address them and learn to master them. I know you don't want to keep dealing with those negative energies - you need to face them head on. Keep in mind that the people around you are reflections of yourself." Such a creepy thought, but I know it's the truth. Sam and I have both experienced how the world reflects your state of mind. "You're right, tomorrow I will deal with what comes my way. It's not like anyone owns me and I don't have to go home with them at the end of the day. What's the big deal? If they have something snide to say to me, I'll acknowledge it and respond appropriately. I should not have to feel like I have to hide behind my headphones and computer screens to avoid being treated in unkind ways..." my thoughts drift. Sam finishes my sentence, "...and..you are gorgeous inside and out, you are intelligent and talented, and they only wish they could be half as awesome as you are!" Damn right! Sam stares at me for a minute, I smile back and skip to the bedroom. Sam has a way of knowing just what to say. I can be my true self around him. It's so freeing. If only I could figure out how to burst the bubble of societal expectations in my everyday life. I'll find a way...one of these days! I will live freely. Really, who wouldn't love to be around me in my natural uninhibited state? I'm not nearly as critical, analytical, or methodical, but rather very creative, caring, and adventurous. Isn't that why everyone is obsessed with watching t.v. and reading books? To escape to another world full of adventure and wonderfully imaginative creatures? I want to live that way, everyday....one of these days.

I open up the desk drawer, pull out my laptop, and set it on the desk. "What did you say you were going to do with that?" asks Sam. "With what, my love?" Sam points to the dusty digital picture frame sitting on the desk directly behind my laptop. "Oh..." I reply, "..that..yeah, I think I will re-gift it. I need to delete all those pictures off of it anyway." Sam jokes, "I thought you loved having visual reminders of your unpleasant childhood. Isn't that what you always wanted for Christmas?" I turn the picture frame on, "Har, har! Yes, they knew what they were doing - 'Merry Christmas - here's proof that you were miserable growing up! Enjoy!'" Sam chuckles and walks to the living room. They did know what they were doing when they put these pictures on here. That's why we won't be seeing them this Christmas, or anytime soon, or maybe ever again. The first picture is one of my adoptive mother sitting in a chair in a hotel room, smiling her notorious fake smile. Delete. I remember that vacation. I was absolutely miserable the entire trip. She scolded me nonstop and made me sit out on activities. I can't even remember what I did - not that it matters, most of the time that she criticized me it was unwarranted or grossly over exaggerated. Ugh! The next picture is of one of the several cats we had growing up. Aww, okay that picture isn't so bad. The following picture is one of just me, perhaps 15 years old, standing in front of their living room mantel. I look very afraid and pale. This is just disturbing! Why would my adoptive parents think I want this photo? I was clearly very unhappy. Delete. Next is another picture of me, about the same timeframe, wearing a yellow Old Navy hoodie shirt. It is evident in the photo that I had been crying. Oh my god. I remember this. She took that photo of me after bullying me about wearing a 'name brand' shirt. That woman really was a bully. I remember, she said something along the lines of 'now you can have friends because you are wearing a name brand shirt.' She meant it to hurt my feelings. She also wanted to capture my despair and grief. That's why she had me stand against the off-white wall and took an upper body shot of me - including the Old Navy logo. Why? Why did she do that to me? Why did they include this in the pictures? To remind me of the sorrow that filled my soul while I lived with them? To remind me that after the adoption was finalized, that my adoptive mom emotionally tortured us? Delete. Delete. Delete! "You okay?" Sam asked. "Yup, fine!" I said forcefully and turned off the picture frame. Enough of that. It's bad enough I had to live it, and as an adult, I certainly refuse to have this as a reminder.

I pick up my laptop and join Sam in the living room. Plopping down on the sofa, I grab a blanket nearby and cover my lap and legs. Sam looks at me while I turn on my laptop, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to look at the pictures tonight, I was just curious about why you still have it." I stare into his eyes. Sam has kind eyes and a warm heart, only two of the many reasons I love him. I sigh, "I know you were asking because it sits there and collects dust. I....I really have no idea why I didn't delete those photos before. Maybe it's because I couldn't stand looking at them long enough to figure out how to delete the damn things. I figured it out though. It's still a good digital picture frame - I don't want it, but I don't want to just throw it away. I think I'll include it in with my next donation to Goodwill." Sam smiles and strokes my hair, "Are you writing tonight?" I look at him for a moment, "...yes, is that okay?" "Certainly," he says, "I'm glad you are feeling inspired this evening. I have plenty of work to do myself. We can hang out another night." He gives me a kiss, wishes me goodnight, then goes to the basement to work in his shop. Time to let your inner poetess shine! I type the evening away, punching out poems through the clicks of a keyboard.

