Pogo had surgery two days ago and got his bladder stone removed. We were supposed to feed and water him back to health, and in two weeks, take him in to get his stitches removed. Unfortunately, we had no idea that he would not make it through those two weeks. My mom found him dead in his cage this morning around 1:40 a.m. It's weird to think that only a few hours ago, I was holding him, feeling his heart beat rapidly. I was worried about him, and my mom said that he was probably just in pain and that he could have more pain medicine in the morning. I held him close and prayed to God, asking Him to take Pogo's pain away and to make him healthy again. I set Pogo on a towel in his cage afterwards and put his house over him to make sure he was comfortable for the night. I thought that he'd like to sleep on something soft instead of his bedding. My mom came out a little while later to get her pillow and saw that he had worked his way out of his house. When she went to go pet him, he no longer had a heart beat. Our little Pogo had left us.
It was hard for me to come to terms with his death. I lifted him out of his cage and tried to talk to him, but as I felt his body, limp in my hands, I knew that he was gone. I held him close and kissed him on the head, and before I knew it, I burst into tears. I felt my heart break into a million pieces as I realized he wasn't going to come back. He would no longer squeak or move around. He wasn't going to rest his head on my chest anymore or ever suck water down from his water bottle again. I couldn't handle it and handed him to my mom while I sat and sobbed. God had answered my prayers, and not in the way that I preferred, but I knew that Pogo fought hard for us. Even when he didn't want to eat or drink, he was a good guinea pig and took the water and food that we begged him to get down. He put up with the medicine and the doctors, and I still remember the day we brought him home from the hospital after getting the bladder stone back into his bladder. He licked my finger to thank me for making him feel better. Little did I know his health would only drop from there. That must have been the best he felt in the past week.
I will no longer have a guinea pig that will follow me around while I go get clothes out of my closet. I will not get to hear him squeak at me and beg for attention like he used to do, and it will never be the same holding another guinea pig again. Pogo was one of the most comical pigs I've ever had, and he was always the little genius that thought through things and figured out how to find ways out of his play pen or how to grab the food bag with his teeth to tug and let a landslide of pellets fall into his dish and all over the bedding. I often laughed at his brilliant little mind and how he analyzed everything that he could benefit from if possible. I knew that he was a special one, and it's hard to believe that he took such a quick turn. One day he was happy and healthy, and the next, he was bleeding and in pain.
I'd like to think that Pogo worked his way out of his house so that he could see me one final time before he passed, and I would not like to think that it was his calling out to hold him while he died. I hope that he wasn't in too much pain either, but I do know that he died knowing how much I loved him. God. I loved that little creature with my whole heart. He brought me so much joy, and it's going to be really hard to move on from this point. I wish he could have died in my arms. That's the way I would have preferred him to go, with someone holding him and giving him love, warmth, and closeness. But I guess beggers can't always be choosers.
Pogo, I love you so much. You are no longer in pain, and although you being gone is something I'll have to learn to cope with, I just want you to know that you were the greatest little piggie I could have ever raised and loved. You'll be in my heart forever.
Rest in peace, buddy. You fought hard.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Guinea Stone
Whenever the weekend rolls around, I often look forward to sleeping in. Yesterday was one of those days where I could sleep until noon and get the rest that I had been craving all week. However, what I thought was going to be a normal Saturday turned out to be more hectic than I could have ever imagined. My plans were to go to Dalton's going away party and then to dinner with my family to celebrate my brother's birthday. However, I had a feeling that something was a little off. It was as though I was expecting something to happen that would turn my whole day around. Of course, the feeling I had was an extremely small one, so I waved it away like I do anything that doesn't seem like a big deal. Just nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves.
Once I woke up, I headed upstairs because my mother needed me. She asked me to run off a picture of Barney for my baby cousin Jackson's first birthday cake, so I headed downstairs again and played around with my dad's computer until I got the image size and printer ink cartridge selection right. I ran the picture off and gave it to her, and after that, spent some time on Facebook. You need to shower and get ready for Dalton's party soon, I told myself. However, my motivation said differently. Two hours later, my mom was in the shower, and I told her that I would get in after her. So when she got out, she told me to get in. "I will soon," I told her, still not motivated enough to move. She then told me that her and my bro, Michael, were going to go get a cake pan and that they would be back soon. I said okay, and ten minutes later, I finally decided to get up and shower. I headed back to my room to get some clothes out of my closet and saw that my guinea pig, Pogo, was sitting outside his house. "Hi Pogo!" I said to him, crossing over to get to the closet door. I stepped inside and waited to hear Pogo move, but all was silent. That's strange. It's not like him to not follow me, I thought. I stepped out of my closet and walked over to the front of his cage. "Pogo!" I said, but he didn't move. He just sat and squeaked quietly. "What's wrong, buddy?" I asked him, opening his cage door. I waited for a few seconds to see if he would get up and walk over to me, but he made no move to tell me that he wanted attention. I reached my hands in and simply lifted him out of his cage, and he didn't even try to fight me. He flat out didn't care. Something is wrong, I thought. I held him close to me, walked into my parents' room, laid on their bed, and just held him for a good 15 minutes. He was very still in my arms, not wanting up on my shoulder at all.
Overcome by emotion, I began to cry. What was going on? Was he dying? Was he extremely sick? Should I even be concerned? I lifted my hand to wipe the tears away, and Pogo lifted his head to sniff my fingers. He looked at me as I wiped my cheeks and then put his head back down. I repeated this three times, Pogo lifting his head up each time to see if I was okay. After I got over my crying fit, I took him back into my room and set him in his cage. It was then that things got worse. He started arching his back and squealing in pain, and I immediately reached my hands back into his cage and tried to grab him, but he tried to run away. I got a hold of him seconds later and took him out, asking him what was wrong. I took him out to the family room and told my dad that I thought something was wrong with Pogo. He asked why, and as I sat in the recliner to tell him, I lifted Pogo up and felt something hit my knee. I looked down to see a single drop of blood, and looked at his private area to see blood coming out. "He's bleeding!" I told my dad, voice beginning to shake. "Where at?" My dad asked. I tried to tell him where, but my brain was so scattered from panic that I said, "Where he pees!" My dad went and grabbed an old towel and we wrapped him in it, and then I said, "We have to call the vet!"
"There's no time for that," My dad replied. "Go change your clothes."
I handed Pogo over and went to throw on a longer pair of shorts and a T-Shirt, and then we got into the car and drove to the vet. Once we got there, my heart dropped into my stomach. The vet office was closed.
I cussed in my head as my panic level rose even higher. My eyes welled up with tears and I said, "It's closed. The vet is closed. What are we going to do, Dad?" Pogo, who had been sitting still in my arms, began squeaking, as if he, too, knew the office was closed. His heart must have sunk like mine did. We were too in-sync with each other to not know what the other was feeling. I watched as my dad pulled his cellphone out, getting on the internet. What the fuck is he doing? I thought.
"Dad, what are you doing?"
"I'm looking up their number, Steph!"
What good is that going to do? I thought. "Dad, no one is going to be there! They're closed!" My dad was silent as he continued to Google for a number, and Pogo began to arch his back again, tensing up and squealing in pain. "Oh! Pogo!" I said, growing even more concerned now. "He's in pain!" My dad was silent as he continued to look for a number, and I thought to myself, each second you're on your phone, Pogo could be closer to dying! I looked down at the small animal resting in my arms and watched his eyes to make sure they didn't close. The last thing I wanted was for him to die in my arms. My dad finally found the number and called it, but what he thought was All Creatures Animal Hospital was Animal Cloud, which was right down the road from where we were at. The girl who answered asked if we were at All Creatures, and my dad said yes. She then asked if it was an emergency, and he said yes, that Pogo was bleeding from his private area. She put us on hold and returned a few minutes later, telling us that there was no one there who specialized with guinea pigs, but that we could bring him in and they would do their best. She then told us that if they couldn't do anything, we could go to the animal hospital. My dad told her, "Well it seems kind of pointless to bring him into you guys if you can't do anything. I think we'll just take him to the animal hospital." The girl then gave us their number, and my dad called them and told them what was going on. They told us that they were off of Veterans Memorial in the same strip as JJ's Restaurant, and after my dad hung up, I told him to call home and see if mom was there yet. So he called her and she answered. He asked where the animal hospital was, and she said she had no idea, so I asked her where JJ's was as best I could, but my voice shook terribly. She told us how to get there and then asked what was wrong. At that point, my voice was too shaky for me to talk, and my dad told her what was going on. She asked if I wanted her to meet us up there, and I choked out a yes. After we hung up, we pulled into the strip where the hospital was and went inside. They asked what was wrong, and I told them that I thought he was bleeding. I pulled the towel away to check and saw that blood was everywhere. "I don't know what's going on," I told her, voice cracking. She took Pogo right away, and I sat down and began to cry, not knowing what else to do.
My mother and brother came minutes after they took Pogo, and as I told my mom what happened, I began to get teary-eyed again. My mom said that they may tell us to put him to sleep, and then she began getting tears in her eyes as well. Imagining my little guinea pig dying was unbearable to me, especially in the condition that he was in. Pogo was my life ever since my sophomore year. He was always excited to see me no matter what day or time it was and no matter how long I had gone without seeing him. He was the one I enjoyed holding when I, myself, was feeling neglected, and to have such a loving little creature gone would have torn my heart in two.
