Writing

I stared out at the bridge, both fascinated and terrified about it. It's paint didn't match and it was so iconic that it was almost laughable in it's lack of coordination. Random boats are to the left out of the corner of my eyes, and a remarkably odd-shaped building sits on the horizon. Pigeons fly around, those "rats with wings" actually beautiful in my own opinion, and land mere feet from humans. Different colors shimmer around their necks and I never see the ugliness in them, only the beauty of avian creatures. Birds have always fascinated me.

I dig my toes through my socks and shoes into the cobblestones beneath my feet, thinking of the hundreds of years of people who may have done the same. Kings, Queens, peasants, and everyone between has walked these same roads. From the famous, to the infamous, to the forgotten, so many lives have passed through this area. The ground is rich with history; the river in front of me reeks of the past; the castle behind me protects me from it's terrors.




London is always fun.

And so....

So I finally got what I want, and I'm not all that sure I want it right now.
I'm finally here with him, yet it all feels like a dream, not even sure if this is happening to me.
How did I get wrapped up in this? I love him so much, yet is he all there is for me in life? There are more things I want, yet I don't deserve them. Hell, I don't deserve him. I love him, but is there another? Am I even the person I'm gonna be yet? How can I be so sure when I'm still changing?
Part of me sees the way I act here and hates it, yet it comes so naturally that I don't know how to stop it. I settle back and just let things go, falling into my hole.
I said that I was going to change. I said that I was going to make a difference. But here I am... keeping a big bad secret from everyone, not sure how to accept it myself. Why does it seem that when everyone else gets their shit together, mine falls apart?

And here I am. All alone. I have to learn how to deal.
But I'm scared. I just don't want to grow up.
I never have.
Let's go live in neverneverland, where I can be the kid I wanna be forever, with my stuffed animals and my video games and my books. To hell with the rest.

And so it begins.

I'm waiting. I will be there in about twelve hours. I just have to wait a little longer.

I'm nervous and scared and uneasy.
But it's worth it.

I hate flying.

Seventh

It's been a while. I've been busy, I think.
Today I went to my old best friend's baby shower. That's right. BABY shower. I am only 20, and this friend is the same age as me. It was a disaster, and made me pretty miserable. There were people there that I intentionally avoided and disliked, and they all buddied up with me as I followed my mom around like a lost puppy, tail down. I got no recognition for showing up from my friend until I forced my way into her secluding group of friends, and only then so my mom could get a hug. My mom loved her like a daughter.

Here I thought I used to be someone important in her life, worthy of at least a five minute conversation and maybe even an invitation to sit down by her, but I was flat out ignored by her for the majority of the time my mother and I were there. Not only that, but she ignored my mom too, which hurt my heart so bad. My mom went so far out of her way to do something nice for this friend, to get her good presents and to show up at her party, and she was ignored. My mom deserved more than that. We left after being there an hour, and I wanted to leave after being there five minutes. The food sucked, people were off in cliques, and I either disliked or didn't know everyone around me.

My bubbly, hyper self was gone today. I was this somber, serious, depressed creature who was angry beyond belief. I understand we're not close like we once were, but both my mother and I deserved a little bit of credit for going.

We became best friends in sixth grade. I was drifting from my shy friends and trying to be more outgoing, and here was this absolutely beautiful girl who was funny and enjoyed my company. I was never very sure of myself when I was younger, and having someone so pretty around made me feel better about myself. I was the fat, ugly friend, but at least I was smarter.

She had problems. Her dad was a douche and her step-mom a bitch, and here I was--the perfect friend; a goody two shoes who never did anything wrong--and they hated me. They hated me; they hated my family. All because we loved this friend of mine. I would walk blocks and blocks out of my way to walk her home to her grandma's and spend more time with her, talking and laughing, since her grandma accepted me sometimes. I did not deserve that hate. She ran away multiple times, but always to some other friend, never to me and my family, even though we loved her as our own and would have tried to help her. She got mixed up with the wrong group of people, the deadbeats, and I wasn't going to follow her there.

We were close throughout junior high, but then high school came. It wasn't a big change to me, being in the same building and around the same people, but to her something changed. Maybe because I was in all those stupid advanced classes and was never around her and the only people she could spend time with were those idiotic, stupid deadbeats, she chose them instead. She drifted, and I chased after her, but she never tried to catch me. I let her go and I found new friends, my parents always giving me shit that I let her go, but I don't fight on a one way street.

