2026 "London" Literary Prizes Canadian Prose 1st Runner-Up

​$100 CAN prize

God is the Horse

by Jenna Timmons-Oikawa

Content warning: Self-harm

On a Thursday afternoon, I stood with my back to four psychiatrists, my hip cocked to the left. I’d been forced to play bum charades, a game where the lucky one has to attempt to spell out a word solely by moving their hips and butt. “Remember, capital letters,” the smiling psych resident said. I looked over my shoulder at her. She nodded eagerly. It was the second time I was forced to play this. The first, at least there were five other youth, and as mortifying as it was to stand in front of a group of strangers and spell “SPAGHETTI” with a couple of hip pops, knee bends, and ass shakes, the company of my peers somehow made it just a little less shaming.
 
It wasn’t supposed just to be me in the room. It was the last day of the group therapy program I had been attending at the local children’s hospital. The group had met for twelve weeks, two hours at a time, in the middle of the school day. It had made me anxious to be missing more classes than I already had, but I had made a commitment, and I took my responsibilities seriously. The four psychiatrists who ran the group, two student residents and two full-fledged, had promised that the last session would be a real party. The words casual and relaxed had been thrown around. I hadn’t wanted to go, and what became radiantly obvious was that none of my peers wanted to either. When I entered the room that day, I was asked if I wanted to wear a party hat or a purple boa that was shedding feathers like tears. I let the resident wrap the scratchy feathers around my neck and took a spot on the plastic couch. Back straight, hands folded on my lap, I waited to be told what was next.
 
There were rules to the group: no obscene language, no visual cuts or burns (they may trigger others to do the same), no outside food and drink, no talking of killing yourself. The group members had found it hard to follow the rules, with at least one person a week asked to step out into the hall to discuss their choice of tank top that highlighted the fresh wounds zippering up their arms. They’d be given a sweater to cover up, no rolling up the sleeves, or they were told they couldn’t participate that day. More often than not, they would storm off, flashing the finger to everyone they’d pass in the hospital hallways on their way out. No speaking over people, no coming to group under the influence. I was fifteen, and though I had had a couple of drinks in a friend’s basement or in a park, partying wasn’t my thing. I was too anxious that my parents were going to be killed in a car accident while I was out getting wasted, so I just stayed home where I could watch them and know they were safe.
 
I was scared of us all dying, and scared they would be particularly violent deaths. A flash of my parents’ bloodied bodies in a heap on the kitchen floor would invade my mind as I put the key in the door. I’d take a deep breath as I pushed it open to the warm smell of stew boiling and my mom coming over to kiss my cheeks and ask how school was. “Dad should be home in five,” she would say, “Your brother is somewhere.” It was then I’d be able to release the breath I’d been holding.
 
The problem really started when I began to barricade my bedroom door at night. I’d push my heavy oak dresser up against it and wake early to push it back into its place before my parents noticed. I hadn’t wanted to sleep with a knife, so I put hairspray under my pillow, thinking a spritz directly into each eye and I could have a chance to reach the mini Toronto Blue Jay’s bat that was under my bed. One morning I woke to the smash of wood against wood, my hand instantly gripping for the hairspray can. “How did you even move this?” Mom asked through the crack in the door. She was worried, and her fear came out as bags of chips and two-litre bottles of Coke that were left in my room. “Have a snack before bed,” she’d say, thinking that having a full belly might help my messy mind.
 
The second time mom caught me, she sat me down at our kitchen island and explained that if there was a fire, “You wouldn’t be able to get out quick enough.” It scared her. I said I understood and I promised that I’d stop. That night, a box of cookies and two cans of ginger ale appeared on my bedside table. I nibbled on them as I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling, praying tonight I could get some sleep.

I began trying to fall asleep before the last segment of Leno. As long as there was the electric hum of the TV and my parents were sitting in their recliners, I felt mainly safe. Sometimes my dad would fall asleep in front of the TV, his heavy snores mixing in with the Headlines segment, “Truancy Session, Poorly Attended,” and I would sink into my warm bed, dangle my arm off the side, feel for the slick wood, and fall into sleep. It was when I’d hear the TV set click off that my heart would start to rumble. I’d listen as my parents headed to their room, the house becoming instantly cold and darker as they shut their door. As the winds brushed past the windows and the house sighed and groaned, I’d sit up and stare at my bedroom door, picturing the man dressed all in black, a knife raised high above his head. The blade so big it would glisten in the moonlight. I could usually make it until one or two a.m. before I was covered in sweat, my hands cramping from clutching the hairspray. Then I’d creep from my bed to the dresser, and use all my strength so it wouldn’t scrape across the floor. I’m not sure if this is when it was decided that I needed to see a psychiatrist, but the third time the door smashed into the back of the dresser, Mom knew that cookies weren’t going to fix this.
 