One of the nurses finally brought Pogo back and gave him to me, telling us that the doctor would see us shortly. I held him in my arms again, his little body tired and limp. His paw hung out the side, which he never does, and he looked absolutely worn out. We waited for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was probably only ten minutes. The nurse called us back to one of the examination rooms, and we went back and waited for the doctor to come in. It was freezing back there, and the first thing I saw was a long metal table with a small, square pillow that had dog prints on it. I held Pogo, not wanting to put him on the cold table or the pillow, and compared to the temperature of the room, it felt like he was burning up. My whole body was freezing except for the spot on my arm he was laying on, and I could only imagine how cold the metal table must be. It didn't take long before the doctor walked through the door, and she asked me what had happened. Again, I told the story with a shaky voice, and she told us that most guinea pig emergencies are bladder related, and usually about bladder stones. She said that when he was back in the room, she was able to get a temperature from him, which is difficult to do with guinea pigs because they fuss and it stresses them out. But she told us that he was so out of it that she was able to take it, and he didn't have a fever. She then picked Pogo up and felt his bladder, saying that she didn't feel any stones. She also told us that she was worried about him since he had bled so much on the towel and said she wished she could get a urine sample. She predicted that he did have a kidney stone, but she couldn't be sure unless they did an x-ray, which would cost us $200. So she told us she would inject some fluids in the back of his neck to give him a camel hump since he was extremely dehydrated, and she would also give us an antibiotic until we could get him to a vet on Monday where an x-ray would be cheaper. She took him back again and gave him his fluids, and during that time, my dad told us he was going to head home since Pogo was going to be out soon, so he left. The doctor brought Pogo back after ten minutes and said she would go get the antibiotic and our paper work. She left the room, and about thirty seconds later, Pogo began to arch his back and squeal again, so we called her back and a nurse took him into the doctors room again. After a good half hour of waiting, the nurse came in with him and said that they did get a urine sample and that they were testing it. She placed Pogo on the pillow and left, and we watched him walk around the rim of it, testing the cushy fabric.
After around fifteen minutes, Pogo began to arch his back again, and the doctor walked in. We told her he was doing it again, and she said guinea pigs usually do that when they have a bladder stone they're trying to pass. Then she told us that he had a bladder infection and that they were going to do a $50 x-ray just to be sure everything else was okay. They took him away once again, and as we waited, my brother and I began to toss a tissue box back and forth to each other. We put it away after ten minutes and began tossing my mom's keys. When we got bored with that, my mom, bro, and I took coins out of my mom's wallet and began spinning them on the table. We were that bored. After an hour or so, the doctor came in with a laptop and showed us that Pogo did in fact have a bladder stone stuck in his urethra. He was trying to pee around it, and the only reason he was being successful was because it was irregular shaped and looked like a star, and she said that they put a catheter in to try to push the stone back into the bladder since it was too big to pass. We then asked the nurse if we could take my brother out for dinner since it was his birthday, and she said yes since it would be awhile to make Pogo better.
We went home and I finally got my shower, and then we stopped by Dalton's house so I could give him a picture I drew for him a while back. I walked in and hugged him and gave him his picture. Then I told him Pogo had a bladder stone. He looked just as shocked as I had been when I found out, and he said, "Isn't it your brother's birthday?" with a humored look on his face. I said yes and told him that the doctor asked if he wanted a copy of the x-ray for a birthday present. Dalton started laughing and then asked if I was going to stay for awhile. I told him that we were on our way to dinner, and he sarcastically said, "Fine. I see how it is." I told him that I really wished I could stay, and he said he understood and told me to sign his book that he had sitting out. So I wrote him a message in there and hugged him goodbye. I felt bad not being able to stay longer and was disappointed that I couldn't, but there really wasn't another option for me. So I got back in the van and we headed to Applebees for dinner. Afterward, we headed out to the hospital again (this was a good two hours later) and they said they were still working on Pogo and that they would call us when he was ready to come home. No sooner did we get home, the doctor called and told me he was ready. So my mom, bro, and I got back in the van and went up to the hospital to get him. The doctor got our paper work, medicine, and a disc with Pogo's x-rays on it so that we could take it to All Creatures on Monday, and she said that they would probably change his diet first to try and dissolve the stone. If that didn't work, they would surgically remove it. I was given Pogo once more, and this time, he was fighting to get out of the doctor's arms and into mine. We were told to keep a close eye on him until Monday and that we could bring him back if anything happened before we could get him to his regular doctor. So we took him home and got him to eat some lettuce and carrots, and we also gave him some medicine. He was pooped out, and I cleaned his cage and moved it out to the family room so that we could keep a close eye on him for the next couple days. I put him in his cage and he licked my finger to thank him for making him feel better, and then he went in his house to chill out for the rest of the night.
Most people would say it's silly to pay around $200 for a guinea pig since it's so small and only lives for 4-6 years. But people who think it's silly to spend that much on a creature like Pogo obviously doesn't understand how much he means to our family. If I tried to explain to you all how much I love him and how strong of a bond we have, animal to human, I would not be able to put it into words or buy a big enough canvas to paint my feelings on. Dog owners, cat owners, my bond with this tiny animal is just as strong as your bond with your bigger animal, and although you may say a cat and/or dog has a longer life span, you cannot put a price on love. When you love someone, whether it be a human or animal, money is not something you think twice about. You can't just watch an animal you love cry out in pain and continue to watch them until they die. You're going to do something about it. I did something about it because I love Pogo with all my heart, and although I'll have to face his death someday, I'm not yet ready to let him go. Money doesn't decide whether I love him or not, and it never should.
Pogo is not eating or drinking as of right now. I keep force-watering him through a syringe, and he's been taking it well. He sees a vet tomorrow, and hopefully he'll be back to normal soon.
I love you, Pogo.
Once I woke up, I headed upstairs because my mother needed me. She asked me to run off a picture of Barney for my baby cousin Jackson's first birthday cake, so I headed downstairs again and played around with my dad's computer until I got the image size and printer ink cartridge selection right. I ran the picture off and gave it to her, and after that, spent some time on Facebook. You need to shower and get ready for Dalton's party soon, I told myself. However, my motivation said differently. Two hours later, my mom was in the shower, and I told her that I would get in after her. So when she got out, she told me to get in. "I will soon," I told her, still not motivated enough to move. She then told me that her and my bro, Michael, were going to go get a cake pan and that they would be back soon. I said okay, and ten minutes later, I finally decided to get up and shower. I headed back to my room to get some clothes out of my closet and saw that my guinea pig, Pogo, was sitting outside his house. "Hi Pogo!" I said to him, crossing over to get to the closet door. I stepped inside and waited to hear Pogo move, but all was silent. That's strange. It's not like him to not follow me, I thought. I stepped out of my closet and walked over to the front of his cage. "Pogo!" I said, but he didn't move. He just sat and squeaked quietly. "What's wrong, buddy?" I asked him, opening his cage door. I waited for a few seconds to see if he would get up and walk over to me, but he made no move to tell me that he wanted attention. I reached my hands in and simply lifted him out of his cage, and he didn't even try to fight me. He flat out didn't care. Something is wrong, I thought. I held him close to me, walked into my parents' room, laid on their bed, and just held him for a good 15 minutes. He was very still in my arms, not wanting up on my shoulder at all.
Overcome by emotion, I began to cry. What was going on? Was he dying? Was he extremely sick? Should I even be concerned? I lifted my hand to wipe the tears away, and Pogo lifted his head to sniff my fingers. He looked at me as I wiped my cheeks and then put his head back down. I repeated this three times, Pogo lifting his head up each time to see if I was okay. After I got over my crying fit, I took him back into my room and set him in his cage. It was then that things got worse. He started arching his back and squealing in pain, and I immediately reached my hands back into his cage and tried to grab him, but he tried to run away. I got a hold of him seconds later and took him out, asking him what was wrong. I took him out to the family room and told my dad that I thought something was wrong with Pogo. He asked why, and as I sat in the recliner to tell him, I lifted Pogo up and felt something hit my knee. I looked down to see a single drop of blood, and looked at his private area to see blood coming out. "He's bleeding!" I told my dad, voice beginning to shake. "Where at?" My dad asked. I tried to tell him where, but my brain was so scattered from panic that I said, "Where he pees!" My dad went and grabbed an old towel and we wrapped him in it, and then I said, "We have to call the vet!"
"There's no time for that," My dad replied. "Go change your clothes."
I handed Pogo over and went to throw on a longer pair of shorts and a T-Shirt, and then we got into the car and drove to the vet. Once we got there, my heart dropped into my stomach. The vet office was closed.
I cussed in my head as my panic level rose even higher. My eyes welled up with tears and I said, "It's closed. The vet is closed. What are we going to do, Dad?" Pogo, who had been sitting still in my arms, began squeaking, as if he, too, knew the office was closed. His heart must have sunk like mine did. We were too in-sync with each other to not know what the other was feeling. I watched as my dad pulled his cellphone out, getting on the internet. What the fuck is he doing? I thought.
"Dad, what are you doing?"
"I'm looking up their number, Steph!"
What good is that going to do? I thought. "Dad, no one is going to be there! They're closed!" My dad was silent as he continued to Google for a number, and Pogo began to arch his back again, tensing up and squealing in pain. "Oh! Pogo!" I said, growing even more concerned now. "He's in pain!" My dad was silent as he continued to look for a number, and I thought to myself, each second you're on your phone, Pogo could be closer to dying! I looked down at the small animal resting in my arms and watched his eyes to make sure they didn't close. The last thing I wanted was for him to die in my arms. My dad finally found the number and called it, but what he thought was All Creatures Animal Hospital was Animal Cloud, which was right down the road from where we were at. The girl who answered asked if we were at All Creatures, and my dad said yes. She then asked if it was an emergency, and he said yes, that Pogo was bleeding from his private area. She put us on hold and returned a few minutes later, telling us that there was no one there who specialized with guinea pigs, but that we could bring him in and they would do their best. She then told us that if they couldn't do anything, we could go to the animal hospital. My dad told her, "Well it seems kind of pointless to bring him into you guys if you can't do anything. I think we'll just take him to the animal hospital." The girl then gave us their number, and my dad called them and told them what was going on. They told us that they were off of Veterans Memorial in the same strip as JJ's Restaurant, and after my dad hung up, I told him to call home and see if mom was there yet. So he called her and she answered. He asked where the animal hospital was, and she said she had no idea, so I asked her where JJ's was as best I could, but my voice shook terribly. She told us how to get there and then asked what was wrong. At that point, my voice was too shaky for me to talk, and my dad told her what was going on. She asked if I wanted her to meet us up there, and I choked out a yes. After we hung up, we pulled into the strip where the hospital was and went inside. They asked what was wrong, and I told them that I thought he was bleeding. I pulled the towel away to check and saw that blood was everywhere. "I don't know what's going on," I told her, voice cracking. She took Pogo right away, and I sat down and began to cry, not knowing what else to do.
My mother and brother came minutes after they took Pogo, and as I told my mom what happened, I began to get teary-eyed again. My mom said that they may tell us to put him to sleep, and then she began getting tears in her eyes as well. Imagining my little guinea pig dying was unbearable to me, especially in the condition that he was in. Pogo was my life ever since my sophomore year. He was always excited to see me no matter what day or time it was and no matter how long I had gone without seeing him. He was the one I enjoyed holding when I, myself, was feeling neglected, and to have such a loving little creature gone would have torn my heart in two.
