Q12: 4&7iv

I beat the crap out of 4 and 7 in Tic-Tac-Toe.

We play on those big plastic boards at the playground.

4: "I'm the boss of O's!!!!"

7, I will destroy you every time. Even when it's the eighth game, and it's worth all the numbers in the world of money, and it's the championship of the championship of the championship. Because it's the only way that you're going to learn how to play. (Also, if both of you are going to enact your fantasies of getting rid of me by calling me "Big Bowser" and throwing "Hot Lava Power" at me, Tic-Tac-Toe is all mine.)

I'll beat you, and beat you, and beat you, and then one day, you will realize that there is a reason why I always put my first X in the middle. And you will have learned, fairly and from experience, how to win Tic-Tac-Toe.

Because beating your head against something confusing has some value. You realize you're doing something wrong. And you ask for help.

And somebody helps you realize that your personality, your genetics, and your practiced negative thought patterns have lined up. Tic-Tac-Toe, three in a row.

But you can do something about it. You can take a deep breath and put your first O in the middle. You can stop running up to the board, flipping everything around to X's, and deciding that the whole world is against you.

Because, apparently, if you make up the bad things you still have some control over them.

But that's not how the game works.

I'm learning to play it a new way. My O's include talk therapy. And burned CDs labeled "Session #1." And corny, corny Christian music. And an app called "Relax (Free) with Andrew Johnson" (Andrew Johnson is Scottish. He says things like, "Let your feet become a li-tahl he-vi-ah." Sometimes I wish it was like , "Hello, my name is David Tennant. Take a deep breath." But then I probably wouldn't be able to relax, so Andrew Johnson it is). And something psycho called "heart breathing" which basically means "take deep breaths while focusing on a strong, positive memory." So, it's a Patronus charm.

And I'm still winding up in the corner of the closet, or the shower, or under the blankets, silent screaming about how life is not fair and how everyone wishes they didn't have to deal with me.

The Patronus doesn't work every time. I guess I just need more practice.

The biggest piece of it is grace. Understanding that Jesus, and my parents, and my friends can love me while I'm sobbing on the playground grate. They don't see me that way. And because of that, I'm learning not to see me that way either.