A Shot in the Dark

Story for Creative Writing

2009-04-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

Daddy’s Little Soldier Boy
Sarah Healey

He looked into the mirror as he washed his hands. He hoped that no one else would notice the round little lines underneath his sharp blue eyes. He touched them just to be sure that they were really there. He was always checking himself for little reasons to be skeptical. He gave his face one more scrutinizing stare, then hurried back into the classroom. The teacher smiled at him as he took his seat next to Robert. He was her favorite student of all 144 in her combined 6th grade math classes: always attentive, always interested, always organized.
Jerry looked down at his math book; he listened to Mrs. Harp describe adding and subtracting fractions. This was easy stuff. Math was a bond that he and his father shared, and father had been teaching son the ways of math since before he could read. Jerry's eyes began to close as he settled into his seat and let Mrs. Harp's deep voice melt over him; his head hung, but he kept his ears alert to keep from falling asleep. Yet, it was so tempting. Before he knew it, Jerry had dozed off—sitting up, neck suspending his drooping head above the book.
The next thing he knew, the bell was ringing in the classroom and his peers were packing their things to move on to third period. Quickly, he jumped to his feet, dumped his book and binder into his worn blue backpack and scurried out behind Robert. Robert turned to Jerry.
"So what are you doing tonight? My mom said I can have a sleepover, with you and Tom."
"Oh, it's Friday night. You know that means movie night with my Mom and Liz and Cody. Sorry. Maybe another time," Jerry apologized. He felt badly that he couldn't join his friends for a night of video games and sugar highs. Before, he had been the king of sleepovers; rarely had he slept at home during the weekends.
"It's fine," Jerry said. "Have fun with your family!" He was confused by Jerry's excuse. Jerry was always the first one at a party and the last one to leave. Jerry loved people, but lately this Friday movie night had been keeping Jerry home.
They walked in silence, and parted ways as Jerry headed to art and Robert to P.E. As Jerry walked into Miss Stearn's art room, he took his seat at the back table, a place he had chosen for it's privacy. All of the other art students were eager to be near the board where they could see Miss Stearn's models for projects. Jerry, on the other hand, was happy to squint from the back if it meant a moment alone with himself and his art supplies. Today they were working on geometric designs drawn to fit the 11 by 17 paper and shading them in with colored pencils. It was a relaxing project and while Jerry shaded in the squares and diamonds he had drawn, he went over his daily check list in his head: packed lunches, got the kids on the bus, laid the bills out for Mom, locked the door. He never worried that he would forget anything; it was a system, list everything that had to be done before locking the door, everything in chronological order. He would go through a different checklist before bed to prepare himself for the morning, when it would start all over again.
Miss Stearn strolled over to Jerry's table and peered at his paper, covered in a red, blue and light gray pattern.
"Are you coloring a specific pattern?" she asked her pupil who hadn't even noticed her arrival.
"Huh? Oh, it's supposed to look like the American flag," he said and smiled, while he looked with her at the pale gray diamonds meant to be stars and the blue squares surrounding them.
"That's wonderful, Jerry. I'm sure it will look great."
Miss Stearn had noticed a pattern in Jerry's work. He was a talented artist, not great, but involved and serious about his projects. But they all seemed to center around red, white and blue, the American flag. She could understand a child's patriotism, but this 11-year-old's allegiance was bordering on infatuation.
"Why do you always use red, white and blue? Are you interested in the military?" She asked out of curiosity.
"My dad's in Iraq," he said in a dull voice without looking up. She had never heard this tone of voice, anything but enthusiasm out of Jerry was an uncomfortable surprise.
"I didn't know that. I bet you miss him," she wasn't sure how to respond.
"Yeah, I do," again dull.
"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Miss Stearn felt she owed this to one of her most beloved students.
"No, I'm fine. Thanks for the offer," he looked up and smiled sadly. In the light she could see blue bags under his eyes. The exuberance that usually lit him had dulled and given way to a dreary faced child with a blue pencil in his hand.
Miss Stearn smiled down at the child, touched his back lightly and kept moving around to the other students.
Jerry watched Miss Stearn walk away. He never knew what to do in those situations. He hated talking about the army, his father's year away, the responsibility it meant for him. Yet in his projects he felt a need to connect with his father millions of miles away.
At the end of the period, Jerry packed up his pencils and put them in his cubby on the side of the room. As he passed Miss Stearn he smiled at her--not wanting her to believe that he disliked her over their prior conversation. She smiled back, somewhat reassured.
After school, Jerry chatted candidly with Robert and Tom on the bus. When his stop arrived, he wished them a fun sleepover, and stopped at the mailbox to get the mail. He walked up the driveway skimming the addresses and return addresses. On the counter in the kitchen, he made stacks with the mail: bills, magazines and personal letters. He threw the advertisements in the trash; Mom didn't need to deal with those. He checked the voicemail to find that there were no messages. Then he went back outside to walk the three blocks to the elementary school where Cody and Liz were in after school care.
"Hello Jerry, let me grab your brother and sister for you," the coordinator said. She walked into the classroom from which she had to come, and came out flanked by his 7-year-old twin siblings.
"Hey Jerry! Can we get a movie tonight?" Cody was jumping up and down.
"And eat popcorn?" Liz chimed in.