One of the nurses finally brought Pogo back and gave him to me, telling us that the doctor would see us shortly. I held him in my arms again, his little body tired and limp. His paw hung out the side, which he never does, and he looked absolutely worn out. We waited for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was probably only ten minutes. The nurse called us back to one of the examination rooms, and we went back and waited for the doctor to come in. It was freezing back there, and the first thing I saw was a long metal table with a small, square pillow that had dog prints on it. I held Pogo, not wanting to put him on the cold table or the pillow, and compared to the temperature of the room, it felt like he was burning up. My whole body was freezing except for the spot on my arm he was laying on, and I could only imagine how cold the metal table must be. It didn't take long before the doctor walked through the door, and she asked me what had happened. Again, I told the story with a shaky voice, and she told us that most guinea pig emergencies are bladder related, and usually about bladder stones. She said that when he was back in the room, she was able to get a temperature from him, which is difficult to do with guinea pigs because they fuss and it stresses them out. But she told us that he was so out of it that she was able to take it, and he didn't have a fever. She then picked Pogo up and felt his bladder, saying that she didn't feel any stones. She also told us that she was worried about him since he had bled so much on the towel and said she wished she could get a urine sample. She predicted that he did have a kidney stone, but she couldn't be sure unless they did an x-ray, which would cost us $200. So she told us she would inject some fluids in the back of his neck to give him a camel hump since he was extremely dehydrated, and she would also give us an antibiotic until we could get him to a vet on Monday where an x-ray would be cheaper. She took him back again and gave him his fluids, and during that time, my dad told us he was going to head home since Pogo was going to be out soon, so he left. The doctor brought Pogo back after ten minutes and said she would go get the antibiotic and our paper work. She left the room, and about thirty seconds later, Pogo began to arch his back and squeal again, so we called her back and a nurse took him into the doctors room again. After a good half hour of waiting, the nurse came in with him and said that they did get a urine sample and that they were testing it. She placed Pogo on the pillow and left, and we watched him walk around the rim of it, testing the cushy fabric.
After around fifteen minutes, Pogo began to arch his back again, and the doctor walked in. We told her he was doing it again, and she said guinea pigs usually do that when they have a bladder stone they're trying to pass. Then she told us that he had a bladder infection and that they were going to do a $50 x-ray just to be sure everything else was okay. They took him away once again, and as we waited, my brother and I began to toss a tissue box back and forth to each other. We put it away after ten minutes and began tossing my mom's keys. When we got bored with that, my mom, bro, and I took coins out of my mom's wallet and began spinning them on the table. We were that bored. After an hour or so, the doctor came in with a laptop and showed us that Pogo did in fact have a bladder stone stuck in his urethra. He was trying to pee around it, and the only reason he was being successful was because it was irregular shaped and looked like a star, and she said that they put a catheter in to try to push the stone back into the bladder since it was too big to pass. We then asked the nurse if we could take my brother out for dinner since it was his birthday, and she said yes since it would be awhile to make Pogo better.
We went home and I finally got my shower, and then we stopped by Dalton's house so I could give him a picture I drew for him a while back. I walked in and hugged him and gave him his picture. Then I told him Pogo had a bladder stone. He looked just as shocked as I had been when I found out, and he said, "Isn't it your brother's birthday?" with a humored look on his face. I said yes and told him that the doctor asked if he wanted a copy of the x-ray for a birthday present. Dalton started laughing and then asked if I was going to stay for awhile. I told him that we were on our way to dinner, and he sarcastically said, "Fine. I see how it is." I told him that I really wished I could stay, and he said he understood and told me to sign his book that he had sitting out. So I wrote him a message in there and hugged him goodbye. I felt bad not being able to stay longer and was disappointed that I couldn't, but there really wasn't another option for me. So I got back in the van and we headed to Applebees for dinner. Afterward, we headed out to the hospital again (this was a good two hours later) and they said they were still working on Pogo and that they would call us when he was ready to come home. No sooner did we get home, the doctor called and told me he was ready. So my mom, bro, and I got back in the van and went up to the hospital to get him. The doctor got our paper work, medicine, and a disc with Pogo's x-rays on it so that we could take it to All Creatures on Monday, and she said that they would probably change his diet first to try and dissolve the stone. If that didn't work, they would surgically remove it. I was given Pogo once more, and this time, he was fighting to get out of the doctor's arms and into mine. We were told to keep a close eye on him until Monday and that we could bring him back if anything happened before we could get him to his regular doctor. So we took him home and got him to eat some lettuce and carrots, and we also gave him some medicine. He was pooped out, and I cleaned his cage and moved it out to the family room so that we could keep a close eye on him for the next couple days. I put him in his cage and he licked my finger to thank him for making him feel better, and then he went in his house to chill out for the rest of the night.
Most people would say it's silly to pay around $200 for a guinea pig since it's so small and only lives for 4-6 years. But people who think it's silly to spend that much on a creature like Pogo obviously doesn't understand how much he means to our family. If I tried to explain to you all how much I love him and how strong of a bond we have, animal to human, I would not be able to put it into words or buy a big enough canvas to paint my feelings on. Dog owners, cat owners, my bond with this tiny animal is just as strong as your bond with your bigger animal, and although you may say a cat and/or dog has a longer life span, you cannot put a price on love. When you love someone, whether it be a human or animal, money is not something you think twice about. You can't just watch an animal you love cry out in pain and continue to watch them until they die. You're going to do something about it. I did something about it because I love Pogo with all my heart, and although I'll have to face his death someday, I'm not yet ready to let him go. Money doesn't decide whether I love him or not, and it never should.
Pogo is not eating or drinking as of right now. I keep force-watering him through a syringe, and he's been taking it well. He sees a vet tomorrow, and hopefully he'll be back to normal soon.
I love you, Pogo.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Oh, how we hold onto THINGS!
The past week has been a tedious week for me. I've devoted a lot of my time to the theatre up at my college running the lights for the production of Becky's New Car since the original person couldn't do it. It's a great play to watch, but after seeing it so many times, I was beginning to get my fill of it. However, there's one line that always stands out to me, no matter how many times I watch it. When Walter Flood says, "Oh, how we hold onto things!", I can't help but glance down at my grandma's ring. Funny, holding onto things. Why do they always bring me comfort? Whether it's something that's passed down or given to me, I can't help but hoard it away. It makes me think of memories, and memories make me think of Tony.
For anyone who really knows me and who has been with me all the way up until Christmas break, you know that Tony and I were inseparable. He knew me better than anyone else did and who ever will, and no one will ever have the same bond with me as he did. It was crazy, to be honest. He always knew what to do or say when I was upset. He would always get me out of the house when things became too much to handle. Our late walks at night became routine, and chalk drawings were always a favorite hobby of ours. Sugarland was our music any time of the day, and we would often stay up until the ungodly hours of the morning talking about our hopes and dreams, what we thought about death, God, and we would even fight sleep just to see how long we could fight it for. And then, somewhere along the way, things took a turn for the worst. I don't want to get into details, but things changed dramatically. Now, whenever I see him, I have the strongest urge to walk up to him and start talking like old times. But at the same time, seeing him makes me sick to my stomach. It's one of those moments where I'll stare at him and try to remember who he is, and how much of a role he's played in my life. Ten years of memorizing that face, those eyes... it's hard to look away, to think that he's the same guy. And then his eyes meet mine and I look away, trying to forget; trying to shake the memories away as my heart crumbles to bits. How could we have gotten this far just to watch our little Jericho fall to the ground like nothing? We trusted each other with everything we had, made time for each other whenever we could, and no matter how stupid we felt rambling on about something that shouldn't have been as big of a deal as it was, we never felt idiotic in the end because we both had that kind of understanding. We both knew what to say without even having to think, and we had memorized each other so well that we couldn't hide anything, ever. We always threw our cards out on the table, no questions asked. And I guess that's why we aren't friends today. I knew him so well that I could see change happening, and I was no longer one of the main concerns anymore. I had been replaced by someone much more addicting, and I soon found myself spending weeks at a time without seeing him. My depression went out of control, and after that, it was over. I said things that I shouldn't have said even though I was in the wrong state of mind at the time, and even though I tried explaining it, my excuse wasn't good enough. I said what I said and that was that, and I was called a hypocrite and a liar and a shit talker. My best friend, the one who had seen me at my absolute, and I mean absolute worst... the one who had always been kind in patience and plentiful in love, and the one who always forgave me no matter what was going on with me, had left me for dead. Left me for her. I was no longer a priority. I was tossed aside like yesterday's news, and although I was the one who said lets just end it, he never took the time to let me breathe, nor did he ever try to ask for an explanation. Seeing him makes me sick. That's why I look away.
I never realized what it was like to be so disgusted that I couldn't even look a person straight in the eye. But after ten years of thinking a friendship is going to be for a lifetime, and then watching it crumble, I now have that understanding. I can no longer go on walks with people around my neighborhood because it's just not the same. I can't draw with chalk. I still listen to Sugarland every now and then, but not much anymore. It's just all too bittersweet. Heck, I can't even listen to "For Good". I don't know how I'm going to make it through the production of Wicked in December without crying my eyes out. I miss him so much, but not who he is now. I miss who he was, and what we were. I miss the history of our beautiful friendship, and how it was something that not everyone gets to experience. Sure, people tell me that I'm better off without him, and better off without the hurt he was causing me, but no one understands just how important that boy was in my life. He's the one who shaped me and who helped me become a better person. He was the one who taught me how to laugh and how to be myself, and he even made me realize that if I'm a weirdo, hey, let that weirdness shine. He's done so much for me, and I miss having that reassurance that I felt so many times before just by having him around. No matter how awkward a situation was, he was there to break the ice and to bring me out of my shell. The part of me that I loved... the part that he brought out the best... began dying soon after I made the decision to walk away for good. I will never be the same without him.
