Many of us don't like to talk about the ugly things in life. When we're down, or crying, or feelng as if we're losing our sanity, we have this sort of encoded idea that these things aren't to be talked about. No one is to know about our dangerous thoughts, or the tears that are streaming down our cheeks, or the pit of darkness that we're living in. We must suffer this alone, question our existence alone, and ask if it's worth it... alone. Charlotte's latest blog post is about her thoughts of suicide; how she relapsed after so many years of telling herself that she would not be another statistic. She questioned God about her life, and asked if it was okay if she ended it. Then, days later, the thoughts went away. She was in the car with her mom eating an ice cream cone and listening to music. She was happy.
Depression is something that many people suffer all around the world. I have concluded that I am one of the many, and although I can be extremely happy and thankful for this beautiful life that I'm living, I have my down days where all I want to do is cry and let the pain rip through my chest. My breathing is shallow, my tears sting my cheeks, and I feel hopelessly lost. I think of talking to someone, but the truth is, no matter what anyone is going to say to me, I'm not going to listen, and I'm not going to look at the upside. When I become a victim and relapse, no one can help me. Relapse. Relapse. It's a haunting word, isn't it? It makes me sick to my stomach because it is a word not associated with anything happy or cheery. At least, I've never heard it used in such a context. Relapse sounds as though you're falling backwards, backwards, and backwards still; as though you've just lost your grip again and can't help but fall victim to your thoughts and feelings of hopelessness. Eventually these feelings lead to horrible thoughts.
I, too, have thought of suicide. Shocking, right? But yes, it's true. I've gotten into that mindset where you think the world would be far better off without you, and that you don't really matter in the scheme of things. How could I be so important? I'm just one person. Surely people could live on without one person, right? And then I would try to think of people who mattered; people who needed me. But no matter how hard I tried, they just didn't seem to matter. They were distant strangers whom I didn't recognize, and it got to the point where I told myself, "If I don't wake up tomorrow, that's okay." It wasn't a "head to the kitchen and stab myself in the heart" kind of depression. It was just sort of like, death? I'm cool with that. The next morning, I was glad that I woke up, because those feelings were gone. Since then, I've had my occasional bouts of depression, and they've lasted anywhere from two weeks to two months. They're never enough to where I think, hey, I'm gonna go grab a gun and blow my brains out! I don't think I could ever bring myself to take my own life. But I have starved myself, and I have thought about what it would be like to cut. Those ideas are always something that are just there, ready to be nuzzled up to when I experience one of my little episodes. But I'm strong enough to resist the cutting and any kind of drugs/alcohol because harming my body is something that I just can't do. Yes, starving is harming, but I did it once and I never want to do it again. Don't ever try it. It's dangerous and it hurts.
I know I'm not the only "good girl" who has suffered through things like this by myself. I have a few friends who also suffer from it, and it's true that the people who smile the most are the most broken. We think the most hostile thoughts and might even consider doing harmful things just to make the pain go away. But somehow, we always rise above it. We can cut it pretty close, but we do rise. It's an every day battle, and all we can do is stay strong throughout the depression and fight it off. Medication? Some people need it. I, for one, do not want to take it because it can make the symptoms of depression worse. I figure that if I'm too scared to harm myself, what use is there taking something that may make me want to? The innocent aren't always as innocent as everyone thinks. I may not smoke, take drugs, drink, or sleep with guys, but I do have a brain that can think up some pretty messed up stuff, and that's enough for me to handle without all the other shit I could be doing. No one really understands the severity of our thoughts; how far our minds explore the dangers of self-abuse by imagining what it would be like. These thoughts are our friends. Why would they hurt us? I understand what people are going through when they talk about doing these things. Trust me, I may not do them, but I understand.
