How to Breathe in Space

By PJ Donnelly

Imagine being so lost you don't know where home is. You're not sure who you are or where you're going.

 

In this book, you'll meet a psychologically troubled spaceman without a sense of direction. Troubled mind in

tow, he searched through whatever world he can find in order to find the one thing he's looking for.

 

Along the way, he will journey to many fanstastic locations in order to find the one place he hopes to rest his weary head.

 

All proceeds from this book will go to support families experiencing postpartum depression, as this was the inspiration for the book.

The link in the acknowledges will provide proof of these transactions.

 

Thank you for your support and remember, you're not alone even if it feels like you're hurtling through space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJ Donnelly
• Release date: Dec 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215157794

PJ Donnelly

PJ Donnelly is an educator of over a decade and a survivor of real life trauma in its various forms. His two children and three dogs keep him company though his spouse, Sam, keeps him on his toes.

Book preview

Space

Cold tiles; cold toes. I repeat this mantra like a prayer to the nowhere and no one around me. It expands like a memory, like a wound. There’s no escape. And in this moment you have to remind yourself that it’s okay.

The helmet is screwed on tight.

In part to keep my head from floating away. And in part to keep me from sucking in the vacuum of stardust spread before me.

With the dread of solitude comes the calm. It’s a dark bargain to be away and alone at the same time.

I remind myself of this and the stinging terror of linoleum or a dog bark in the middle of the night. Looking down I play back the comfort of sleeping in boxers and the horror at waking up with the same wardrobe while publicly orating. It’s a cruel world, but goddamn if it isn’t funny.

This rambling. Innate. Internal. Is more of a distraction from my current situation than anything else. I’m cursed with the gift of being self-aware and I know this misdirection will only get me so far.

Looking down again, at the boxers, at the black painted toenails matching the crushed velvet cosmos, I don’t worry about who I am. I only worry about where I’m going and who I’ll be once I arrive. This dance occupies most of my nine to five and then some.

Fuck, I curse loud enough for the nothing and nowhere to hear.

Not upset that I am merely in my pajamas (boxers) and helmet. Rather, upset that I already chipped a fresh coat. It is for a split second that I wonder where one might find acetone in space and for an even shorter duration that I wonder who is going to give me shit for putting self-care above social norms.

Light dances off the polished spots lacking enamel and the starlight makes my toes appear to be galaxies of their own. Ten in number and twinkling. They are legion. They are infinite.

And I’m doing it again.

Distracting myself from what’s in front of me instead of questioning the coordinate plane of stars drifting around me. Instead of wondering how my feet have gained purchase in this void.

The physics say I should be floating, yet I can move freely. From space to space like the spaces in my living room.

Cold feet; cold tiles.

Okay, quit screwing around, man. Take inventory. You are not naked. Bonus. You can breathe. Bonus (sometimes). Among the stars is a smudge of color in the distance. It’s too far away to care about. Good.

I wiggle the digits and count to ten. Use a top coat, she said, or they’ll peel. The cracks in my cuticles remind me that I’m so bad at taking their advice. The white of my toes turns to pink then to red. A red that’s too bright to be my own. Heat builds in front of me and it’s the first thing I can feel other than sheer panic in this place that I don’t remember getting to. Mouth slacken, I look up to see a close, closed door that was not adrift with me before. Like my bare body, it’s stationary. And, again,  not fully naked, but my new pair of designer underpants. 34 waist and still insisting on a medium, also, they’re Hanes. The elastic presses against my belly while the door warms the self-installed Goodyear of pudge.

Beyond that door lies something for me to do. Something to figure out. There’s never a door without a riddle or nagging thought to coincide with the frame. At this moment I know I have to go in and hot is my head with what? The fear of what’s beyond. The threads that will unravel and I myself with them.

A scab when picked makes a fresh sore, so why pick the scab in the first place?

You know why.

Because you can’t leave it alone.

My thoughts are twine, tightening their grip on my brain. Digging my nails into my forearm is all I can do as I brace myself for the wooden slab ahead.

Tentatively one hand grips the frame. Solid wood. I peek around the rear to see dull white. The paint on the backside is crisp. Cold door; cold hands. I focus back on the front and take note of the smudged pockmark in the distance. The star that’s been taunting me from afar. Slightly larger than the rest and mocking me. Begging to know whether or not it was my psychotic wanderlust that got me here. I can’t take it anymore. Any place but here, I think, as I open the door. Its red hot handle: nothing compared to the anxious melody between my ears, the scrawled SOS message on my skin, and knowing that I forgot that goddamn top coat. I flip off the distant pockmark and pass through.