All I want is an apology and my best friend back. I want to sit down with him and explain to him what happened back in December when my depression had worsened. I want to tell him the thoughts that were running through my mind, how I had starved myself for a full 24 hours because I was too sad to get up off my bum, and I want to tell him how much I missed him during that time when he was running around with her and neglecting me. I want him to understand the state my mind was in, and how half of the things I was thinking or saying weren't normal. I want to ask him what happened, and why he started making the choices he made. But I can't do that now. It's too late, because my best friend is gone, and no matter how many times he tries to walk back into my life, pretending as though nothing has happened will never fix anything. I want to hear an apology. I want honesty. I want to trust him so I can laugh again and be happy like I used to be. Nothing is the same, and nothing ever will be. I lost the one thing that I will never find again, the one thing that you can only find once in a lifetime: true friendship. Someone who knows you so well that they can decipher any facial expression, any stare, any smile or frown, any tone in your voice, any body movement, and know exactly what's wrong and how to fix it without needing to think twice. They just get you.
I hold onto his paintings. I hold onto the hat he gave me. I hold onto the photographs. I'll never be able to throw them away, nor will I ever be able to look at them without feeling that surge of sadness and sickness that accompanies a bad memory. Sometimes I wonder whether I should be thankful for our friendship, or hate it for what it's doing to me. I may smile and laugh, and I may be able to forget about him a good amount of the time. But no matter what, he's always going to be in the back of my mind. I guess I just don't have the heart to throw him out, and I never will. Those memories are going to haunt me for the rest of my life, and no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to let go of them.
For anyone who really knows me and who has been with me all the way up until Christmas break, you know that Tony and I were inseparable. He knew me better than anyone else did and who ever will, and no one will ever have the same bond with me as he did. It was crazy, to be honest. He always knew what to do or say when I was upset. He would always get me out of the house when things became too much to handle. Our late walks at night became routine, and chalk drawings were always a favorite hobby of ours. Sugarland was our music any time of the day, and we would often stay up until the ungodly hours of the morning talking about our hopes and dreams, what we thought about death, God, and we would even fight sleep just to see how long we could fight it for. And then, somewhere along the way, things took a turn for the worst. I don't want to get into details, but things changed dramatically. Now, whenever I see him, I have the strongest urge to walk up to him and start talking like old times. But at the same time, seeing him makes me sick to my stomach. It's one of those moments where I'll stare at him and try to remember who he is, and how much of a role he's played in my life. Ten years of memorizing that face, those eyes... it's hard to look away, to think that he's the same guy. And then his eyes meet mine and I look away, trying to forget; trying to shake the memories away as my heart crumbles to bits. How could we have gotten this far just to watch our little Jericho fall to the ground like nothing? We trusted each other with everything we had, made time for each other whenever we could, and no matter how stupid we felt rambling on about something that shouldn't have been as big of a deal as it was, we never felt idiotic in the end because we both had that kind of understanding. We both knew what to say without even having to think, and we had memorized each other so well that we couldn't hide anything, ever. We always threw our cards out on the table, no questions asked. And I guess that's why we aren't friends today. I knew him so well that I could see change happening, and I was no longer one of the main concerns anymore. I had been replaced by someone much more addicting, and I soon found myself spending weeks at a time without seeing him. My depression went out of control, and after that, it was over. I said things that I shouldn't have said even though I was in the wrong state of mind at the time, and even though I tried explaining it, my excuse wasn't good enough. I said what I said and that was that, and I was called a hypocrite and a liar and a shit talker. My best friend, the one who had seen me at my absolute, and I mean absolute worst... the one who had always been kind in patience and plentiful in love, and the one who always forgave me no matter what was going on with me, had left me for dead. Left me for her. I was no longer a priority. I was tossed aside like yesterday's news, and although I was the one who said lets just end it, he never took the time to let me breathe, nor did he ever try to ask for an explanation. Seeing him makes me sick. That's why I look away.
I never realized what it was like to be so disgusted that I couldn't even look a person straight in the eye. But after ten years of thinking a friendship is going to be for a lifetime, and then watching it crumble, I now have that understanding. I can no longer go on walks with people around my neighborhood because it's just not the same. I can't draw with chalk. I still listen to Sugarland every now and then, but not much anymore. It's just all too bittersweet. Heck, I can't even listen to "For Good". I don't know how I'm going to make it through the production of Wicked in December without crying my eyes out. I miss him so much, but not who he is now. I miss who he was, and what we were. I miss the history of our beautiful friendship, and how it was something that not everyone gets to experience. Sure, people tell me that I'm better off without him, and better off without the hurt he was causing me, but no one understands just how important that boy was in my life. He's the one who shaped me and who helped me become a better person. He was the one who taught me how to laugh and how to be myself, and he even made me realize that if I'm a weirdo, hey, let that weirdness shine. He's done so much for me, and I miss having that reassurance that I felt so many times before just by having him around. No matter how awkward a situation was, he was there to break the ice and to bring me out of my shell. The part of me that I loved... the part that he brought out the best... began dying soon after I made the decision to walk away for good. I will never be the same without him.
All I want is an apology and my best friend back. I want to sit down with him and explain to him what happened back in December when my depression had worsened. I want to tell him the thoughts that were running through my mind, how I had starved myself for a full 24 hours because I was too sad to get up off my bum, and I want to tell him how much I missed him during that time when he was running around with her and neglecting me. I want him to understand the state my mind was in, and how half of the things I was thinking or saying weren't normal. I want to ask him what happened, and why he started making the choices he made. But I can't do that now. It's too late, because my best friend is gone, and no matter how many times he tries to walk back into my life, pretending as though nothing has happened will never fix anything. I want to hear an apology. I want honesty. I want to trust him so I can laugh again and be happy like I used to be. Nothing is the same, and nothing ever will be. I lost the one thing that I will never find again, the one thing that you can only find once in a lifetime: true friendship. Someone who knows you so well that they can decipher any facial expression, any stare, any smile or frown, any tone in your voice, any body movement, and know exactly what's wrong and how to fix it without needing to think twice. They just get you.
I hold onto his paintings. I hold onto the hat he gave me. I hold onto the photographs. I'll never be able to throw them away, nor will I ever be able to look at them without feeling that surge of sadness and sickness that accompanies a bad memory. Sometimes I wonder whether I should be thankful for our friendship, or hate it for what it's doing to me. I may smile and laugh, and I may be able to forget about him a good amount of the time. But no matter what, he's always going to be in the back of my mind. I guess I just don't have the heart to throw him out, and I never will. Those memories are going to haunt me for the rest of my life, and no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to let go of them.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
One Year Stronger
Well, here I am, writing another blog. I feel like I've really fallen down on blogging, mainly because I'm a procrastinator that enjoys being lazy up until there's an important homework assignment I need to get done. Why I don't blog during my procrastination time, I have no idea. You'd think that with my love for writing, I'd be pounding my fingertips against these keys like there was no tomorrow. Of course, if there really was no tomorrow, this blog would be extremely long and meaningful, where I'd reveal all of my personal thoughts and secrets. But lets not get into that. I'm rambling.
I woke up at nine today to get ready for school, and I even went the extra mile of curling my hair. I usually sleep too long to have time for that. Once I got to school, I decided to skip English 2 because my teacher wanted one typed paragraph about the person I was going to be researching for the research report, and he also wanted a typed works cited page. Of course, I've been procrastinating and haven't even started my research. But I do know that it will be over Walt Disney, and I do know how to cite sources. All of my writing classes that I've taken the past four years have really hammered down on that. Plus, why show up to class and turn in a practice works cited page if I already know how to do it? We don't get graded on any of this. The only things we're graded on are the three papers we do this semester, and even if I pass with a B, I'll be one happy girl.
Our English teacher isn't that great at teaching. Sure, he's a fun guy to talk to, and I would love to have him as a grandpa, but when he teaches, all he does is write notes on the board that aren't even in a logical order. Then he circles certain words and draws arrows all over the place while half mumbling to himself. He's extremely vague, and I don't really care to show up to class. I see no point in it. I know what I'm doing, and he uses a lot of redundancy. Last week, he put the class into groups to cite sources of all kinds, and while two of the people out of the four paged through the book and questioned whether they were citing correctly or not, all I could think was Come on. Just follow the example in the book that it gives you. It isn't that difficult. Although, I guess I shouldn't really degrade them since one is older and is a returning student, while the other may have only done one or two research papers in his life. But I feel like I should be in a different class. The other guy who was sitting next to me was telling me about how he didn't really understand the teacher either, so I think most of my class feels like they're showing up for pointless reasons. "You will want to have good attendance in order to do well" my ass.
Anyway, like I said, I haven't started my research project yet. Good ol' procrastination, right? I plan to work endlessly on homework Saturday, from dawn to dusk, in order to get everything accomplished since it's my only day off from theatre. Oh yeah, theatre. I'm part of running crew, in case you didn't read the last blog. One of the girls was unable to work the lights, and seeing as how I currently have no job, and therefore, no schedule, I told her that I would do it. She was very thankful, and it made me feel good to know that I was being useful in some way.
I went to creative writing at one today, but for some reason, I just felt really disconnected from the class. It could have been because I was tired, but it also could have been the content of the stories we had to read through. My brain just didn't feel like working, and the only story that I actually participated in critiquing was Ed's piece. It was entertaining and I could hear him talking in the dialogue while picturing his wild hand gestures in my mind. I couldn't help but smile and secretly chuckle. Once that let out, we walked Ally to her car and then headed over to the student center to chill out. I went home around four, checked on Derby (which I will give you an update on later in this blog post), ate dinner, and then headed up to school for the play. I made sure to have a cup of coffee beforehand since I was falling asleep, and I put in two packets of hot cocoa plus some Hershey's syrup. Yes, I know, lots of chocolate. But I just hate the taste of coffee, and I needed a lot of caffeine to keep me going. So I got the sugar + caffeine benefit.
This was my first night I spent on running crew, and I was extremely nervous. I'm pretty sure that I have anxiety since it runs in my family, but it's only with people I don't know too well. I think that it's because ever since I was five years old, the mean girls in my class made it no secret that they despised me, always looking at me and pointing while they whispered to each other. Some of them would even make sure to point out how weird I was. And so when I'm around people who I don't know or who I barely know, there's always that voice in the back of my head telling me that I don't belong, and that they don't like me, and that they'll talk about me behind my back. It's very frustrating to deal with, so when I was dropped off, my chest got all tight, and I felt like my heart rate was speeding up. The air seemed a little thinner and more difficult to breathe, and when Ally met me (she's on crew too), I told her how nervous I was getting. She calmed me down a lot just by talking to me, and by the time I was in the theatre, I felt fine. Still, I can't get over how angry I feel to have to deal with those terrible thoughts. I wish I could go somewhere by myself without feeling like everyone is judging me and whispering about me. I hate it so much, and I can't do anything about it.