I do have depression, and I do fight it. I am not afraid to admit it, and I am not afraid to live with it. I will continue to challenge myself by overcoming my episodes of sadness and insanity, and although I may not show it, know that I go through tough stuff too, and that you're not alone. You're never alone. Keep looking up, even when you think there's no up for you. Charlotte wanted to kill herself. A few days later, she was enjoying an ice cream cone while listening to music and enjoying the company of her mom. Live for the simple joys in life: a treat, a melody, and someone who loves you. Life is sweet, and so is ice cream.
Click ---- > Charlotte AKA: Midnight Love < 333333
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Quick reactions and a license
Well, a lot has happened in the past couple days. But the most interesting portion of it is the day I took my driving test. I finally became a licensed driver on May 24th, 2012, which was a huge accomplishment for me considering how nervous I usually am taking these tests, and that day was no exception. I was sure that I had bombed this test within the first five minutes of being on the road. Why, you may ask? I was so nervous that I felt very twitchy and spastic with my driving. My instructor would give me directions, and I'd either end up hitting the breaks, pressing the gas, or I'd get super confused. I was more nervous than I'd ever been, and I felt so terrible about my tiny mistakes that I was 100% sure it was going to be an automatic fail. I didn't back up straight, I wasn't pulling up far enough to make my left turns, and when I looked both ways, I didn't always look "far enough". I was punching myself in the face with that invisible fist and cussing up a storm inside my head for being so stupid. You blew it. You blew it this time. That's all I could think. You'll need written permission now and have to accomplish another 20 hours of driving, you nervous wreck! I know I made some other tiny mistakes that I can't remember, so they probably weren't even that bad, but still. I was dumping on myself almost the entire time. By the time I was finished up in the neighborhood, I began to accept that I would not get my license. Accept and move on. Try harder next time.
On the way out of the neighborhood, the instructor asked me where I got my orange seat belt pads. I said that I had no idea and that my mom bought them for me. She said, "These are really cute! I need to get something like this for my car!" She then asked me if I was out of school for summer and asked where I go to school, where I'll be transferring, and what I'm studying. I was talking to her calmly and keeping my eyes peeled at the same time, and I was so glad that we could get off of the driving subject for a few minutes because I was starting to calm down. I am no good with silence in the car, and I think she realized that after I had been driving in the neighborhood. When I told her I was studying creative writing, she asked if I wanted to become a journalist. I told her no, just a writer, but that I wanted to go into the publishing business to learn the ropes of how everything works. Then she started to tell me about how she wanted to get some sof her writing published because she had some pretty funny stories to tell, and I said, "Oh, that's really cool!" She seemed interested about my field of interest, which made me smile (:
As we approached the road that the bureau was on, this chick on our right side came out of nowhere without stopping to look both ways, and thanks to driving with my mom and being in the car with Taelor when most of these idiots pulled stuff like that, my reaction time was quick and I slammed on my brakes. As the instructor and I looked at her, we realized this girl was on her cellphone talking. The instructor forcefully threw her finger toward the window, as if trying to shoot gigantic fireballs out of her fingertip and at this stupid girl. The girl drove on, and as we pulled up to the light, the instructor once more threw her finger at the window, and then told me, "You have really good reflexes. That would have been my side too!" So I think the stupid girl actually saved my butt on this test. I guess not all new drivers are as quick when it comes to those kinds of things happening. My adrenaline helped me out a little bit there. Haha.
As we approached the bureau, the lady told me, "Okay, so we're going to parallel park now." Inside, I thought to myself, NO WAY. NO FREAKING WAY. I MADE IT TO PARALLEL PARKING?!?!?!?! HOLY CRAP I MADE IT TO PARALLEL PARKING!!! This was the chance to really redeem myself! I practiced this, so what was there to worry about? Oh yeah, I can think of one thing. Switching gears. I pulled up alongside the cones and put the car in reverse like I should. I began to back in and straighten out when she said, "You aren't going to fit. Pull out and try again." In all my nervousness, I thought that I had put the car in drive, when it was actually still in reverse. So I pressed on the gas and became confused as I realized I was still going backwards. By the time I realized what I was doing, I had already knocked a cone over. My driving instructor unbuckled as I repeatedly apologized for my mistake. She said, "That's alright. It's alright," and got out to fix the cone. Then she had me pull back into the lot. "Do you know how to park?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. So I pulled in and she sat there to score me. "Well, you passed," she said. "I did?" I asked in disbelief. "Yeah! You have some stuff you need to work on, but you're a good driver!" I glanced over at her score sheet and saw that she scored me with an 85%. I couldn't believe my eyes!! An 85? No way!! I had passed!