To say I was an anxious kid is to simplify a disaster. I wasn’t just anxious in one way, it seemed my anxiety was a bouquet of ever blossoming wildflowers. Generalized, social, panic would bloom like a baby’s yawn. It seemed easier to be perfect and have everyone around you happy, than to deal with any mistakes. Teachers loved me, and with my dad in the military, we were posted somewhere new about every two years. I had lots of time to learn how to make a good first impression. This didn’t happen the first day I met Dr. D.
 
Dr. D had been the head of paediatric mental health for a decade before I met her. She hadn’t seemed like someone who had been working with kids for a long time. I didn’t get the warm glow of a Mr. Rogers like I had imagined. There was no cozy cardigan, or casual running shoes. She was petite, wore a white lab coat over her polyester brown slacks, and a matching polyester button-up. Her hair was tied back in a military bun, and on her lips and front teeth was one coat of fuchsia lipstick (I’d learn later it was named Iron Lady and she had been wearing it since the eighties). She wore no other make-up and her shoes were sensible block heels. I was scheduled for an assessment that was to take the whole day. When introduced she had reached out and shaken my hand first before my mother’s, “I’m Dr. D, I’ll be examining you”. It was explained to me that I would be meeting with a couple doctors throughout our day together, one physician, a social worker and two psychiatrists, all of whom were going to ask me lots of questions. Firstly they’d meet with my mom and me, then me on my own. I was told I could start by filling out some questionnaires, and my mom would do the same.
 
I found it hard to put numbers to feelings, and felt paralyzed by circling the wrong one. On a scale of one to three, one of the questionnaires asked, in the past two weeks, how much I was bothered by: irritable behaviour? Loss of interest in activities I used to enjoy? Feeling tired of having little energy? What if I was feeling a two point five, in-between more than half the days (a two) but not nearly every day (a three)? There was no space for halves, and this concerned me. What were these numbers really saying when I circled them? “You have to make sure they understand how you are really feeling, that you really are suffering,” my mom said. “Women aren’t always believed”.
 
Dr D asked my mom if I have any special skills or talents. The three of us were sitting in a white room, Mom and I on one side, Dr D and her notepad on the other. Mom wrung her hands and mentioned how I could tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. My mom is a classy woman, and said afterwards that everything in that room had felt so heavy she was just trying to bring some comic relief. Dr. D rubbed her tongue over her teeth, a habit I saw frequently when she didn’t like what had been presented to her. She said that she thought she had enough information from the family, it was time I met with her one-on-one. My mom kissed my cheek and left the room. “Do you ever feel like a mother to your mom?” Dr D asked. “Zero,” I responded.
 
It was quickly decided that I needed follow-up care. I was to see Dr D once a week for the foreseeable future, start a low dose of Paxil, an antidepressant that targeted both anxiety and depression, and attend a new group therapy program they were starting. “You’re lucky, we have room for just one more person”, Dr D said. “I think it is just what you need”.
 
I was mainly afraid of the other kids in the group. They seemed just more than me at everything. More loud, more desperate, more creative. Actually sick. These were the kids who came to school with gaping wounds on their arms that needed to be stapled shut, the girls who would show up to first period one day mostly bald. More than once, I was offered drugs while in the group. “You just need to seriously chill,” one girl told me as she dropped a baby yellow pill into my hand, that I’d inevitably flush during our break. “Stress is bad for the heart.”
 
My hip popped left, right, left to make the shape of the S. The four psychiatrists were sitting on the plastic couch, all teeth, as I blew the bangs from my face, and stared straight ahead. The walls of the room had been painted with a jungle scene. Monkeys were captured in mid-sway from palm trees with leaves as big as my hand. I was jealous of their freedom and hated their little smirks. It wouldn’t happen now-a-days, a whole room of medical professionals fixated on a young girl’s ass as it swings back and forth, but it was the new millennium, and this was the best of our mental health care. “First letter is an S”, one of the doctors said, “but what’s the second? B?”
 
I was the only one who played a round, the doctors saying this game was supposed to help build my social confidence. After what felt like far too long to be swaying and popping, I asked if I should call my mom to pick me up, as it didn’t seem like anyone else was coming. “This is a great opportunity,” Dr D said. “People would pay thousands of dollars to have access to four psychiatrists for an hour.” Maybe some would, but I wasn’t one of them.
 
“Jungle animals,” I said as I pulled at a feather, “encompass a lot of different species like primates or big cats like tigers. And lots of birds.” The doctors had asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about. “Some animals like lions hunt in groups.” Eight eyes followed me as I crossed my arms across my chest. We all sat in silence for a moment before Dr D said, “Let’s talk about you.” It felt like being trapped under a waterfall, “Would you say you were anxious?” “Were you a natural birth?” “Are you sexually active?” “Do you feel like you’ve had a normal childhood”? I don’t know, I don’t know, no, and I think so, were the answers. I was asked to think harder, try to look deeper. I thought about the time my parents were watching Unsolved Mysteries, a documentary television show that presented unexplained or unsolved cases. The night’s case: A man was shot through his closed kitchen window. The man had been getting ice cream from his freezer when the bullet went through his head, and ricocheted off the kitchen cabinet. The gun and murderer were never found. I had thrown a blanket over my head and whimpered. “Just go to bed if you don’t like it,” my mom had said. That night my dad asked me to empty the dishwasher, and I had dropped a glass while trying to place it in the cupboard, eyes fixated on the window. “I don’t know,” I said.
 