"Of course we can," Jerry said. He wanted his siblings to feel safe and content under his watch. So they took a left out the parking lot, instead of a right, to make their weekly pilgrimage to the movie store down the street. The bell jingled on the door as they walked in, and the twins ran full speed ahead to the children’s movies section.
"Can we get Wall-E?" Liz asked.
"No, we've seen that one a million times," Jerry said. "Why don't you choose a new one?"
"How about Finding Nemo?" Cody wanted to know.
"We've seen that a million times too. What about Star Wars?"
"Noooooo! So boring!" Liz exclaimed to Jerry's dismay. Before going to Iraq, Jerry and his father had been watching the series together.
"Ice Age?" Cody asked.
"Sure, we haven't seen that one in awhile," Cody took the movie and led the trio to the counter where Maria was waiting.
"This is a good one!" She said as Jerry handed her the movie and a five-dollar bill. Maria had formed a bond with Jerry and his father when they came in once a week. Now it was just Jerry and the kids, and she felt compelled to care for them in their father's absence. "Now everyone pick one!" She told them. They knew the signal and each picked a bag of candy. Maria never charged them, and Jerry always looked forward to seeing her momentarily on Fridays, and feeling the warmth of kindness.
The siblings walked back to the house while Liz practiced her skipping and Cody told Jerry about his day at school. Jerry nodded and smiled, and complimented Liz. This was always the part that hurt worst; he was proud of his siblings, but there was no one to ask about his day.
When they entered the house Jerry saw his mother’s keys on the counter and felt only semi-relieved. At least she was home, but there was no guessing how the night might go. With luck she would make some dinner before “going to bed.” Otherwise he would make them macaroni and cheese for the fourth time this week and they would eat in front of the T.V. At least his father had taught him something about cooking.
“Look Mom’s home!” Liz’s excited cry rang out as she ran into the living room to find their mother typing on the computer. Jerry’s heart sunk; he recognized her expression; it was exhaustion mixed with an unquenchable thirst, yet her eyes lit up at the sight of her daughter.
“Lizzy!” Their mother’s voice leapt into action, she caught the girl as she jumped into her mother’s lap and hugged her. Then she was abruptly pushed back to the floor. In a single moment Jerry watched his mother change like she had changed many times before.
“Come on guys let get some dinner started,” Jerry called to his siblings to keep them from noticing the blankness that had befallen their mother who turned her attention back to the computer and away from her children.
Jerry put water on to boil, and opened a box of macaroni and cheese.
“Cody! T.V. Trays and milk! Liz! Forks and napkins! You know the drill! 1, 2, 3, 4!” He tried to make his voice boom, just like the soldiers he saw in the videos—the ones his father told him about. The one his father was. Maybe he was giving orders this same instant. The kids jumped with his orders and hurried about at their individual tasks.
“Just like Daddy does!” Cody said as he marched back to Jerry and saluted. They enjoyed their game of dinner warriors, finally setting a delectable meal for themselves in front of the movie. Jerry started the DVD player and kept the remote nearby as he settled himself in front of his T.V. on the couch.
“Could you keep it down over there?” His mother’s irritated voice floated over the sounds of the movie. She glared at Jerry. He didn’t say anything, just turned the T.V. down a bit, hoping the kids hadn’t heard the disgust in her voice. A few minutes later, she rose from the computer and rummaged around in the kitchen. Jerry could hear her opening a paper bag. She walked through the living room.
“I’m going to bed,” she said out loud. There was no ceremony to it. Jerry nodded, but she didn’t notice. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly seven, even the twins weren’t ready for bed yet—and they were too engrossed in the movie to notice their mother’s departure.
Jerry turned back to the movie, but he couldn’t concentrate on the animal antics that sent his brother and sister into peals of laughter. Instead, he thought about the days when his mother didn’t go to bed at dinnertime, toting a bottle of alcohol behind her. He could see her laughing and pushing the twins on the swings in the backyard while he and his dad played catch. He remembered the time she made breakfast for dinner complete with pancakes and scrambled eggs. He remembered when he didn’t feel guilty leaving the house to play with his friends. He remembered the times before his father left, before he went to a place that was impossibly far. He remembered the time before the darkness.
When the movie was over, Jerry put two resisting 7-year-olds to bed. He told them a bedtime story and reminded them not to wake their mother when they got up in the morning. Then he left them to sleep. As hard as it was to see his mother in her sad and debilitated state, he hurt more in the hours when he was completely alone. It was 8:30, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. If he were at Robert’s house they’d just be returning home from laser tagging or bowling and would be settling into a long round of video games, maybe Guitar Hero or Madden 2005. He wished the world would set itself right for him, he wished someone would find him, his neglecting mother and bring his father home. His father could set everything right again. But it would be at least another six months, and Jerry understood the reality that his arrival at home could be postponed; that his life might continue like this through the summer, through another Christmas. He understood that he could tell someone, alert a teacher or a friend’s parent to his problem, but he didn’t know what that would mean. He didn’t know what would happen, so he kept quiet.
Jerry decided to go to bed; he had nothing else to do and his nodding off in math class told him he needed the extra sleep. As he lay in bed he went through his nightly checklist: kids in bed, lights off, door locked, house alarm on.