We basically watched the show tonight. The actors and actresses were amazing (as usual), and I found myself laughing quite a lot. There were some great lines in there, and I think that even though it's about a middle-aged woman wanting a new life, even younger people, like myself, can relate to it. I definitely don't want to live here all my life. I feel like I'm trapped in a life-sucking city that will only eat my dreams away, and I want to get out of it and escape to somewhere else.
There was a lot of talking going on before the show since, you know, I had coffee. Haha. And so when I was talking to Ally, I realized that I was talking at a fast rate and I was talking a lot. I stopped and asked, "Am I talking too much?" Ally laughed and said no, and that she liked hearing my voice.
Even as I look back and read the above sentences, I feel like I've interwoven them with doses of caffeine. I sound like some caffeine-intoxicated loon, and as I told my friend Jes earlier, if people didn't know I was a good girl, they'd think I was high or on drugs. My writing tonight is all over the place, so I apologize for that.
What I liked the most about tonight was how happy Lonna was to see us show up. Whenever she sees students like me walk into the room, she just gets the brightest, most sincere smile across her face, and I love it. She really makes me feel like I'm an important contributor to the theatre, and although I don't want to major in anything related to it, I feel like I'm a part of it, in a way. She's the teacher who made me want to try it out, and to learn more about what it's like to be involved in something that really does require team effort. It's kind of like my version of a sports team, and I say "my version" because I was never any good at the actual sports. Haha. My stagecraft class has become a mini family, and I also think that Lonna feels like she's part of it too. I'm really glad to have had her for my intro to theatre teacher, because if I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken stagecraft. I was nervous when I did, because I felt like a fish out of water, but she really has this talent of making you feel like you are an important person in the scheme of things. I've noticed that even on her down days, I'm good at making her smile. She may not smile long, but I still manage to make some of her frustration and/or stress disappear for a moment. She's really changed my life, and I'm going to miss having her as a teacher, seeing as how I will be taking no theatre classes next semester. It makes me sad. Kind of funny, in a way, how the introvert who has never belonged anywhere finally finds a cozy area to cocoon in for awhile. That's how I see my theatre experience. It's a place I can always find acceptance in, even if it means putting some work in to get it. (:
Speaking of cocoons, Derby is doing fine. I took a look at him when I got home today, and he was sleeping on a leaf stem. I took the plastic wrap off of the top of his house (don't worry, it has holes), and I tried to put some more water into the gauze to make sure he had enough water and moisture, and it sort of dribbled everywhere. So I went to get more gauze to soak it up, and I noticed that Derby woke up. I apologized to him, and he threw his head up like, "What the hell, man?!?!" So I got the excess water out and then returned him, and not even two minutes later, he was sleeping again. When I got back tonight, I went to take a look at him, and he had moved to a different leaf. He was bent in a < shape, just snoozing away, and I thought, Oh my gosh, he must be injured. The leaf stem went through his body. He's dead. On closer inspection, I saw that he was not dead, nor wounded. He was simply in an odd sleeping position. But hey, if that's what steers his ship, I'm not gonna criticize. Haha. He's probably building up strength so that he can make his cocoon soon. I say that it'll take him a week tops before he starts his metamorphosis, and I could be wrong. But hey, seems logical to me. Why else would a bug sleep that much?
A thought came to me while I was typing my theatre paragraph above, and I think that it represents the whole theme of my freshman year of college. When my grandma passed away, she had left me one final card from her and my grandpa. It was a card for my graduation, and it read:
Keep your eyes, ears, and mind open... the whole world is a classroom. Always be generous in patience, gratitude, and forgiveness. Be grateful for the role models in your life, and be one for someone else. Learn from other generations... from the wisdom of elders and the imagination of children. Keep a childlike sense of wonder. Believe in the beauty, the goodness, and the wisdom that are uniquely yours. There is only one you, and this world needs you... just as you are. Congratulations on your graduation.
This semester, I feel like I've really fulfilled everything that my grandma hoped I would, and I'm still working on it. The words in her card make my eyes well up with tears because I realize that she knew her time was up. She wanted me to have something meaningful to carry with me for the rest of my life, and somehow, she knew that these words were the best gift she could give me, because when writers read beautiful words, they tend to remember them and lock them away. This whole year without her has been a learning experience for me. I feared being involved in theatre for so long. I could feel a strong pull toward it, but I was always afraid of not belonging; of thinking that these theatre people had some kind of xray vision that scanned you and ruled out whether you were real or fake. But because of Lonna, I finally stopped standing at the edge of uncertainty and completely jumped into the unknown, which is something I've never done. I've also come to realize that even though it can be scary talking to people I don't know, we're all nervous about how other people might see us. I think that if I had hesitated and had not made all of the decisions that I've made, nothing would be the same right now. I may have never met Jes, or Allison. I may have never been friends with Ally. I may not have developed a theatre family, and who knows? I may have been sitting here with nothing to do tonight if I hadn't told my friend that I would take her place for running crew. And sure, I still have to write a report tonight and study for a test, but God, at least I'm living a little more! I'm beginning to understand that any opportunity life hands you should be grasped by the horns. And even if it may not seem like an opportunity, if it's a new experience waiting to happen, grab onto that too!! I've spent too much of my life being safe and staying away from things that made me feel nervous, scared, and uncomfortable, and maybe there was a good reason for that. But ever since my grandma died, I've been doing things differently without even realizing it. I think that inside, I've embraced what life is about, and my grandma's words must have been in there somewhere. Otherwise, things might have turned out differently.
My grandma has changed my way of thinking, and her words will stay with me for the rest of my life.
May 25th, 2011. Almost one year without her, almost one year stronger.
I woke up at nine today to get ready for school, and I even went the extra mile of curling my hair. I usually sleep too long to have time for that. Once I got to school, I decided to skip English 2 because my teacher wanted one typed paragraph about the person I was going to be researching for the research report, and he also wanted a typed works cited page. Of course, I've been procrastinating and haven't even started my research. But I do know that it will be over Walt Disney, and I do know how to cite sources. All of my writing classes that I've taken the past four years have really hammered down on that. Plus, why show up to class and turn in a practice works cited page if I already know how to do it? We don't get graded on any of this. The only things we're graded on are the three papers we do this semester, and even if I pass with a B, I'll be one happy girl.
Our English teacher isn't that great at teaching. Sure, he's a fun guy to talk to, and I would love to have him as a grandpa, but when he teaches, all he does is write notes on the board that aren't even in a logical order. Then he circles certain words and draws arrows all over the place while half mumbling to himself. He's extremely vague, and I don't really care to show up to class. I see no point in it. I know what I'm doing, and he uses a lot of redundancy. Last week, he put the class into groups to cite sources of all kinds, and while two of the people out of the four paged through the book and questioned whether they were citing correctly or not, all I could think was Come on. Just follow the example in the book that it gives you. It isn't that difficult. Although, I guess I shouldn't really degrade them since one is older and is a returning student, while the other may have only done one or two research papers in his life. But I feel like I should be in a different class. The other guy who was sitting next to me was telling me about how he didn't really understand the teacher either, so I think most of my class feels like they're showing up for pointless reasons. "You will want to have good attendance in order to do well" my ass.
Anyway, like I said, I haven't started my research project yet. Good ol' procrastination, right? I plan to work endlessly on homework Saturday, from dawn to dusk, in order to get everything accomplished since it's my only day off from theatre. Oh yeah, theatre. I'm part of running crew, in case you didn't read the last blog. One of the girls was unable to work the lights, and seeing as how I currently have no job, and therefore, no schedule, I told her that I would do it. She was very thankful, and it made me feel good to know that I was being useful in some way.
I went to creative writing at one today, but for some reason, I just felt really disconnected from the class. It could have been because I was tired, but it also could have been the content of the stories we had to read through. My brain just didn't feel like working, and the only story that I actually participated in critiquing was Ed's piece. It was entertaining and I could hear him talking in the dialogue while picturing his wild hand gestures in my mind. I couldn't help but smile and secretly chuckle. Once that let out, we walked Ally to her car and then headed over to the student center to chill out. I went home around four, checked on Derby (which I will give you an update on later in this blog post), ate dinner, and then headed up to school for the play. I made sure to have a cup of coffee beforehand since I was falling asleep, and I put in two packets of hot cocoa plus some Hershey's syrup. Yes, I know, lots of chocolate. But I just hate the taste of coffee, and I needed a lot of caffeine to keep me going. So I got the sugar + caffeine benefit.
This was my first night I spent on running crew, and I was extremely nervous. I'm pretty sure that I have anxiety since it runs in my family, but it's only with people I don't know too well. I think that it's because ever since I was five years old, the mean girls in my class made it no secret that they despised me, always looking at me and pointing while they whispered to each other. Some of them would even make sure to point out how weird I was. And so when I'm around people who I don't know or who I barely know, there's always that voice in the back of my head telling me that I don't belong, and that they don't like me, and that they'll talk about me behind my back. It's very frustrating to deal with, so when I was dropped off, my chest got all tight, and I felt like my heart rate was speeding up. The air seemed a little thinner and more difficult to breathe, and when Ally met me (she's on crew too), I told her how nervous I was getting. She calmed me down a lot just by talking to me, and by the time I was in the theatre, I felt fine. Still, I can't get over how angry I feel to have to deal with those terrible thoughts. I wish I could go somewhere by myself without feeling like everyone is judging me and whispering about me. I hate it so much, and I can't do anything about it.
We basically watched the show tonight. The actors and actresses were amazing (as usual), and I found myself laughing quite a lot. There were some great lines in there, and I think that even though it's about a middle-aged woman wanting a new life, even younger people, like myself, can relate to it. I definitely don't want to live here all my life. I feel like I'm trapped in a life-sucking city that will only eat my dreams away, and I want to get out of it and escape to somewhere else.