She moved, and we lost major touch for a while. We tried to reconnect last year, but it failed--we are just two too different people these days. Our friendship was in a past life for each of us, being almost ten years ago. I know I have changed since then greatly, and so has she. She's married, pregnant, and having a baby boy. She barely graduated and smokes cigarettes. I'm struggling through post secondary school, madly in love but not ready for marriage, let alone children. She always did like kids, I suppose.

Everyone around me is having babies, and my sister wants to have one so badly she isn't going to renew her birth control come august. She still lives at home--which is a disaster area and no place for a baby, has no real job, is extremely unhealthy, is not married, is only 23, and has no insurance. Sounds like a grand idea to have a baby, sis. Get your own shit in order before you bring more shit into this world.

People are idiots.

Eleven more days, and I will be gone. No more worrying about bankruptcy or losing the house or school or stupid friends. Just me and my boy and our house and the kind of happiness I only get when I am in his arms.

Sixth

I went dancing last night, at a nightclub. My second time ever doing so. Not only did we have trouble getting there, oh lordy, but we got lost trying to walk to the club, then we stayed way longer than I wanted because I love my friend so much, and now my toes are literally numb because I wore 3" heels the whole night, which my feet are not used to.

But it wasn't bad. I felt pretty hot, although slightly sluttish as I was walking through downtown in a halter and heels with all these guys starin' at me. We walked around and around, here and there, for about 7-8 blocks, picking up free entrance cards for clubs. We finally made it there, but my feet were already throbbing.

I had an okay time, was sore for so much of it that I was unhappy a lot of the time. I think my favorite part of the night was when I would stand still in the middle of the dance floor while everyone else around me was moving. It was an interesting experience.


So I have been trying to write this blog for two days. I think I have writer's block, and have it pretty bad. I just can't think of how to word things. England has consumed my mind--I can think of little else.

Fifth?

So the semester is coming to an end. Less than three weeks and I will be in England, with my Rob again. These last nine months have been so extremely hard, and so extremely lonely. I hope I can convince him that nine months is way too long for us ever to go without seeing each other again.

My Social Science teacher gave me a one day extension on my paper. Whoo! I needed it, ever since I wrote that story about my dad I have just had major writer's block. =[ It sucks. Now to get this four page paper written and turned in within eleven hours. But I need sleep at some point. Dangit.

I'm stressed. It's pullin' down on my happiness, I can definitely tell. Which sucks because the weather has been beautiful and I should be soaking up my vitamin D.

My friend is taking me to a club tomorrow night. It will be fun to get to try out my new shirt and shoes. I'm kinda sorta excited. Kinda not. Wish Rob would dance with me like that, because I don't want to be that close to any guy but him =\ Guess I will just dance with E.

I need to write a story this summer. I will post some of my ideas at a later point in time, I need to work on my paper currently.

Story End

I have no choice. I'm terrified. I dial 911 and push talk, bringing my phone to my ear. One mile to the exit.

"This is 911, what is your emergency?" says a kind voice on the other end and I have no idea what to say.

"Yeah, my dad is diabetic, type one the juvenile one, and we think he is having a severe low blood sugar because he's acting weird and we're in the middle of nowhere in Indiana and I can't get him to check his blood sugar and I don't know what to do," rushes out of my mouth, my heart pounding.

"Is he being hostile? Where are you?"

"Uh, kind of," I say, thinking of how angry he was and how my sister had to manhandle him out of the truck. I look around and tell them the exit we are coming up to, just a little ways away, and the gas station I see there.
"I'll send an ambulance to that gas station. I'll stay on with you until the paramedics get there."

I thank them profusely, asking their distracting questions as my sister blinks the big truck to get off the highway. I turn on the blinker too, trying to convince my dad to check his blood sugar as well. I slow as we get up to the top of the exit, ready to follow the truck and my sister as she turns left.

"You know, I don't know what's going on and I'm just going to leave," my dad says after my pressuring him some more, and my heart jumps to my throat as he opens the door and I'm still moving.