Friday Fill Ins

2009-03-27T21:21:00.000-07:00

1. "In a hole in the ground there lived __a little bunny___."

2. "_My parents greatly dislike the man____ but that ain't no matter."

3. "After dark the rain began to fall again, _and I sit back and enjoy the beauty in the pain____."

4. "__A pirate emerges___ from the hold of the Spanish galleon."

5. "There was a hand in the darkness, and _I took it. Hopefully it will save me.____."

6. "Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, _that's why I'm always on guard____."

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to _going to bed right now____, tomorrow my plans include _a full day of Girls and Women in Science, then some homework and maybe a nap before a hopefully fabulous invite only party at Phi Si____ and Sunday, I want to _do laundry and tons of homework and go to my dance TA session____!

An Evening Moment

2009-03-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

We should have taken a picture; it was one of those perfectly happy moments that you see in movies. The kind you wish you could have every moment of every day, but if you did, you wouldn't appreciate the tiny seconds that make them up. The three of us girls, in our pajamas, music blaring from the speakers and cookies in the oven. My sister, juggling our father's juggling bean bags and laughing as she tried again and again to get the basic move down. My mother was dancing around the room, having no sensation for the beat, except that she liked it. She was doing the triplet step I taught her from my dance class, and she kept losing the beat of the motion. I trailed behind, bouncing quick-quick-slow as I watched the whole scene and held my breasts ridiculously in my hands, which made all three of us howl with laughter.

For a few minutes no one was picking on another, and I wasn't nervous about being at home, living with their judgements. Everything was comfortable and perfect and easy. I tried to forget that I would be leaving tomorrow; this only makes me cry. I tried to paint the whole picture in my mind for when I would return to school and find myself jaded by college life. I tried to understand how these moments happen, how to create them and capture them. I tried to understand why I can't live like that all the time. Why not every moment can be golden brown like those cookies we were periodically pulling from the oven.