When I got inside, I told my mom about passing my test. She was ecstatic that I finally did it, and she told me that she had her friends praying for me, and that she also prayed to our deceased relatives and all the saints she could think of. I had to laugh. "Mom, did I really need that much higher power to help me pass this thing?" "It doesn't hurt," she replied with a smile. Gee, thanks, I thought to myself. Because I, alone, wasn't capable. Still, I knew that a lot of people had been praying for me to get my license, so maybe it did work. I kept breathing in and out as the realization set in, and an African American guy sitting a few chairs away from me asked, "Did you pass?" I said yes, and he said, "Scary, wasn't it?" We both started laughing and he told me, "My heart was beating against my chest the whole time." He had some really good energy, which calmed me a little. People with good energy are always great to be around when I'm anxious. (:
I can't help but think that if I had gotten any other driving instructor, he or she would have failed me for sure. So many of them are in bad moods all the time, and they'll look to take off points for anything they can. But like I said, that girl on her cellphone probably saved my butt. I think that when things like that happen on the road, that's the real test of whether you drive well or not. You have to be able to make split-second decisions, and if you don't make them in time, the results can turn out to be really nasty. I'm thankful that I didn't crash her, because not only would I have wrecked the cars, but I could have hurt the nice lady sitting in the seat next to me, or the girl who had not been looking to see who was coming. I would have felt awful if I had been responsible for any injuries to anyone at all.
I'm still a new driver, and I'm still learning the rules of the road. But I know that as long as I take baby steps, and as long as I practice my driving, I'll be okay. It's a scary thing, being able to drive. When you're in that front seat with your hands on the wheel, you're responsible for your life and for the lives of others. It can be a bit unsettling as you set out on the road alone, but hey, driving is a privilege, and it's just something we all have to do eventually.
I'm glad I finally have my license. Although I tend to hold my breath getting out on the road without a parent in the car with me, I know that one day, I'll be asking myself why I was even nervous in the first place.
Thank you, Mom and Taelor, for giving the gift of quick reflexes and fast reaction time!
On the way out of the neighborhood, the instructor asked me where I got my orange seat belt pads. I said that I had no idea and that my mom bought them for me. She said, "These are really cute! I need to get something like this for my car!" She then asked me if I was out of school for summer and asked where I go to school, where I'll be transferring, and what I'm studying. I was talking to her calmly and keeping my eyes peeled at the same time, and I was so glad that we could get off of the driving subject for a few minutes because I was starting to calm down. I am no good with silence in the car, and I think she realized that after I had been driving in the neighborhood. When I told her I was studying creative writing, she asked if I wanted to become a journalist. I told her no, just a writer, but that I wanted to go into the publishing business to learn the ropes of how everything works. Then she started to tell me about how she wanted to get some sof her writing published because she had some pretty funny stories to tell, and I said, "Oh, that's really cool!" She seemed interested about my field of interest, which made me smile (:
As we approached the road that the bureau was on, this chick on our right side came out of nowhere without stopping to look both ways, and thanks to driving with my mom and being in the car with Taelor when most of these idiots pulled stuff like that, my reaction time was quick and I slammed on my brakes. As the instructor and I looked at her, we realized this girl was on her cellphone talking. The instructor forcefully threw her finger toward the window, as if trying to shoot gigantic fireballs out of her fingertip and at this stupid girl. The girl drove on, and as we pulled up to the light, the instructor once more threw her finger at the window, and then told me, "You have really good reflexes. That would have been my side too!" So I think the stupid girl actually saved my butt on this test. I guess not all new drivers are as quick when it comes to those kinds of things happening. My adrenaline helped me out a little bit there. Haha.
