"I'm in a bad mood."

"Why are you in a bad mood?" I had asked, confused, because all in all, the teaching day had gone pretty smooth.

"Well, when other people are in bad moods, it puts me into a bad mood. Sophie was in a bad mood, Megan was in a bad mood, you were in a bad mood." She had said.

I'll admit, I had a rough morning. I was homesick. It happens. And I'll admit, after I heard that, I snapped a bit. "Well, sorry I had a rough day," I had replied, and turned on my heel and was racing down the stairs before she could finish yelling after me; my go-to angry music already turned up in my ears.

I fumed as I stormed up the ten flights of stairs that stood between me and my apartment. How totally and completely inconsiderate! She had no idea why I was in a bad mood, or even the common decency to ask me if I was okay. I thought about all of the things I wanted to say to her later that night. I wanted to tell her how unfair it was to blame her bad mood on mine, after all of the terribly rough weekends she's had and I never once complained about her mood to her. I wanted to tell her how rude she was for making me feel even worse about my day. I wanted to ask her if she knew what it was like to live with survivor's guilt; to pass anniversaries of friend's deaths and to walk with a constant reminder of the imperfect body I am stuck in. I wanted to know if she knew how many rude things she said in a day; and how her comment about needing an anorexic roommate because I like to snack last weekend made me feel like I was the ugliest and overweight person in the whole country of China. The list went on, as I finally reached my apartment, opened my computer and read the email that my dad had sent me that morning. It was sweet and wonderful and it made me more homesick than I was before. And I cried as I changed into leggings and a sweatshirt and left my room, angry music still blasting in my ears as I ran back down the stairs and down, across campus, and to the track where I pushed my body past my limits.

There is a certain peace that comes when I'm struggling for air and the sea breeze is messing up my hair and my knees feel like jello because they are being used for the second time in five years. Your breathing becomes the only thing you are aware of. And what's that thing he's always telling me when I'm having a meltdown?

"Remember to breathe, Chelsabelle. And everything will be okay."