A Little Bit of Homesickness

2009-02-22T17:44:00.000-08:00

It's those days when I wake up thinking I'm in my own bed. At home. Those days when I think I hear my family moving around in the kitchen, and open my eyes to go greet them. But they aren't here. It's those days when everything seems so cheery on the computer screen, that I wish I could join them. But it isn't as safe as it seems, I'm growing up and away and different. I know I wouldn't want to be there, and I also know that I'd give everything to patter into the kitchen to sit bleary eyed at the bar while my parents discuss the day. To make breakfast for my family before they all head off to work and school. But I know those memories are just the good ones I've gleaned from amongst dull moments, and sad ones. Painful ones and mediocre and mundane ones. Yet it is a childhood, an 18 year life that is there. And today is one of those days. Today is a day I woke up to the echoes of their voices in my head, only to realize that I don't belong there anymore.

Friday Fill Ins

2009-01-30T19:53:00.000-08:00

1. I'd really like _to go to Kenyon____ right now....or home.

2. _Fuck!____ is the word you'd most often hear me say if I stubbed my toe.

3. Possession is _having something? that seems more of a definition than a deep thought____.

4. _I heart____ Captain Jack Sparrow...need I say more?

5. Marshmallows and fire go together like _marshmallows and hot chocolate. I just had some!____.

6. _Calculus goes____ on and on...and I HATE IT!!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to _watching The Bachelor then going to Phi Si for some drinking____, tomorrow my plans include _driving prospies to the bus stop (aka I get to drive!!!) and reading lots and lots____ and Sunday, I want to _to do my homework in front of the Super Bowl. Oh and not get eaten by the fam when I tell them I'm jetting off to Kenyon again____!

Journalling the Nightmares Away

2009-01-27T22:26:00.000-08:00

The past two mornings I have awakened in near tears due to horrible nightmares. The first was that I was being kidnapped and was unable to speak, and the second was that my mother had died. Both of these are absolutely terrifying-yet possible-ideas, thus I am rather discouraged about going to bed tonight. But I was told by both my therapist and my boss-a soon to be child psychologist-that before bed I should journal in hopes of clearing my mind before sleep.

So that brings me to...well what does that bring me to? I rarely write such journally pieces when I have nothing to say. And today, I have nothing to say. With the exceptions of my crazy dreams, it has been an average week. Lots of work, some hardship here and there (dealing with sending my computer into apple and waiting for it to come back) and missing Ted. But nothing out of the ordinary, which is why I am so perplexed by these dreams. I'm not even stressed about my family this week! (And that is a big change!)

Today I set up the wireless internet that Ted bought me for Chanukah-actually, I didn't, the guy on the phone did. And I had three classes: Creative Writing, Jazz Dance and Claude Levi-Strauss at 100. All classes that I enjoy, though that anthro class was rather painful as we didn't do anything! The prof has an affinity for taking long tangents at high speeds which only lead him to more tangents at an even faster speed and the stupid girl sitting across from me had a dull look on her face while she asked ridiculous questions, made seemingly obvious statements, splayed her legs and chomped-open mouthed-on her gum. Really? REALLY? We are how old again?

Now I am rather exhausted and would like to get to bed so that I can get up at 8am to start reading my next history book. Ted is on the phone and had been since around 9pm. We talked, did homework, watched (he's still watching) TV shows on our respective computers. Its like spending time together, apart. Maybe I will read a bit before nodding off, as a way to lead myself into sleep without laying there waiting for sleep to come. (A new phenomenon since coming to Beloit. It used to happen at home, but never here.)

I guess that is it for this pathetic journalling attempt. Let it bring me many happy dreams. Or none at all. Or at least nothing that leaves me terrified and crying.

Friday Fill Ins

2008-12-26T17:10:00.000-08:00

1. I must __travel Europe___ before I die.

2. You can't stop _loving your one true love____.

3. I wish I never had to buy _probiotics and rephresh____ again. Damn infection!

4. _Ted____ has helped me change my life. Whatever would I do without him?

5. I know the song _Disneyland by Five for Fighting____ by heart. Wonderfully melancholy!

6. If I weren't so afraid, I would _tell everyone I meet (my family included) how much I love Ted____.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to _shopping as long as my aunt returns from dinner soon____, tomorrow my plans include _a 5 mile race (hopefully I won't die) and lounging on the beach____ and Sunday, I want to _keep enjoying my beach bum entertainment (reading, tanning, sleeping)____!