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In a frenzy, I begin pulling shirts off hangers and throwing them into a large, black garbage bag. Grabbing at shoes and belts, I quickly glance over the room for anything else I should grab. My heart is racing. "What are you doing?!" demands a familiar, angry voice. I turn around to see her - my adoptive mom - tower in the doorway of the room. "You told me you were kicking me out!" She sneers, "Yes, then why aren't you out?" I clamp my teeth together and forcefully reply, "I'm getting my things." She lunges for the garbage bag, scratching me in the process, "Eve, you can only take what you personally bought." I gasp, "No, you have taken most everything I ever bought, leaving me with only this." She grabs the bag out of my hand, points to the hallway and yells, "Now, get!" Tears streaming down my face, I dart past her towards the hallway stairs. As I approach the first step, a forceful hand shoves into my back, and I begin to fall.

I gasp and sit up. The room is dark. Kyzon is laying next to me, and I realize I am okay. I swallow a few times to quash the throbbing in my throat. Just another bad dream. I shudder a couple times, roll over, and go back to sleep.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. I turn off my alarm and begin my morning routine. I cannot wait for the night I no longer have those dreams - the ones with her in them. Someday. It doesn't happen as frequently as it used to, so...someday...those dreams will cease. Anyway, today is a new day. No ignoring co-workers, no dodging repeating situations - face them all head-on. I give myself a final once-over glance in the mirror as I make my way to the front door. "Bye Sam, I love you!" I whisper into the bedroom. Sam groans and rolls over, "Mmhm? Oh..love you, too. Bye.." Kyzon races to the front door and hops on top of the sofa. "Goodbye to you as well, Kyzon, be good!" I kiss the top of his furry head and lock the front door behind me as I leave for work.

I open my small 4-door suv and turn it on. Frost covers the windshield. Where'd I put that ice scraper? I search my car and realize it must be inside. The front door is locked, Sam's asleep, and the keys to the front door are in the ignition - forget it. I climb back into my car, shut the door and stare at the clouds of exhaust coming from the tailpipe. Sitting here isn't a huge deal, it's talking to the creepy neighbor that I can't stand. I hope he's not awake yet. I use my peripheral vision to scope out the house to my left. I can't wait for the day we can move. I don't like that he stares and comes on our property without an invitation. The car is warmed up, so I put it in reverse and back out of the driveway. As I drive down the street, the bright rising sun pierces the morning fog. I squint and lower my visor. I reach my right hand down into the console, pull out a glasses case and flip it open. Exchanging my regular glasses for my prescription sunglasses has become a relatively easy one-hand feat thanks to practice. I turn up the radio and listen to the morning talk show. Today will be a good day. You are the creator of your own masterpiece. People can influence the subject matter but only you know how to convey the real message. The message...infinite love is the only truth.

I arrive at the parking garage and find a vacant spot. I flip open the mirror cover on the visor and stare at myself. Would a smile kill you? I force a smile but it feels wrong. I hold my own gaze. What is the deal? You don't want to be here. I know. It's a job, though. A smile begins to appear, this time, it feels right. Wow, way to soothe yourself. I exit and lock the car. I guess all you need is to have your feelings justified. Isn't that what everyone really wants? Acceptance? Understanding? I walk towards the stairwell and notice an extra spring in my step. Today really is going to be a good day. After a couple flights of descent, I exit onto the street walkway and proceed to walk over a block towards the largest building in the downtown area. "Eve!" I know that voice! I turn around and see Tamara quickly approaching, "Eve, it is you! You look great, how are you?" I smile and reply, "Good, good. How about you? It's been months!" Tamara laughs, "Yeah, boy, you got out at the right time. There's only a few legal secretaries for the 13 attorneys." My jaw drops, "Damn. I'm sorry, dude, that sucks. But seriously, if you want to try applying at my place, just send your resume to that email address I texted to you." Tamara sighs, "Yeah...so how's it going with the family? Everything as good as it gets? Well... you know what I mean." Tamara let's her voice trail off. "Yeah, it's calm and quiet - how I like it!" She smiles again, "And Sam? How's his woodworking business going?" "He's good, staying busy, and out of trouble," I laugh. We exchange a few more thoughts and go our separate ways. I enter my work's building, and head towards the elevator bank that services our floor. When I get to the elevators, an office supply delivery man is waiting with a dolly of boxed paper. As soon as he see me, he smiles and says, "Morning miss, how are you this fine Wednesday?" I can't help but smile back at his pleasantness, "Well, I'm not too shabby. I wish it was the weekend already, though." He ushers me into the elevator as one opens to take us up. I press my floor's button, and he presses another one, "A nice gal like yourself shouldn't spend her days wishing them away!" I stare at him for a few seconds. That's not typically a response I get to the 'I wish it was the weekend' phrase. But he's right. The elevator door opens at my floor, and as I exit, I look at him and say, "That's a very good point! Have a good day!" He quips back, "You too, Miss!"