Pier

Instantly I stumble forward to a place with asphalt and sweet distinctive smells. Somehow, they pierce my fishbowl helmet. Powdered sugar, the salt of an ocean. My skin goes electric with the thought. Traces of seagull shit kill the mood and I withdraw further into my dome. Just ahead of the tar is a series of wooden planks stretching out to a defined end.

The planks are life itself.

I’m at war with myself.

The procrastinator in me wants to look at every ride, every midway game ahead of me. Wants to take a bet at whether I’ll get more blue or pink in my cotton candy and award myself for either outcome. Fuck him. Fuck that guy. The kid is dead. The analyst has to make it to the end. To get the job done. Whatever that may be.

I used to love carnivals. I remember spending 11 dollars to trade up in order to get the big green frog that I still have to this day, somewhere. Probably. Maybe in the garage. God I’ve got to clean that shit. I’ve got to get home. There’s no time for playing around and my to do list has been building.

Without realizing it, I’ve made it halfway through the pier and can’t remember what I liked about midway antics when I was a lad. Disgruntled employees who would rather be anywhere else. No one smiling; no one laughing. Overpriced chicken tenders that taste like the young of unwanted carnies battered and fried. Paying money just to get fat and not enjoy myself. No thanks. The end is in mind. Maybe I’ll get a clue. Get something. Or maybe I’ll just die here. Sleep would be great.

A woman in mustard and ketchup stripes stares at her phone.

Excuse me. Excuse me Miss, do you know what this place is.

She looks at me and smiles. A bubble of hope

Nice helmet, dude, she mumbles, like I am a freak. She’s the one working at a fucking carnival. Then it was back to her phone.

Are you kidding me? I look at her name tag. Luna. Such a pretty name for such a fuckup. I move on. She was probably right. I’m the one in boxers and a helmet like some last-minute failed Halloween costume. The electric feel of the ocean has been replaced with shivers. I wrap my arms around my biceps and push ahead. Maybe I’m the fuckup. Not good enough for the freakshow.

Maybe we all are.

I see a kiosk selling fun beach shirts and an idea comes and goes. No money and there’s no sweet-talking these people. I can tell, beyond the shadow of a doubt. One of the operators tries to wave me over. No thanks.

A rollercoaster that looks like a death trap. One of those things that never made sense to me. Why would you waste your time feeling terrible when you can just do that on your own and for free?

Before I know it, I’m at the end. There is a game at the cusp of the lane. It’s a simple game where you throw a ball into a bucket and win a prize. The angle is always off and they give you a Wiffle ball so the wind can take your shot off course. I replay winning the frog and it was a similar game. Come to think of it, I didn’t win and I didn’t spend ten dollars. After twenty-five dollars the gamemaster gave me the prize. Why do kids get all the sympathy?

No money, no clothes, no sense of direction. Like being in college all over again. Sometimes I think about those days and nights spent on the couch of someone I barely knew, drinking away the husk of better judgment. A husk that came back thicker to place a cocoon between myself and the world. Bad decisions that buffed internal parenting. Always bitching at me for something. I never thought I’d say it, but I miss those days.

Maybe I could get part of that person back, I think, as I weigh my options or lack thereof. What would college me do, lost and alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a salmon colored fountain. The conglomeration of cherubs dog-piled on top of each other to give it height. It sat impossibly on the wooden planks. Next to it, a vacant beach chair. Why not?

I popped a squat and scanned the view. A group of kids throwing rocks at seagulls like precious little shits. Patiently, I waited for the birds to exact their revenge even if it further poisoned the sweetness of the air. I think about one of those kids taking a large bite from their pink, blue and white treat only to vomit through the cracks of the pier. Delightful.

Why did I ever stop doing this? There was an unalienable truth in knowing that happiness is synonymous with other people suffering. The only thing that could make this better is a beer, I think as I see a Corona vending machine ahead of me. The plexiglass curve of the signage bending back a lime, juices squeezing into the open bottle. The light of the sun reflects off of the golden brown acrylic. I bite the dead skin on my dry lips.

With gusto, I swipe some change from the fountain and apologize to the angels. After a mechanical whir or two the bottle ejects itself from the machine. I pop the cap on the hooked metal bottle opener fastened beside the machine and take a sip. Clink. Shit. The glass smashes into plastic and I curse again, wondering if I should risk lowering my visor in this stinkpit. A rock hits my helmet and causes a hairline crack where bottle met visor.

Cursing, cursing internally, I imagine throwing the bottle at the kids, then being apprehended. Arrested. Beaten up by a parent. Any number of traumatic instances, and instead chuck the bottle into the trash. Cool, so much for that.

I look back to the game at the end of the walk. Vacant. No takers. Good. It’s like throwing money down a pit to a thankless worker who doesn’t see any of it. Over the cracked ledge I see people at the beach. Still laughing. Still having a good time. My toes crave the feel of the sand between them. A realization hits me. There isn’t a staircase going down. Back to the mouth of the pier and still nothing. How the hell did they get down there? This is how it goes. The fun: always just out of reach. Replaced with whys and hows.