Friday Fill-Ins

2008-12-12T19:52:00.000-08:00

1. Friends _____are what I've found at Beloit. Finally.

2. Mental_____ health; it's _____my new concentration these days.

3. I'm ready for _____some time at home and a good 10 days on the beach.

4. That one really strong cologne that Ted wears (I can never remember the name, he has practically a bazillion)_____ is one of my favorite perfumes or aftershaves or smells...it reminds me of my first kiss.

5. The oldest ornament I have is _____. Ornament? Puh-lease! Let's try to be religiously sensitive here!

6. Take some _____brownie mix, chocolate chips, eggs and oil, mix it all together and you have _____one of the ultimate comfort foods.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to _____watching an episode of Friends and going to bed early, tomorrow my plans include _____studying, my English final and getting all cleaned up to go out and party with my college friends and Sunday, I want to _____study some French and start packing for home!

The Reason to Return, The Reason to Run

2008-11-26T22:51:00.000-08:00

Autopilot. The drive off of 465 to Michigan Road, 96th to Springmill, Springmill Place, 11062. Home. Halls that are so familiar they are scary, foreboding, bringing back memories that are so good they sting. And just where do you think you are? The man in her arms looks oddly familiar, her greatest love. But in this kitchen, déjà-vu. The smell fills her lungs, it can only be home.

She wants to cringe away, get back in the car and keep driving. Driving and driving and sharing secrets and planning a life. Away from home. Mommy is where she left her: warm in her bed. Too late for parents to be awake. "Yo babes!" from across the bed, a private joke made stronger with space. "Yo Pops!" So comfortable.

She has come to paint the walls red. Has come to throw a life in their faces that is foreign to them. She has come to stop the tears.

Tears are the only comfort now. Tears get sympathy, tears get hugs, tears cleanse the soul. But this wound, this wound is so deep that tears are only a temporary salve. The calm after the storm is no longer calm. It is tumultuous; it is the turning in her stomach.

"I'm going to puke." "No, you're not." "No, I'm not. But I want to."

Away in that god forsaken place, there is safety. Why did she drive away? Because she hates it there, because it was time to go. It was time to go and set five weeks of therapy to work. It hadn't been for nothing. She is a wreck, a messy, disastrous wreck. His eyes see her and she hates that his life must feel this, too. She could have fixed this years ago. But in the process of loving a family, of living a familiar routine, she forgot to grow up.

"You are stuff." "Stuff?" "Oops, strong and tough. I made them one." "Ok, I'm stuff." "You're my stuff."

And that's why I'm here. Here with tears in my eyes and a rock in my stomach. I have to fix my life. I want to fix my life. I want to run and hide. But I want his life and my life and their lives to work in sync. I am tired from constant stress, from lies, from contemplated conversations, from worries. And I'm ready to grow up.

The ABCs of RIght Now

2008-11-14T20:19:00.001-08:00

Alone-what I am right now, in my dorm room, being a recluse.
B's-what I think most of my grades are. This will not suit my mother, and I don't even know what med school might think.
Candy-there is a bunch in here and I desperately want to eat it. But I don't want to see my thighs grow anymore nor watch my once chiseled abs become mushier.
Daddy-is at home.
Eating-what I do to feel full. Too bad it doesn't work.
Fear-the feeling I have about telling my parents (and siblings) that Ted is coming here for 5 days. I don't even want to think about that conversation.
Galen-a creepy, but nice, friend here. Maybe I should call him, at least with him I'd be able to chat and drink to keep my mind busy.
Home-where I want to be, yet don't want to be.
Infection-it should be gone, but is it? I'd be rather embarrassed to go back to the health center because I'm a sex crazed teenager.
Job-the reason I'm getting up at 9am on a Saturday, but I need the money.
Karen-my therapist. Yes, I'm enough of a mess that I'm in therapy, though it is quite fun-in a detox sort of way.
Late-what I am for Lit almost every morning. 9 am is just too early.
Mommy-I miss her.
Natalie-my roommate. She can be nice, but usually drive me nuts.
Obsessed-what I am with my worries: standing up to my sister and freeing myself from my family.
Parents-I love them, but I need to cut the cord and I don't know how.
Quiet-what I am at dinner. There are too many people around.
R
Sleep-presumably what I need to feel better.
Ted-the love of my life, but how will I tell my family?
U
Vodka-I took a couple shots. But maybe I need a few more.
Wednesday-the day (a week from now) I get home for Thanksgiving break.
X
Yelling-what everyone was doing during the movie, so I left.
Z

Natalie and Martha have come to save me. Hallelujah!