"Oh my god! Dad!" I scream at him and lunge across the thankfully small car to pull the barely open door shut. "My dad is trying to get out of my car!" I say to the paramedics, then to my dad, "What are you doing?!" I finally come to the a stop at the top of the exit, one arm slung across at his door, fighting him for control. "Dad, no!" I slam the lock on, hoping he is disoriented enough to not know to open it. I hit the gas and turn left, also hoping the speed will make him think twice about getting out of a moving vehicle.

Somehow I get across the bridge and into the parking lot next to the big yellow truck, sighing with relief as my sister rejoins me. But he is still hostile and wants out of that tiny red car.

"Just let me out! I don't know what I am doing here!" He gets the door open but thankfully my sister is there. I grab his shoulder, trying to hold him in, and she struggles with him, blocking the door with her body. "Fine!" he gives up with a heaving sigh, once again very child-like in nature.

"Did you get him to check his blood sugar?" my sister asks me, still standing between him and the freedom of a foreign state.

I shake my head, working up the courage on what to say next. "I called mom and his sister and his mom to try and see if they could convince him to check it, but they didn't answer so I called 911. I just didn't have any choices left and it was all I could think of!" I ramble on, having never called 911 before and just plain terrified about my dad.

"Good choice," she says, "I bet they will be here soon." She turns her attention to dad, and somehow the two of us together convince him to check his blood sugar. It was 28, way too incredibly low as normal was about 80, and that was after he took the two glucose tabs.

Soon we hear the sirens and a white ambulance drives into the parking lot. Nice men surround us and a kind older man asks us questions. We got dad to eat a banana and slowly he is coming out of his haze, finally not in a hallucinatory mindset. The paramedics take another blood test, only on their machines, and my dad answers their questions coherently.

"What is your birthday?"

"February 8th, 1961."

"What year is it?"

"2009."

"Where do you live?"

He rattles off our address, obviously coming up. They look satisfied with his answers and check out his test. Already his blood sugar is coming up, about 50. Still low, but a much safer low. My dad is back, the scary, laughing, maniacal, lost in la-la land dad gone. He's quiet and subdued now, refusing a ride in to the local hospital since he is back in a safe range, and the paramedic tells us of a great breakfast place just a few exits down the highway. We thank them and go on our way, dad still in with me and my sister fighting with the huge truck.

We reach the restaurant and have a great big breakfast, knowing that food is the best thing now that he is out of the danger zone. We talk about it, my sister and I both agreeing with each other about being terrified, but none of us sure why it happened.

"I don't understand, I ate snacks while driving and took insulin for them, but I never took too much," my dad says around a bite of sausage gravy and biscuits, all of us thinking about the previous twelve hours.

"Yeah, you're always really good with how much to take," my sister says, mixing together ketchup and eggs with her hash browns. The things they learn in the South.

I grimace at her mix and turn to my french toast, ravenous after nothing but road food lately. We had stopped the night before around midnight at a convenience store and stocked up on chips and candy and pop...

"Oh, you know what I bet it was?" my dad pipes up and I bring myself out of the memories of the night before. "Those energy things we had!"

And I remember, we had each had an extra strength five hour energy shot at the gas station, chugging down the nasty tasting stuff to get a couple more hours on the road. "You know, I bet you are right!" I agree, everything falling in to place.

"I bet it boosted my metabolism so when I took the insulin for all the snacks, it made me go even lower! I bet that was it!" my dad exclaims, and we all know that it must be true, for it is the only thing that makes sense. We talk about it some more, my dad apologizing for being so scary silly and delirious. But we understand that it wasn't him, it was the diabetes.

We call my mom, who answers this time now that it is closer to 10 AM. We assure her that everything is fine now, and she says that we did everything right, even the calling 911. She says we probably saved his life; my sister noticing something was wrong and me waking him up and getting him to eat the glucose tabs. We each had a hand in saving my dad's life, and our knowledge of our dad's illness was probably our greatest ally of the day.

After some fancy steering of the big yellow moving truck in the packed restaurant parking lot, we get back on the road to go home, only half way there. My sister and I take turns riding with my dad, extra vigilant of his blood sugar and food intake. We make it home late the next night, still a little shaken from our ordeal. We go on to tell our story, and my dad steers clear of those energy shots.



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