As we approached the bureau, the lady told me, "Okay, so we're going to parallel park now." Inside, I thought to myself, NO WAY. NO FREAKING WAY. I MADE IT TO PARALLEL PARKING?!?!?!?! HOLY CRAP I MADE IT TO PARALLEL PARKING!!! This was the chance to really redeem myself! I practiced this, so what was there to worry about? Oh yeah, I can think of one thing. Switching gears. I pulled up alongside the cones and put the car in reverse like I should. I began to back in and straighten out when she said, "You aren't going to fit. Pull out and try again." In all my nervousness, I thought that I had put the car in drive, when it was actually still in reverse. So I pressed on the gas and became confused as I realized I was still going backwards. By the time I realized what I was doing, I had already knocked a cone over. My driving instructor unbuckled as I repeatedly apologized for my mistake. She said, "That's alright. It's alright," and got out to fix the cone. Then she had me pull back into the lot. "Do you know how to park?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. So I pulled in and she sat there to score me. "Well, you passed," she said. "I did?" I asked in disbelief. "Yeah! You have some stuff you need to work on, but you're a good driver!" I glanced over at her score sheet and saw that she scored me with an 85%. I couldn't believe my eyes!! An 85? No way!! I had passed!
When I got inside, I told my mom about passing my test. She was ecstatic that I finally did it, and she told me that she had her friends praying for me, and that she also prayed to our deceased relatives and all the saints she could think of. I had to laugh. "Mom, did I really need that much higher power to help me pass this thing?" "It doesn't hurt," she replied with a smile. Gee, thanks, I thought to myself. Because I, alone, wasn't capable. Still, I knew that a lot of people had been praying for me to get my license, so maybe it did work. I kept breathing in and out as the realization set in, and an African American guy sitting a few chairs away from me asked, "Did you pass?" I said yes, and he said, "Scary, wasn't it?" We both started laughing and he told me, "My heart was beating against my chest the whole time." He had some really good energy, which calmed me a little. People with good energy are always great to be around when I'm anxious. (:
I can't help but think that if I had gotten any other driving instructor, he or she would have failed me for sure. So many of them are in bad moods all the time, and they'll look to take off points for anything they can. But like I said, that girl on her cellphone probably saved my butt. I think that when things like that happen on the road, that's the real test of whether you drive well or not. You have to be able to make split-second decisions, and if you don't make them in time, the results can turn out to be really nasty. I'm thankful that I didn't crash her, because not only would I have wrecked the cars, but I could have hurt the nice lady sitting in the seat next to me, or the girl who had not been looking to see who was coming. I would have felt awful if I had been responsible for any injuries to anyone at all.
I'm still a new driver, and I'm still learning the rules of the road. But I know that as long as I take baby steps, and as long as I practice my driving, I'll be okay. It's a scary thing, being able to drive. When you're in that front seat with your hands on the wheel, you're responsible for your life and for the lives of others. It can be a bit unsettling as you set out on the road alone, but hey, driving is a privilege, and it's just something we all have to do eventually.
I'm glad I finally have my license. Although I tend to hold my breath getting out on the road without a parent in the car with me, I know that one day, I'll be asking myself why I was even nervous in the first place.
Thank you, Mom and Taelor, for giving the gift of quick reflexes and fast reaction time!
Thursday, May 17, 2012
It starts with courage.