Friday Fill-Ins

2008-11-14T19:59:00.000-08:00

1. Please feel free to ...give me a hug: I could about a million. I am exhausted, stressed, tired, homesick, scared and desperately missing Ted.
2. When I _________ I can't help sniffing it occasionally. Ummmmm not even sure what to say here!
3. My favorite thing to cook is...cake! What I wouldn't give for a huge baking excursion right now! Damn college kitchens and money!
4. Chocolate...is something I can't get enough of....But its helping me to complete the Freshman 15, so I'm trying to stay away.
5. That's the thing I love most about my Love. He wants to hear my problems, comfort me when I cry and love me always.
6. Meredith and Christina in Grey's Anatomy...always makes me think to myself, what the heck?...Elise and I are each other's "person."
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to...dancing at C-Haus?, tomorrow my plans include...helping kids from Beloit apply to college then homework, homework, homework and hopefully movies with Julianne at night...and Sunday, I want to...be done with all of my homework before 7 so I can watch House all night!

Trying out Friday Fill-ins

2008-10-31T20:20:00.000-07:00

I found the site and it looks like fun...

1. My favorite food seasoning is...chives, or salt. no Southwest Seasoning! A heavenly mix from Penzey's Spices, an entire store filled with way too many good smells and tastes. What I wouldn't give for quality spices right now. Oh, dorm food...
2. My mommy's voice...is music to my ears...I've got some serious homesickness issues.
3. Lucky is...having a boyfriend who I can fight with and know that he will never leave me.
4. My independence...is something I take very seriously.
5. Many people...think I'm crazy. And I just might be, but at least I'm organized!
6. Low fat peach yogurt, Low cal Swiss Miss and Powerade Zeros...was the last thing I bought at the store.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to...fixing my fight with Ted. He will be here in 15 minutes, though I"m still pissed that I'm going to miss Rocky Horror, tomorrow my plans include...sleeping in, swimming with friends, and an invite only party at a fraternity, and unfortunately saying good bye to Ted for a week,and Sunday, I want to...do all of my homework and get ahead on "Petals of Blood" and watch Anchorman with my friends!

Worrying Away

2008-10-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

An email:

A trip to the ER
Fine now
But nerves are dying
Slowly, forever.

But I am miles away, there is nothing I can do, so far away. Another reason to fear the distance, what if when I come home they have left without saying goodbye? The end will come, if not now, then when? When I can't be there to feel close and near, to hold hands and share words. I worry for them, worry that I can't take care of them from faraway. I can't stop the inevitable, but what if the inevitable doesn't wait to for me to catch up? I can't come back to a hole in my life, I can't accept the worst from afar. A phone call is not a hug, and an email is not a meal shared between family.

A Little Revelation for a Big Decision

2008-10-19T16:47:00.000-07:00

What she wouldn't do for a smoke right now. Smoke, her? No, of course not. Never had, never would. But the movement, something to busy her hands, her lips, her lungs, every tiny blood cell inside of her, she craved it.

In airports smoking is not allowed. In airports, people depart for destinations and return from trips abroad. She was of the former; of the group embracing at security and crying at the gate. Hers was not an exciting destination, a fantastic voyage of pleasure. Rather, she was returning home. New home, that is. And she wasn't enthusiastic about boarding a plane for Chicago, to hop a bus to Beloit.

Bland. The McDonalds in South Beloit where the bus dropped her off. Smoke from cigarettes, that horrible distraction, caught in her eyes and the greasy smell of french fries reminded her of low brow Americana. The trees, in their autumn attire served no purpose. They weren't the trees of Indiana or Ohio and she could see no merit in their oranges and reds. Rather, she loathed their redundancy, trying to feign home: real home.