There was a lot of talking going on before the show since, you know, I had coffee. Haha. And so when I was talking to Ally, I realized that I was talking at a fast rate and I was talking a lot. I stopped and asked, "Am I talking too much?" Ally laughed and said no, and that she liked hearing my voice.
Even as I look back and read the above sentences, I feel like I've interwoven them with doses of caffeine. I sound like some caffeine-intoxicated loon, and as I told my friend Jes earlier, if people didn't know I was a good girl, they'd think I was high or on drugs. My writing tonight is all over the place, so I apologize for that.
What I liked the most about tonight was how happy Lonna was to see us show up. Whenever she sees students like me walk into the room, she just gets the brightest, most sincere smile across her face, and I love it. She really makes me feel like I'm an important contributor to the theatre, and although I don't want to major in anything related to it, I feel like I'm a part of it, in a way. She's the teacher who made me want to try it out, and to learn more about what it's like to be involved in something that really does require team effort. It's kind of like my version of a sports team, and I say "my version" because I was never any good at the actual sports. Haha. My stagecraft class has become a mini family, and I also think that Lonna feels like she's part of it too. I'm really glad to have had her for my intro to theatre teacher, because if I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken stagecraft. I was nervous when I did, because I felt like a fish out of water, but she really has this talent of making you feel like you are an important person in the scheme of things. I've noticed that even on her down days, I'm good at making her smile. She may not smile long, but I still manage to make some of her frustration and/or stress disappear for a moment. She's really changed my life, and I'm going to miss having her as a teacher, seeing as how I will be taking no theatre classes next semester. It makes me sad. Kind of funny, in a way, how the introvert who has never belonged anywhere finally finds a cozy area to cocoon in for awhile. That's how I see my theatre experience. It's a place I can always find acceptance in, even if it means putting some work in to get it. (:
Speaking of cocoons, Derby is doing fine. I took a look at him when I got home today, and he was sleeping on a leaf stem. I took the plastic wrap off of the top of his house (don't worry, it has holes), and I tried to put some more water into the gauze to make sure he had enough water and moisture, and it sort of dribbled everywhere. So I went to get more gauze to soak it up, and I noticed that Derby woke up. I apologized to him, and he threw his head up like, "What the hell, man?!?!" So I got the excess water out and then returned him, and not even two minutes later, he was sleeping again. When I got back tonight, I went to take a look at him, and he had moved to a different leaf. He was bent in a < shape, just snoozing away, and I thought, Oh my gosh, he must be injured. The leaf stem went through his body. He's dead. On closer inspection, I saw that he was not dead, nor wounded. He was simply in an odd sleeping position. But hey, if that's what steers his ship, I'm not gonna criticize. Haha. He's probably building up strength so that he can make his cocoon soon. I say that it'll take him a week tops before he starts his metamorphosis, and I could be wrong. But hey, seems logical to me. Why else would a bug sleep that much?
A thought came to me while I was typing my theatre paragraph above, and I think that it represents the whole theme of my freshman year of college. When my grandma passed away, she had left me one final card from her and my grandpa. It was a card for my graduation, and it read:
Keep your eyes, ears, and mind open... the whole world is a classroom. Always be generous in patience, gratitude, and forgiveness. Be grateful for the role models in your life, and be one for someone else. Learn from other generations... from the wisdom of elders and the imagination of children. Keep a childlike sense of wonder. Believe in the beauty, the goodness, and the wisdom that are uniquely yours. There is only one you, and this world needs you... just as you are. Congratulations on your graduation.
This semester, I feel like I've really fulfilled everything that my grandma hoped I would, and I'm still working on it. The words in her card make my eyes well up with tears because I realize that she knew her time was up. She wanted me to have something meaningful to carry with me for the rest of my life, and somehow, she knew that these words were the best gift she could give me, because when writers read beautiful words, they tend to remember them and lock them away. This whole year without her has been a learning experience for me. I feared being involved in theatre for so long. I could feel a strong pull toward it, but I was always afraid of not belonging; of thinking that these theatre people had some kind of xray vision that scanned you and ruled out whether you were real or fake. But because of Lonna, I finally stopped standing at the edge of uncertainty and completely jumped into the unknown, which is something I've never done. I've also come to realize that even though it can be scary talking to people I don't know, we're all nervous about how other people might see us. I think that if I had hesitated and had not made all of the decisions that I've made, nothing would be the same right now. I may have never met Jes, or Allison. I may have never been friends with Ally. I may not have developed a theatre family, and who knows? I may have been sitting here with nothing to do tonight if I hadn't told my friend that I would take her place for running crew. And sure, I still have to write a report tonight and study for a test, but God, at least I'm living a little more! I'm beginning to understand that any opportunity life hands you should be grasped by the horns. And even if it may not seem like an opportunity, if it's a new experience waiting to happen, grab onto that too!! I've spent too much of my life being safe and staying away from things that made me feel nervous, scared, and uncomfortable, and maybe there was a good reason for that. But ever since my grandma died, I've been doing things differently without even realizing it. I think that inside, I've embraced what life is about, and my grandma's words must have been in there somewhere. Otherwise, things might have turned out differently.
My grandma has changed my way of thinking, and her words will stay with me for the rest of my life.
May 25th, 2011. Almost one year without her, almost one year stronger.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Lights and a caterpillar.
Hello, all. Yes, I know, I came up with a very creative title. Haha. But I don't really know what else to title it as, because that's all I can think to relate this blog to right now!
I walked into the FAB building like I would any Monday or Wednesday, not knowing that I was about to become part of the running crew for my school's play that we're putting on in a week and a half. But low and behold, one of my classmates said she couldn't do lights because she had plans that she made before she said she would be a part of the crew, and was only reminded a few days ago. She asked me if I would like to do lights, and although I hesitated, I told her that if they really needed someone, I would do it. I get nervous when it comes to knowing I have the power of screwing something very important up. So I headed into the theatre and began painting with my friend Abby. Jeff (one of the theatre workers) came up to me and said, "So you're interested in being on running crew?" I said, "Yes, if you really need someone." He then told me, "We really do." So he gave me the schedule and asked if I would be able to make all the dates, and I said that I would since I did not have a job and didn't have a work schedule to follow. He nodded and walked off, and I resumed painting. I know that it's going to be a very busy two weeks and that I will be dedicating a lot of time, but it feels good to be a part of something special like this (:
When I got out of class, my mom came and picked me up, then Shane, and we came home so I could help him with homework. Halfway through the work, my friend Kayla called me and said she found a caterpillar. I was ecstatic because I've been wanting one, and she asked me if I would like to have it. I said yes, so she brought it over and I made it a nice, roomy home to stay in. I filled it with some dirt, fresh, green leaves, some gauze with water in it, and a twig for when it's ready to make its cocoon. I also made sure to look it up online to check what kind of caterpillar it is, and it's a forest caterpillar, which will turn into a Forest Tent Caterpillar Moth. I was reading about what kind of leaves the caterpillars eat and where they make their cocoons, and I've done everything right. I just have to watch mine now. I decided to name it Derby since I have no idea whether it's a boy or girl. Unisex names are the best to stick with :P
Derby has already eaten quite a bit of one of his leaves I gave him, and he seems happy to be where he is. Of course, I do not know this for sure, but I know enough about caterpillars to know that as long as I keep checking up, it should be fine. (:
I read that these caterpillars make their cocoons six weeks after they hatch, so I'm going to keep track of when the cocooning starts so that I can estimate how long ago Derby was born. It will then stay in its cocoon for ten days, and come out as a beautiful brown moth, and will only live for a few days. Still, I love watching this metamorphosis take place. It's amazing.
Here is a picture of Derby
I will keep you all posted as much as I can. I don't know that I'll have much time to myself so long as I'm on running crew, but I would like to keep tabs on Derby until it turns into a moth!
I walked into the FAB building like I would any Monday or Wednesday, not knowing that I was about to become part of the running crew for my school's play that we're putting on in a week and a half. But low and behold, one of my classmates said she couldn't do lights because she had plans that she made before she said she would be a part of the crew, and was only reminded a few days ago. She asked me if I would like to do lights, and although I hesitated, I told her that if they really needed someone, I would do it. I get nervous when it comes to knowing I have the power of screwing something very important up. So I headed into the theatre and began painting with my friend Abby. Jeff (one of the theatre workers) came up to me and said, "So you're interested in being on running crew?" I said, "Yes, if you really need someone." He then told me, "We really do." So he gave me the schedule and asked if I would be able to make all the dates, and I said that I would since I did not have a job and didn't have a work schedule to follow. He nodded and walked off, and I resumed painting. I know that it's going to be a very busy two weeks and that I will be dedicating a lot of time, but it feels good to be a part of something special like this (:
When I got out of class, my mom came and picked me up, then Shane, and we came home so I could help him with homework. Halfway through the work, my friend Kayla called me and said she found a caterpillar. I was ecstatic because I've been wanting one, and she asked me if I would like to have it. I said yes, so she brought it over and I made it a nice, roomy home to stay in. I filled it with some dirt, fresh, green leaves, some gauze with water in it, and a twig for when it's ready to make its cocoon. I also made sure to look it up online to check what kind of caterpillar it is, and it's a forest caterpillar, which will turn into a Forest Tent Caterpillar Moth. I was reading about what kind of leaves the caterpillars eat and where they make their cocoons, and I've done everything right. I just have to watch mine now. I decided to name it Derby since I have no idea whether it's a boy or girl. Unisex names are the best to stick with :P
Derby has already eaten quite a bit of one of his leaves I gave him, and he seems happy to be where he is. Of course, I do not know this for sure, but I know enough about caterpillars to know that as long as I keep checking up, it should be fine. (:
I read that these caterpillars make their cocoons six weeks after they hatch, so I'm going to keep track of when the cocooning starts so that I can estimate how long ago Derby was born. It will then stay in its cocoon for ten days, and come out as a beautiful brown moth, and will only live for a few days. Still, I love watching this metamorphosis take place. It's amazing.
Here is a picture of Derby
I will keep you all posted as much as I can. I don't know that I'll have much time to myself so long as I'm on running crew, but I would like to keep tabs on Derby until it turns into a moth!
Friday, April 6, 2012
Size twelve is plus-size?