There comes a certain point in time where I have to sit back and ask myself if life can really be this rewarding. Looking back at only one year ago, all I can do is shake my head at what I wasn't expecting. Losing my grandma was the hardest thing that I've ever had to go through, and let me tell you, I've dealt with a lot of difficult things. But soon after her death, I started college, not knowing where I would end up. Within the course of a year, I've been published, made a small family up at college, made friends with a few of my professors, had the English teachers spot potential in me from the very first papers I've turned in to them, worked on the sets for two play productions, tech'd one show doing lights, gotten my artwork on the cover of my creative writing class booklet, and now I'm getting my feet even wetter in the theatre area by becoming an assistant stage manager in training for A Little Night Music. Of course, there has been the recent downside with Pogo dying, but I'm holding up pretty well. I actually bought a new guinea pig named Meeko, and from the looks of it, he's only a few months old. He has just realized recently that he can make noise and enjoys squeaking just for the sake of squeaking. It's actually quite cute (: His nails are currently lethal weapons and he broke the skin on the palm of my hand from kicking his legs. But other than that, he's pretty harmless. I can't wait to give his nails a trim!!
Anyway, I'm just sitting here tonight thinking about how truly lucky I am to finally be living my life. There are so many things that I did not envision happening to me when I was attending the summer class for my community college, and I honestly believe that God has been with me every step of the way. Not only that, but I've had the most supportive family and friends in the world. They've dealt with me through all of the hardships, tears, and anger that I've gone through, and to see that they're still standing by my side is a pretty remarkable thing. When I had my Christmas break in December, I fell into my depression spell again, and that was a huge test of loyalty to a lot of my friends. Anyone who didn't want to deal with it stopped coming around, and the people who I knew could deal with it weren't able to be around. It was a dark time, as was the summer when my grandma passed, and although some of my friends ducked out without leaving on a good note or without understanding, there were still a lot of people who stepped up to the plate and helped me out. To those people, I can't thank you enough for being on this planet. You've truly seen me at my worst and still love me for the weird, moody, crazy mess that I am.
Not only that, but my teachers have been a huge inspiration. It all started when I got into Elder's creative writing class up at my high school junior year. I was still in my awkward, growing up phase, and I was the quiet, uncomfortable girl who sat by herself because she was afraid everyone else would flock in and attack her. But after one semester in that classroom, I realized how talkative and animated I had become. I was getting friendly punches and taps on the arm in the hallways while walking to each class, and people found me very approachable and easy to talk to no matter what class I was in. I was finally growing comfortable in my own skin, and because of Elder and her constant smile and eagerness to help me, my writing and my confidence became rock solid. I ended up taking her independent study for creative writing my senior year, and by the time I got into college, I was already prepped and ready to go for my English classes. Another highly important teacher that helped me out with my writing in high school was Dixon. So many people talked about how horrible she was, but I just couldn't see it. She was funny and had great energy. I loved being in her class, and the very first paper that I turned into her was so believable that she thought what I had written about actually happened to me. She returned to school the next day worried sick that I was being bullied, and after I explained to her that I was a creative writer, she understood and told me that my paper was mistake free. I walked away with the only Advanced Composition Writing Award that semester for senior awards night which she designed just for me. It was a HUGE honor and a great way to end high school!! My English teachers up at college have all been very supportive since then, and I couldn't ask for anything more.
I haven't written anything for awhile. I've been going through a sort of dry spell, which is normal considering how much I've been writing the past two semesters. But I did want to write another blog post because I don't want to let a writing mood pass me by. I still worry about the future and ask myself when I'll be ready to write and complete a full book, but I know that with time will come more opportunities to get such tasks completed. I still believe that the world will know my name one day, and I won't stop working toward that goal until I get there and achieve it. So long as I keep the dream alive, my work ethic will only improve, and I can't wait to see where life takes me next.