I make my way to the double-doors of our suite and enter them. Half the lights are on as I walk down the hallway to my desk. My desk is in the back of a section of eight desks. I walk past the first row of four desks to the second row and log-in to my computer. Putting my purse and jacket away, I notice the large stack of papers in my inbox on the corner of my desk. It's too early to start thinking about how much work I have on my plate today. Today is going to be a good day. You are here to work, and work you will, just not at an exhaustingly accelerated pace like you usually do. Take your time to do it right. That's how you make those stupid, small mistakes that you beat yourself up about. Take your time. Time is on your side for the eight hours you are here. Eight hours. Eight good hours. I need coffee. I finish opening up the various applications I use on a regular basis, pick up my coffee cup, and walk to the kitchen.

"Good morning," says Tabitha as I enter the kitchen. "Good morning," I yawn and head towards the coffee brewing station. "What?" says Tabitha, "No good morning?" I look at her confused, "What?" Tabitha looks at me like I'm crazy, "I said 'Good morning' and you didn't say anything." "Oh," I stammer, "..yes, I did...I thought I did." Tabitha halfway smiles, "I must not have heard you, then, you really do talk soft!" She walks away, and I'm left to pouring my coffee. To add creamer, or to not add creamer. That is a valid question...Cinnamon Vanilla, Caramel Vanilla, or French Vanilla...What's with all the Vanilla? Why not Irish Creme? Why not Chocolate? Or the Holiday Peppermint? Vanilla is...so...blah. "Is that regular or dark roast?" asks Beatrice as she comes around a different corner. "Dark." I say. "Um, no thanks! I don't like dark.." Beatrice goes on to explain the several reasons she does not like the style of coffee I chose. This is typical Beatrice. She is a 30 year-old-something that is very competitive. You're not supposed to be drowning out what people are saying....But, I just don't care. Beatrice will be done babbling here in another minute or so, once I stop feeding her more things to be opinionated about and then we can go about our individual business. "Don't you think?" Beatrice asks, barely pausing for my response, "I mean, of course you agree - anyway, my download of 5,000-plus exhibits should almost be done." Beatrice promptly turns and walks back the way she came. I realize I had been holding my breath, and let out a long exhale. Wow, really, even when you are not listening to Beatrice, she still makes you tense up. You need to figure out why. I assume it's the fact that she is obnoxiously energetic and never shuts up - but why does that bother me?

"Good morning," sighs Matilda, as I arrive back at my desk, "How are you?" "Oh fine, how are you?" I ask her. "Fine" she replies. Matilda sits next to me and is a 50-something year old woman who at first glance does not possess an abundance of feminine facial qualities. Her hair is short and her style is on the conservative side. Matilda and I have the same short conversation every morning. I used to have longer conversations with her, but I stopped after it felt like every morning became an opportunity for her to unload her latest woes on me. Starting the day off by absorbing excess negative energy was proving to be a great way to ensure a difficult day. You care too much about other peoples' suffering. If you could dial it down, maybe it wouldn't affect you so strongly.

I grab the towering stack of papers from my inbox and begin to sort the papers according to case. My job is a cluster of various, but related, tasks, all of which revolve around making sure the defendants in our cases are served properly. Sometimes, our firm sues a new defendant, which requires me to research if the company is viable, if it exists as a successor by merger, or a successor by interest, and where the company can be served. This requires me to also draft the summonses, send summonses out to special process servers for service, and then enter and file the affidavits of service, once we receive them back from the process servers. If service is not successful, then I have to research a new location for service, and draft an alias summons. Other times, I have the task of amending complaints to add new defendants or to change or add language. Overall, it's interesting but very detail-sensitive and at times, overwhelming and redundant. Typically, if I'm feeling overwhelmed, it's due to time constraints - which seems to happen more often than not these days. It's very difficult to stay organized, on task, and maintain accuracy when you have a lot to accomplish in an insufficient period of time.