I was on Facebook the other night and noticed in the ticker that someone had read an article on Yahoo! The article was titled: "Supermodels without photoshop." I thought to myself, Okay, you have my attention, so I clicked on the link and started reading. I was about to commend them for not using photoshop, but that quickly changed when I read the last of the paragraph: "From left to right we have Victoria's Secret model Alessandra Ambrosio, plus-size model Crystal Renn, and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover girl Brooklyn Decker" (Douglas). As soon as I saw the words "plus-size", I immediately looked down at the picture, shocked that they would have a plus-size model. But then I stared at the picture in confusion. They were all skinny.
From what I can tell, Alessandra looks drastically unhealthy and bony. I would not want to touch her in fear of breaking her. Crystal actually looks to be a healthy weight, and so does Brooklyn. I kept looking back and forth from this picture to the words "plus-size". Something didn't add up. This can't be what society considers "fat" I thought to myself. I finally decided to read the rest of the article, and at the very bottom, it said: "*For the record, I just want to clarify that Crystal Renn is a size 12, and that is what the modeling industry--not myself--labels as plus-size" (Douglas). Alright, so this lady just brought up one good point in the article. No photoshop. Hey, that's one step up, right? But then she made the mistake of bringing weight into question. As if her ending statement (which I just quoted) fixes anything. It sounds as though she is trying to say, "Hey, I'm not the one making the rule. But it doesn't change the fact that size twelve is considered fat". Let me just say that the so-called "plus-size" model is probably wearing a bathing suit labeled "small" in size, because if that swimsuit was indeed a "1x", it wouldn't even fit me. I'd be considered morbidly obese in the modeling world given that horrible description of how weight is measured. Morbidly. Obese.
Honestly, where the fuck is our society headed? Are we striving to purge ourselves and puke up everything that we've ever eaten just so that we can fit into a size zero? Because I can tell you right now that I do NOT want to look like Alessandra. I'd be skin and bones, literally, and I'm sorry, but that just doesn't look right. It's disgusting, and any girl who thinks that bony figures are hot probably has an eating disorder because of models like the above who are told that if they want to stay in the business, they better lose weight. And for them, it's much too late, because they're already brainwashed. Not only that, but they're giving unrealistic expectations of what all of us should look like, even young girls who probably aren't older than twelve years. I just want to make it clear that SIZE TWELVE IS NOT PLUS SIZE.
I'm a size 16 in jeans, a size 18 in dresses, a large in shirts, and I'm okay with that. No way am I ready to go running ten miles and puking my guts out after every meal to grow a size smaller. If I decide to exercise, it's not going to be for the purpose of getting "skinny." It's going to be for the purpose of being healthy and feeling healthy. Yeah, maybe I do struggle to find the right pair of jeans that fit, and maybe I don't like the way some shirts look on me. But at least I'm not a skeleton who isn't enjoying her food because I'm worried about what other people might think of my size. Everyone is beautiful in their own special way, and we shouldn't have to be ashamed of ourselves because society doesn't like it. Fuck what society thinks. I know that I found myself involuntarily shaking my head at this article for a reason, and it's because it just isn't right, and I know it isn't right. And you do too.
Society is going down the drain, but we can change that, because we are society. So please go to this article and speak up.
Size twelve is not plus-size!!
Thanks for your time.
Works Cited:
Douglas, Joanna. "Supermodels without photoshop." Shine from Yahoo! 10 Mar. 2010. Web. 06 Apr. 2012 <http://shine.yahoo.com/fashion/supermodels-without-photoshop-1108305.html>.
From what I can tell, Alessandra looks drastically unhealthy and bony. I would not want to touch her in fear of breaking her. Crystal actually looks to be a healthy weight, and so does Brooklyn. I kept looking back and forth from this picture to the words "plus-size". Something didn't add up. This can't be what society considers "fat" I thought to myself. I finally decided to read the rest of the article, and at the very bottom, it said: "*For the record, I just want to clarify that Crystal Renn is a size 12, and that is what the modeling industry--not myself--labels as plus-size" (Douglas). Alright, so this lady just brought up one good point in the article. No photoshop. Hey, that's one step up, right? But then she made the mistake of bringing weight into question. As if her ending statement (which I just quoted) fixes anything. It sounds as though she is trying to say, "Hey, I'm not the one making the rule. But it doesn't change the fact that size twelve is considered fat". Let me just say that the so-called "plus-size" model is probably wearing a bathing suit labeled "small" in size, because if that swimsuit was indeed a "1x", it wouldn't even fit me. I'd be considered morbidly obese in the modeling world given that horrible description of how weight is measured. Morbidly. Obese.
Honestly, where the fuck is our society headed? Are we striving to purge ourselves and puke up everything that we've ever eaten just so that we can fit into a size zero? Because I can tell you right now that I do NOT want to look like Alessandra. I'd be skin and bones, literally, and I'm sorry, but that just doesn't look right. It's disgusting, and any girl who thinks that bony figures are hot probably has an eating disorder because of models like the above who are told that if they want to stay in the business, they better lose weight. And for them, it's much too late, because they're already brainwashed. Not only that, but they're giving unrealistic expectations of what all of us should look like, even young girls who probably aren't older than twelve years. I just want to make it clear that SIZE TWELVE IS NOT PLUS SIZE.
I'm a size 16 in jeans, a size 18 in dresses, a large in shirts, and I'm okay with that. No way am I ready to go running ten miles and puking my guts out after every meal to grow a size smaller. If I decide to exercise, it's not going to be for the purpose of getting "skinny." It's going to be for the purpose of being healthy and feeling healthy. Yeah, maybe I do struggle to find the right pair of jeans that fit, and maybe I don't like the way some shirts look on me. But at least I'm not a skeleton who isn't enjoying her food because I'm worried about what other people might think of my size. Everyone is beautiful in their own special way, and we shouldn't have to be ashamed of ourselves because society doesn't like it. Fuck what society thinks. I know that I found myself involuntarily shaking my head at this article for a reason, and it's because it just isn't right, and I know it isn't right. And you do too.
Society is going down the drain, but we can change that, because we are society. So please go to this article and speak up.
Size twelve is not plus-size!!
Thanks for your time.
Works Cited:
Douglas, Joanna. "Supermodels without photoshop." Shine from Yahoo! 10 Mar. 2010. Web. 06 Apr. 2012 <http://shine.yahoo.com/fashion/supermodels-without-photoshop-1108305.html>.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Just Another Sappy Love Blog
I'm sure that people get tired of me talking about falling in love. I've written plenty of blogs about it. But for some reason, I just can't pull my mind away from the idea of finding someone out there who is right for me. Why can't I seem to concentrate on anything else?
I go through periods like this every now and then. For awhile, everything is fine and grand and life is good. I'm happy and bright-eyed and smiling. Who needs a man to be happy? And then, somewhere out of the blue, I just start thinking about how lonely I am. Don't get me wrong, I have some of the greatest friends in the world, and they're always around to keep me company. I love them to death. But I think that there's a void inside of me; something that can only be filled by knowing I have the love and devotion of someone who needs a person like me to feel complete. Maybe that's just it. Maybe I don't feel like a complete person. Something is missing.
When certain objects that I'm fond of actually go missing, I can ignore the fact that they're gone for awhile. I can last without them. I don't need material items to be happy, right? But after a certain amount of time, I think about whatever it is that I've lost, and I miss it terribly. This usually causes me to go berserk finding it, because something inside me just snaps. And after much searching, if I still haven't located it, I just give up and forget about it again for another period of time. I think that a situation like this can also happen emotionally, where even though I'm surrounded by people who love me, I know that there's a greater happiness out there, and it's only when I remind myself of its absence that I get stuck dwelling on where it could possibly be. I've felt that kind of happiness before, and when you realize that there is something beyond your ignorance that makes you feel better than if you had not known it was there in the first place, there is suddenly a need to have it. A thirst, if you will. For example, if your parents banned you from eating candy, and then at the age of 18, you moved out and ate your first candy bar, how many would you eat on a daily basis after that? Probably an unhealthy amount if you really liked the taste.
I remember the first time I really fell head over heels. There was this guy in my 6th hour my freshman year of high school, and I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy ever. I never talked to him, but I always admired him in class. I fell in love with the way his eyes would smile when he grinned, and how he got along with everyone. I admired how spontaneous he was, and how sometimes he would break out in random song while the entire room was quiet. He seemed great. And I made the mistake of letting him know I liked him. After that, I couldn't seem to contain myself. I tried way too hard to get to know him and to talk to him. I would go to the movie theater with my friend every Friday, especially when there was a popular movie showing, hoping that he would be there (and he was a few times). I remember how excited I'd get whenever he'd say a simple hello or when he would give me a head nod. My heart rate would speed up if he sat anywhere near me on the bus rides to and from school. At the time, I thought that it was the best thing in the world. The air tasted sweeter, the sun shined brighter, and I was always looking forward to waking up for school because there was someone worth waking up for. And I wish that someone could have been there to slap me across the face and call me an idiot, because I knew he didn't feel the same way, but I did a good job at convincing myself that he did.
Things went downhill very fast. He played with my emotions for awhile before he stopped talking to me altogether, and then I grew very bitter. I was bitter because I felt like I had wasted time fawning over him. I was bitter because as much as I wanted to hate his guts, I still cared for him. And I hated that I still felt very devoted to him when I knew that he didn't give a rat's ass about me. I was angry about even allowing myself to become infatuated with the person I thought he was. So for the remainder of my high school years, I fought my feelings. I began forcing myself to stay away from him, especially if I knew certain places where he'd be during the day. I'd take the longer routes to class. I'd sit with my back to him if we were in the same room. And if I saw him near or leaning on my locker in the hall, I'd turn around, walk around the corner, and wait for him to leave. My old habits were difficult to break, but by the first quarter of my senior year, I was finally able to let go.
Every now and then I think back to those memories, and one thing that I can never seem to get over is how easy it was for me to close my eyes and fall asleep at night thinking about him, but by the beginning of junior year, thinking about him was what kept me awake. I think that when you truly love someone, the thought of them shouldn't keep you up at night. It was such a weird transition, and when I realized that thinking about him was preventing me from catching my Z's, I finally accepted the fact that I couldn't deal with it anymore. I think that was when I began closing myself up, and suddenly, loving someone and caring for someone on such a level was a frightening and dangerous thing. It was a rude awakening to be aware of how much vulnerability I had allowed myself, and it didn't just hurt me emotionally. It hurt me physically. Some nights my chest would tighten, and my heart would literally ache. I'd find it hard to go to sleep without acknowledging how badly I was hurting, and the worst part of it was that I did it to myself.