Again, to everyone who is a part of my life right now... to my friends, family, readers, and to people who I'm sort of friends with but not really best friends with but still in that awkward "we should be friends this is so weird why aren't we friends" type of thing, thank you. Thank you for being supportive, and for being proud of my accomplishments. Thank you for making me laugh, giving me reasons to smile, and for dealing with all of my constant Facebook updates (because you know it's true, I update A LOT). I'm shocked I still have friends on FB with the way I post. Hahahaha. Anyway, if I had a glass in my hand right now, I'd raise it to you, because without such amazing people in my life, I can honestly say that I would probably not be where I am today.
Keep the dream alive, because once it dies, so does your spirit.
Anyway, I'm just sitting here tonight thinking about how truly lucky I am to finally be living my life. There are so many things that I did not envision happening to me when I was attending the summer class for my community college, and I honestly believe that God has been with me every step of the way. Not only that, but I've had the most supportive family and friends in the world. They've dealt with me through all of the hardships, tears, and anger that I've gone through, and to see that they're still standing by my side is a pretty remarkable thing. When I had my Christmas break in December, I fell into my depression spell again, and that was a huge test of loyalty to a lot of my friends. Anyone who didn't want to deal with it stopped coming around, and the people who I knew could deal with it weren't able to be around. It was a dark time, as was the summer when my grandma passed, and although some of my friends ducked out without leaving on a good note or without understanding, there were still a lot of people who stepped up to the plate and helped me out. To those people, I can't thank you enough for being on this planet. You've truly seen me at my worst and still love me for the weird, moody, crazy mess that I am.
Not only that, but my teachers have been a huge inspiration. It all started when I got into Elder's creative writing class up at my high school junior year. I was still in my awkward, growing up phase, and I was the quiet, uncomfortable girl who sat by herself because she was afraid everyone else would flock in and attack her. But after one semester in that classroom, I realized how talkative and animated I had become. I was getting friendly punches and taps on the arm in the hallways while walking to each class, and people found me very approachable and easy to talk to no matter what class I was in. I was finally growing comfortable in my own skin, and because of Elder and her constant smile and eagerness to help me, my writing and my confidence became rock solid. I ended up taking her independent study for creative writing my senior year, and by the time I got into college, I was already prepped and ready to go for my English classes. Another highly important teacher that helped me out with my writing in high school was Dixon. So many people talked about how horrible she was, but I just couldn't see it. She was funny and had great energy. I loved being in her class, and the very first paper that I turned into her was so believable that she thought what I had written about actually happened to me. She returned to school the next day worried sick that I was being bullied, and after I explained to her that I was a creative writer, she understood and told me that my paper was mistake free. I walked away with the only Advanced Composition Writing Award that semester for senior awards night which she designed just for me. It was a HUGE honor and a great way to end high school!! My English teachers up at college have all been very supportive since then, and I couldn't ask for anything more.
I haven't written anything for awhile. I've been going through a sort of dry spell, which is normal considering how much I've been writing the past two semesters. But I did want to write another blog post because I don't want to let a writing mood pass me by. I still worry about the future and ask myself when I'll be ready to write and complete a full book, but I know that with time will come more opportunities to get such tasks completed. I still believe that the world will know my name one day, and I won't stop working toward that goal until I get there and achieve it. So long as I keep the dream alive, my work ethic will only improve, and I can't wait to see where life takes me next.
Again, to everyone who is a part of my life right now... to my friends, family, readers, and to people who I'm sort of friends with but not really best friends with but still in that awkward "we should be friends this is so weird why aren't we friends" type of thing, thank you. Thank you for being supportive, and for being proud of my accomplishments. Thank you for making me laugh, giving me reasons to smile, and for dealing with all of my constant Facebook updates (because you know it's true, I update A LOT). I'm shocked I still have friends on FB with the way I post. Hahahaha. Anyway, if I had a glass in my hand right now, I'd raise it to you, because without such amazing people in my life, I can honestly say that I would probably not be where I am today.
Keep the dream alive, because once it dies, so does your spirit.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Rest in peace, my little guinea.
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.
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.
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.
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