Free Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story by Jewel

pair of leggings I’d coveted peeking out of her closet. I took them as well, rolling them tightly and fitting them into my jacket pocket. I saw that pink geometric-patterned sweater and I had to have it in my life too. I gathered so much stuff that I went down to the kitchen and found a garbage bag to fill. And I filled it. I had no plan. It was as if there was a black hole hidden in me that I had unwittingly ripped wide open, this terrible need in me like an abyss, sucking everything I saw into it, trying to fill the void.
    I think I carted the heavy bag several miles home and hid it away. I couldn’t wear any of it without being caught, but I didn’t give it that much thought. Within the hour Diane and her mom came home and there was nothing subtle about what I had done. Diane’s mom called it a cry for help and asked my dad to go easy on me. And he did. He did not yell or hit me. He seemed to see I was in trouble, and lots of big, sad concerned eyes were cast upon me, which strangely didn’t make me feel any better. I still had this emptiness inside me. No one seemed to be talking about how to fix it. Needless to say it put a strain on my relationship with Diane. School did not get easier either. I was diagnosed with dyslexia that year, which explained a lot.
    That summer, after school ended, we moved back to Homer, thank God. Back to the barn. And I prepared for seventh grade. I was so nervous about junior high, and did my best to fit in by asking the most popular girl for a picture of herself so I could get my hair permed the same way. Again I recognized that embarrassed look of pity as she stood thereon the stairs, late for third-period English. Little did she know I would befriend her and then rob her. Kidding! My stealing stopped for a while after the Diane incident.
    I managed to make a few friends with the outcasts, and thought I was doing pretty well in general. Despite my difficult home life with my dad, I acted bright and cheery in class and in the hallways, but I must not have been fooling the school faculty, because I was enrolled in a special workshop in relaxation techniques and meditation. I noticed all the kids in it were “troubled.” A group of five or six of us met with a woman who would turn the lights down low in the small classroom. We’d lie on the floor as she guided us through several exercises in a low, soothing voice. First relaxing every muscle in our bodies, then imagining different colors sweeping through our bodies, melting away any tension the colors came upon. She would tell us to imagine a place we felt safe, what it smelled like, what it looked like. She asked us to taste fresh cool water that might be running through our favorite spot. My place was at the head of the bay, where I often rode on my horse. The smell of cottonwood trees and timothy bluegrass, and the cold, crisp taste of the water I would drink from a spring. She asked us to listen to the sounds of our special place. That was easy for me—the hermit thrush had a three-tone call that I had spent entire afternoons listening to, along with eagles’ cries high up in their nests, and the sound of the wind strumming the leaves like a harp. I often fell asleep in meditation, which the teacher said was a sign that I was learning how to fully relax.
    I put the techniques I learned to good use. My aunt Stellavera (my dad’s sister) also taught me Transcendental Meditation. I was so often stressed just being alone. There was no stability, no certainty, and no predictability in my life. The visualizations brought such a peace and allowed me to live in my own body and enjoy the space and calm in there for a little while. Meditation helped me to access the same thing mywriting did: my intelligence and my instincts beyond the turmoil that inhabited the forefront of my mind. It was addictive, and a well I could draw from any time I wanted. I lay down on the floor and did my visualizations before I went to bed each night. I was