Still, I'm never going to be able to shake off just how great loving someone felt. Memories of my happiness with him are very distant, but I know they're there. I had written countless poems and songs about how great he made me feel, and when I read over those pieces, I felt this overwhelming urge to smile. My heart would flutter, and I'd close my eyes and allow the happiness to flood over me. Love coursed through my veins, and when I'd get done reading, I'd be on this sort of high. But the pieces transitioned from my happiness to my decline, and after reading the poems and songs where I felt confused or upset, the happy pieces would make me feel very depressed because I realized I had been in love with someone I didn't even know. I felt like I had fallen for a stranger who only revealed his true colors after it was too late for me to save myself. So, last summer, I took a folder and put every written piece about him inside of it. Then I went outside and burned it. All of it. It wasn't healthy to keep it anymore, and I had to move on. As I watched the folder burn, it began to curl into the shape of a flower before falling to ash, and I felt relieved. I had bloomed from this experience, and I was stronger now.
Ever since last summer, I've guarded myself more than I ever have. I try my best not to allow my heart to fall for anyone, and although I admire guys from afar, a red flag always rises in my head, as if saying you know what happened last time. Plus, just by looking at them, I know that I don't have a chance. I've suppressed a lot of my feelings in fear of hurting myself again, and when I start becoming fond of a guy, I always try to shake it off and forget about it. Sometimes it's hard to focus on just staying friends and not becoming charmed by whoever it is, but in the long run, I find it to be easier. However, there's still a part of me that hurts because I feel empty. Why? Like I said earlier, there's a greater happiness out there. I know there is, and I want it. We all want things that make us smile, or that entertain us and keep us pleased. But it doesn't mean we're ever going to get it.
I have recently admitted to myself that I am crushing on a guy. But I remind myself that that's all it is. A simple girl crush. And I honestly don't plan on trying to take it beyond that point. The guy who I'm crushing on probably has tons of other girls fawning over him anyway, and I'm not willing to drive him away or give him any reason to. I'm too fond of him to do that, and I like his energy levels. Although I'd love to tell myself that he secretly likes me too, I know it's not the case considering we hardly talk. I think that when you like someone, you often exaggerate everything that they say or do. There's some secret meaning or feeling behind a simple hello, or a "how are you?" And even though that person may take a little time to stop and talk to you or to ask you something, it isn't code for anything. It's called being friendly. Don't over-think it. That's what I always remind myself, and it's saved me from a lot of disasters already. It's hard for me to not over-think considering the fact that writers often enjoy putting a lot of special meaning behind simple words or phrases. But it's something that I'm learning how to do.
Sometimes I may be smitten, or shy, and I might even bat my eyelashes a few times and smile because I just can't help but feel charmed by you. But don't count on me trying to do something with that admiration. The way I see it, unless I know that something is there, I'm not going to try and build something out of nothing.
Yeah, I like a guy. I admit it. But I just can't trust that it'll turn into anything. I'm running short on hope, and I'd rather keep the little bit of what I have of it for something that might actually have a chance of happening for me.
I gotta shake this feeling. I feel myself falling.
I go through periods like this every now and then. For awhile, everything is fine and grand and life is good. I'm happy and bright-eyed and smiling. Who needs a man to be happy? And then, somewhere out of the blue, I just start thinking about how lonely I am. Don't get me wrong, I have some of the greatest friends in the world, and they're always around to keep me company. I love them to death. But I think that there's a void inside of me; something that can only be filled by knowing I have the love and devotion of someone who needs a person like me to feel complete. Maybe that's just it. Maybe I don't feel like a complete person. Something is missing.
When certain objects that I'm fond of actually go missing, I can ignore the fact that they're gone for awhile. I can last without them. I don't need material items to be happy, right? But after a certain amount of time, I think about whatever it is that I've lost, and I miss it terribly. This usually causes me to go berserk finding it, because something inside me just snaps. And after much searching, if I still haven't located it, I just give up and forget about it again for another period of time. I think that a situation like this can also happen emotionally, where even though I'm surrounded by people who love me, I know that there's a greater happiness out there, and it's only when I remind myself of its absence that I get stuck dwelling on where it could possibly be. I've felt that kind of happiness before, and when you realize that there is something beyond your ignorance that makes you feel better than if you had not known it was there in the first place, there is suddenly a need to have it. A thirst, if you will. For example, if your parents banned you from eating candy, and then at the age of 18, you moved out and ate your first candy bar, how many would you eat on a daily basis after that? Probably an unhealthy amount if you really liked the taste.
I remember the first time I really fell head over heels. There was this guy in my 6th hour my freshman year of high school, and I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy ever. I never talked to him, but I always admired him in class. I fell in love with the way his eyes would smile when he grinned, and how he got along with everyone. I admired how spontaneous he was, and how sometimes he would break out in random song while the entire room was quiet. He seemed great. And I made the mistake of letting him know I liked him. After that, I couldn't seem to contain myself. I tried way too hard to get to know him and to talk to him. I would go to the movie theater with my friend every Friday, especially when there was a popular movie showing, hoping that he would be there (and he was a few times). I remember how excited I'd get whenever he'd say a simple hello or when he would give me a head nod. My heart rate would speed up if he sat anywhere near me on the bus rides to and from school. At the time, I thought that it was the best thing in the world. The air tasted sweeter, the sun shined brighter, and I was always looking forward to waking up for school because there was someone worth waking up for. And I wish that someone could have been there to slap me across the face and call me an idiot, because I knew he didn't feel the same way, but I did a good job at convincing myself that he did.
Things went downhill very fast. He played with my emotions for awhile before he stopped talking to me altogether, and then I grew very bitter. I was bitter because I felt like I had wasted time fawning over him. I was bitter because as much as I wanted to hate his guts, I still cared for him. And I hated that I still felt very devoted to him when I knew that he didn't give a rat's ass about me. I was angry about even allowing myself to become infatuated with the person I thought he was. So for the remainder of my high school years, I fought my feelings. I began forcing myself to stay away from him, especially if I knew certain places where he'd be during the day. I'd take the longer routes to class. I'd sit with my back to him if we were in the same room. And if I saw him near or leaning on my locker in the hall, I'd turn around, walk around the corner, and wait for him to leave. My old habits were difficult to break, but by the first quarter of my senior year, I was finally able to let go.
Every now and then I think back to those memories, and one thing that I can never seem to get over is how easy it was for me to close my eyes and fall asleep at night thinking about him, but by the beginning of junior year, thinking about him was what kept me awake. I think that when you truly love someone, the thought of them shouldn't keep you up at night. It was such a weird transition, and when I realized that thinking about him was preventing me from catching my Z's, I finally accepted the fact that I couldn't deal with it anymore. I think that was when I began closing myself up, and suddenly, loving someone and caring for someone on such a level was a frightening and dangerous thing. It was a rude awakening to be aware of how much vulnerability I had allowed myself, and it didn't just hurt me emotionally. It hurt me physically. Some nights my chest would tighten, and my heart would literally ache. I'd find it hard to go to sleep without acknowledging how badly I was hurting, and the worst part of it was that I did it to myself.
Still, I'm never going to be able to shake off just how great loving someone felt. Memories of my happiness with him are very distant, but I know they're there. I had written countless poems and songs about how great he made me feel, and when I read over those pieces, I felt this overwhelming urge to smile. My heart would flutter, and I'd close my eyes and allow the happiness to flood over me. Love coursed through my veins, and when I'd get done reading, I'd be on this sort of high. But the pieces transitioned from my happiness to my decline, and after reading the poems and songs where I felt confused or upset, the happy pieces would make me feel very depressed because I realized I had been in love with someone I didn't even know. I felt like I had fallen for a stranger who only revealed his true colors after it was too late for me to save myself. So, last summer, I took a folder and put every written piece about him inside of it. Then I went outside and burned it. All of it. It wasn't healthy to keep it anymore, and I had to move on. As I watched the folder burn, it began to curl into the shape of a flower before falling to ash, and I felt relieved. I had bloomed from this experience, and I was stronger now.
Ever since last summer, I've guarded myself more than I ever have. I try my best not to allow my heart to fall for anyone, and although I admire guys from afar, a red flag always rises in my head, as if saying you know what happened last time. Plus, just by looking at them, I know that I don't have a chance. I've suppressed a lot of my feelings in fear of hurting myself again, and when I start becoming fond of a guy, I always try to shake it off and forget about it. Sometimes it's hard to focus on just staying friends and not becoming charmed by whoever it is, but in the long run, I find it to be easier. However, there's still a part of me that hurts because I feel empty. Why? Like I said earlier, there's a greater happiness out there. I know there is, and I want it. We all want things that make us smile, or that entertain us and keep us pleased. But it doesn't mean we're ever going to get it.
I have recently admitted to myself that I am crushing on a guy. But I remind myself that that's all it is. A simple girl crush. And I honestly don't plan on trying to take it beyond that point. The guy who I'm crushing on probably has tons of other girls fawning over him anyway, and I'm not willing to drive him away or give him any reason to. I'm too fond of him to do that, and I like his energy levels. Although I'd love to tell myself that he secretly likes me too, I know it's not the case considering we hardly talk. I think that when you like someone, you often exaggerate everything that they say or do. There's some secret meaning or feeling behind a simple hello, or a "how are you?" And even though that person may take a little time to stop and talk to you or to ask you something, it isn't code for anything. It's called being friendly. Don't over-think it. That's what I always remind myself, and it's saved me from a lot of disasters already. It's hard for me to not over-think considering the fact that writers often enjoy putting a lot of special meaning behind simple words or phrases. But it's something that I'm learning how to do.
Sometimes I may be smitten, or shy, and I might even bat my eyelashes a few times and smile because I just can't help but feel charmed by you. But don't count on me trying to do something with that admiration. The way I see it, unless I know that something is there, I'm not going to try and build something out of nothing.
Yeah, I like a guy. I admit it. But I just can't trust that it'll turn into anything. I'm running short on hope, and I'd rather keep the little bit of what I have of it for something that might actually have a chance of happening for me.
I gotta shake this feeling. I feel myself falling.
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