There are two ways you can interpret the phrase “fear of God”: One is the literal phobia, theophobia, a psychological condition where there is an intense or irrational fear of God or religious figures. The second is having a deep respect or reverence for God and wishing to live in his light. When the doctors told me my main problem was my fear of God, I think they were speaking of the literal phobia, but I never asked. All four psychiatrists had agreed, bobbing their heads like a thurible. I was definitely afraid, of God I wasn’t so sure, but the thought was both startling and comforting. This could be solved.
 
I think I had a healthy fear of God, in the way that it makes you a better person, like it’s supposed to. I didn’t want to end up in hell, so it was better to be good. I grew up first with, then adjacent to, religion. My mom was Christian, and my dad was the type of atheist who attended church with his family on Sundays only to mutter “bullshit” under his breath during the sermon. My brother and I had been baptized as babies, the pictures of us swimming in white lace gowns were proudly displayed side by side on my mother’s dresser. It was my only saving grace, since we stopped going to church before I could attend confirmation. My brother had gone through his and would make a point to make eye contact with me from the line for his turn at eternal life. I would remain in the pew with my father, never getting my turn to taste salvation, as the body and blood were reserved for those who had already publicly affirmed their devotion to God.
 
I had loved Sunday school, loved the stories and songs, though I don’t remember much of either. I remember the comforting smells of church basements or backrooms where school was held. Since we moved every two years, we changed churches just as often, but the smell of coffee brewing, and old tissue thin hymn books made me feel welcomed. I’d bring a dime from my allowance to put in the steeple shaped piggybank that was handed around the circle of kids at the start of each class. The clink of the dime was the sound of salvation. How much goodwill can a dime a week accrue?
 
Much like regular school, the teachers had praised me often, and I had excelled, being asked to play the Virgin Mary two years in a row. The second year, a girl cried and screamed so loudly when it was announced that she was to be just a wise man, that the pastor had come down to check that things were okay. At eight years old I was asked to step aside for the good of the church community, and did so with grace. Instead, I played the Archangel Gabriel and preferred the role. In the white paper wings and pipe cleaner halo, I felt divine. And when I announced the birth of Christ, the plastic doll already in its spot in the wooden cradle, I noticed the plain grey robes of the mother of God, and shook my wings a little.
 
The doctors asked me about teachings and sermons. There is only one I remember clearly, a story of a girl finding a box of horse shit for Christmas and excitedly exclaiming, “There must be a horse!” I was taken aback by the pastor’s use of profanity, especially during the holy time of year, and the image of a girl my age throwing turds like confetti stuck in my brain. When I relay this to the psychiatrists, one excitedly points out, “God is the horse!” More heads bobbing. No one mentioned the girl throwing shit.
 
We had stopped going to church when Dad was posted the last time, and I took it as just another thing our family said goodbye to in the move. I continued my nightly prayers, asking to be forgiven for both the sins I knew I had committed and those I wasn’t aware of, covering my bases. I’d list off all the wrongs from the day, rolling my eyes at dad (honour thy father), squishing a spider instead of placing him in a coffee mug to transport him outside (thou shall not kill), not being grateful for the chicken and fries for dinner (I wasn’t sure if this was an actual sin, but still it didn’t feel right). I’d ask that my family be protected and healthy, and that everyone in the world was happy. They seemed like simple requests. Every prayer ended with, “love you, love Jesus too.” I never wanted to exclude him from the conversation. I’d often ask for things in my prayers, even though I knew better, and knew that it might be a sin in itself. “I’m sorry to ask,” I’d say, “but can you please let there be no plane crashes today?” I couldn’t help asking for little favours too, “And please let it be sunny tomorrow. Love you, love Jesus too. Amen.”
 
It was never written down in my medical records, the revelation that the four brain doctors came to, the number one reason for all my problems. Dr D never mentioned it again when we met for our weekly appointments, and I was too afraid to, not fully understanding what it meant. I’d often think of the girl sitting alone, throwing shit in the air, so blissful. I couldn’t tell if I was jealous of her or disgusted. After my third medication change in a year, I had almost stopped praying entirely. Only sometimes I’d still ask for little favours. “Please let the bullet miss,” I’d pray as I put the dishes away, eyes always focused on the window.

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​Jenna Timmons-Oikawa (she/her) is an emerging writer of Saulteaux and mixed settler heritage. Jenna lives with disabilities and was selected as a mentee in the inaugural Writers’ Union of Canada Mentorship Program for Deaf and Disabled Writers. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Malahat Review, The Fiddlehead, and PRISM International. She lives with her loving husband Grant and their dog Morty on the unceded territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation near Ottawa, Ontario. She can be reached at @jenna_timmonsoikawa_