After I sort the stack of affidavits, I begin to enter the service dates in the client profile database. An email notification pops up letting me know of more tasks to complete throughout the day. This is not what I thought I would end up doing when I was taking paralegal courses. I thought this would be exciting. I thought I would be more of an intrical part of a case utilizing more than just a small portion of my perceptive brain. Alas, my dear, another presumption gone awry! You can't be right about everything....or...anything? Very little you presume tends to go precisely as you envisioned it. Maybe you ought to put a hold on your assumptions? My desk phone rings. "Hello?" I answer. "Eve," says the male voice on the other end of the line, "What is going on with the filings in the Torres case?" I stare at the caller i.d. on the phone. Meet Attorney Dwayne Dierkin, such a pleasant fellow. "Eve!" Dwayne repeats himself. "What filings are you referring to?" I ask. Dwayne lets out an exaggerated sigh and his voice becomes more forceful, "The filings you work on." "Okay," I say, "I don't have every filing memorized, give me a second, I'm looking to see what has recently been filed so I know what you are talking about." The other end is silent as I wait for windows to open on my screen. I search all criterion of documents that I, personally, would be involved with. "The most recent item..." I slowly begin, "was a Motion and Order for Substituting Parties -" "Yes" Dwayne interjects with an irritated voice, "Okay, well what about it?" I inquire. "Did it get sent to the court yet?" he asks. "No, it's in the runner's bin, it should be taken today." "Well don't. It's wrong. Why did you do it like that?" Dwayne demands. "I - I was told that it was approved to be filed." I stammer. "By who?!" he is practically yelling at me through the phone receiver. "By Lindsey, she approves everything I draft before it's sent to the court, unless a specific attorney reviews it." "You drafted it though, correct?" he deviates from my response, "Yes," I answer. "Then, why," he continues, "did you phrase the Motion like that? Do you even know what's going on?" What the hell is his problem? I don't deserve to be attacked like this. He is crossing a line of professionalism. "Yes, I know what's going on. Do you? I guess I don't understand what it is you are specifically looking for from me?" My heart is racing and I feel myself tensing up. This is why I dislike talking to this guy. He is so rude and arrogant. Dwayne chuckles sarcastically, "Haha...Explain to me what is going on in this case, Eve." "I'm not involved in the actual cases, Dwayne, I only draft what I'm assigned. This is a special circumstance where we want to transfer personal representation over from another jurisdiction, but no one could provide me with a template to go off of, and I was told to word it the best I could. And I did. I was told it was good to file." "But, it's not," he shot back, "If you ever have a question, you need to speak up." "I did speak up, and that is what I was told," I reply. "You were still unsure though, and you need to ask." "Okay, well I'm asking you right now, Dwayne, what is wrong with it, which sentence, phrase, or paragraph, and what should it say, and I will gladly correct it, have it approved, reprint it, and put it in the bin." Dwayne is silent for a second, "You said Linsey approved this?" "Yes." Dwayne continues, "I'm going to call Lindsey about this." "Okay," still confused, I reply, "So, as far as the correction goes, will I find out the answer from you or from her?" "Eve, were you listening? I just said I will call Lindsey." "Okay," I respond, "so I will find out about the necessary corrections sometime after you speak with Lindsey?" Then I hear the receiver being put back on the phone. God, he is so rude! Why do I even bother. He tells me to ask when I don't know, but then doesn't ever directly answer my questions. Sounds like he is the one confused.

I stand up, not sure of what I should do. I want to yell. I want to punch something. I want to cry. I want to go home. I'm bombarded with undesirable feelings, but I'm trapped in the office for several more hours. I decide to make an impromptu trip to the restroom. I need to get away from my desk. As I walk through the office to the side door, and down the hallway to the restroom I fall into deep thought. You are not happy with the way you are treated here. You deserve to be respected for your efforts, for the fact that you try, for the obvious reason that you are reliable, and you take pride in your work. Why don't they see that? Or maybe they do. Maybe they feel threatened by your initiative, by your integrity, by your strengths.That makes sense. I don't deserve nasty attitudes or belittlement. I am a sharp thinker, I am creative, I am determined, and I hold my ground. I am powerful. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. Get a grip on yourself, girl - er, woman! I take a paper towel and dab at the corner of both of my eyes, smooth down my hair, and head back to my desk.