I contemplate jumping over, but I know myself. Always gotta play it safe, just in case. Ugh.

Seeing everyone with a smile on their face makes me angry and it’s not just the beach. Screams from a coaster that could break down and kill all passengers at any minute. Those damned kids still getting into trouble. I glance at them and notice them glaring. An unease sweeps over me as their eyes fixate. Those large brown discs shine like the now absent audience of stars. Equally mocking. Instead of feeling exposed. I feel creeped out. Instinctually I turn my back and am reminded of those days again. When I was young and had to pull the cover over my head to shield myself from the shadows.

Without looking, I still sense the eyes scanning me and suddenly feel the need to be away from the creeps and the smiles.

There are no doors this time.

No neon invitation and next room to escape into after wondering if it’s only going to be worse over there. Do I enter or not and if I do will I be the same on the other side? What will get me and even worse what do I need to fix that I would have otherwise been oblivious to. Those types of choices put you on a trajectory and change everything that is to come until the day you die.

No, no door this time, but there is something. One of the buckets from the game has a red glow, the same red of the door. The heat radiates from the glowing ring and warms my chest. To my surprise, the red rim trickles down and covers the rest of the basket. The four others, a dull wicker tan.

I know what I have to do. This is a task. A checkbox to tick after the job is done. This is the next step to whatever the hell it is I’m doing. I never seem to know these days.

The carnie points to my side and more heat creeps up my bicep. The fountain is no longer cherubin, or it is. But the child angels have horns and their eyes, like the kids behind me continue their deathglare. I tentatively notice the salmon replaced with the same red from the wicker basket.

With extra spicy gusto, I scoop up an arm full of change from the water. Every last penny. The metal against my midriff sends a ripple to my belly. Shivering, as if I’d just walked out of the beach, I hustle to the booth. It takes me back. Hell, these things always knew how to pull me in one way or the other.

How was the beer? asks the carnie as he glares at the change with a disgruntled smirk that makes me laugh. Only the highest level of customer service at these things. How many shots?

I emphatically point to the change. He lines up five balls. A breeze accompanies my wrist as I grab the first ball in hand. The first shot is always about calibration. Tossing it, I chart the applied force to the object versus the distance traveled. It chips the edge of the amber rim. Okay, just a little more mustard.

With the second ball, the salty breeze picks up and the ball doesn’t touch the lip at all. The third and the wind takes it wide left. This makes sense. I have to angle the trajectory to the left. As the ball releases the wind stops and the ball sinks into the basket. The wrong basket. Fuck. One more attempt.

I bite at those cracked sandy lips and lick. His grin grows more intense. Without my noticing the kids have lined themselves around me to watch this final attempt.

I love it.

A deep breath to ease my nerves, or is it excitement? Always so good at tuning the world out. I need that more than ever. Without remembering the release I see the ball spin. Its orbit is disco. And with that the ball finds its home. I smirk at the carnie and wait for triumph to crawl up my spine. He smirks back and it never comes. I wait for something to happen. Escape from this dreaded pier, a new scene. Instead, the Wiffle ball jumps out of the basket and lands on the floor. The kids laugh. The carnie shakes his head as if to say, What a shame that happened to you.

A hanging moment of cold blue embarrassment is invited by the laughter and stares. Going to class naked again. Everyone is seeing me in my underwear. It’s too much. I raise my hands to my ears but with the helmet it’s to no avail and somehow the noise intensifies. I crouch down and press my back to the wooden booth. The kids close in now with the same horns as the fountain demons. Eyes back to burning a hole in my soul. What is this, I question. Where the hell am I, I wonder. What did I do to deserve this?

The pity swallows me and I’m back at the asphalt from the start of the pier. Like some fucked up replay I find myself heading back to the boardwalk with the same thoughts as last time, but earlier. The beach. I would kill for the beach. Cotton candy, over priced. Sticky. Messy. College days. Fountain, angels and beer. No beer this time.

A reset.

I’m back to the point where the kids are throwing rocks. The brown irises no longer focused on me. No longer looking at the most intimate part of my person. Looking through to the vulnerable heart of me.

Against my better judgment, whatever that is at this point, I approach the kids and ask why they are trying to hit the seagulls.

Because seagulls are dicks! they suddenly chime in simple harmony and I can’t argue with the sentiment.

You know, I begin, while stooping down to pick up a rock. If you remember the wind, it’s easier to hit your target. My wrist juggles the rock. Especially so close to the ocean.

With my fingers to the sky, I pull back and launch the rock. One of the seagulls crashes down and the kids