Home was in Indiana. For 18 years she was convinced that she hated the place, Carmel, land of the snobs. But when it was time to go home, she couldn't get on a plane fast enough. She wasn't like them, she knew that, she prided herself on encouraging diversity and promoting alternative lifestyles. That's what took her to Beloit. But once there, she learned something about herself. She was an internal snob. Seeking out class, others with an appreciation for gourmet dinners and at least a mild sense for fashion. There was no disdain for her peers who couldn't-and wouldn't-understand. She was glad that they knew what they wanted and impressed by their attitudes. But their interests, goals in life, varied drastically from hers. She wanted to talk politics, literature, current events-an attempt at being a young intellectual. She had yet to meet anyone who also enjoyed reading Time cover to cover or woke up ten minutes early to read the New York Times online. They were interesting people, no doubt, but interesting for their quirks, not their desire to read The New Yorker every now and again.

Chuck, Nancy and Miss L were at fault for the New Yorker addiction. One January term class, and she couldn't get enough. The cartoons made her chuckle with delight and she would read anything by Atul Gawande, her new idol-a surgeon writer. As a reader, she was young, unskilled and nowhere near well read. But she prided herself on being able to occasionally bring up an article she had read-and understood-in the expensive magazine. In January, the winter before, she had pitched-though not seriously in any respect-an article that she had written for a mock magazine project to David Remnick, The New Yorker's editor, he had been pleased. It was this type of writing, stuffy, important and witty that she appreciated and craved to ingest until she burst. But with this new college schedule, there was little time for such tantalizing activities, and there was a stack of Time by her desk, quickly becoming out of date.

Her mother had accused her of not having enough to do. In some respects this was true, she was guilty of spending too much on the phone with Ted in Ohio and had become an aficionado of sleeping away her weekends. But she had no time, or couldn't seem to find any just to browse that stack of magazines or go in search of a free copy of the New Yorker. And what she wouldn't give to have time for that. Maybe, upon her return, that would be a new goal, read Time and/or The New Yorker each week. And write more? She would that too. Fill her emptiness with her passions.

But reading and writing still couldn't fill that void: home, family, Ted. In her selfishness she wanted all of them. Yet this was what she knew. 18 years in the same house with the same people, and 8 months attached at to the hip of a man; this wasn't selfishness, this was routine, necessity. But like every successful American, she had to be weaned. Split from the place of her youth and follow her larger than life dreams to some unknown destination.

Her world was spinning like a top on a slick floor. Coming home, everything was the same, she fit back into the flow because she knew the movements. Yet, something was wrong, different, just slightly, enough to send her tired head into turmoil. Where did she belong? Even in confusion, she slipped quickly into her routine-being helpful, sneaking texts to Ted and collecting provisions for her imminent return to Beloit. Quickly, though, her time in the heart of Indiana was finished. Ted came to take her away, away to Ohio: to Kenyon. Her ambivalence in leaving home-not to return for six weeks-was quelled in his love and the grip of his hand around hers as they crossed the border between states.

At Kenyon, she found Ian. Ted's best friend, the epitome of what she was looking for in a group of friends. Laid back and goofy, but well informed. The trio talked over dinners and she was finally comfortable; fitted into the crook of Ted's shoulder-a kiss occasionally laid into her hair-while laughing with her entire body-and grinning with shear pleasure-as Ian narrated everything from Kenyon gossip to the latest Presidential debate-and Jon Stewart's commentary on the matter. Among Ted, Ian and others she felt included in her kind. Even though she believed diversity to be a necessary part of a learning environment, she found that, regardless, that there are certain types of people that fit together, a promotion of camaraderie-the trait she had been searching for, without resolve, at Beloit.

But now a new question stands, what to do next? Her first inclination: go home. But that is by no means an option. She is a student to the core and a prospective physician. Home won't do. But staying? Staying to be miserable, staying to swim in her tears. It sounds ridiculous and worthless. Transfer? Get away from the tiny town in Wisconsin. Move to the city? Get closer to home? To her love? She hates to give up on the difficult decision she made nine months ago. But the tears tell stories and the heart sickness is impossible. And her goal had been to find her kind, find those laid back intellectuals. She stares out into the dark Wisconsin night from a cold and lonely dorm room. When she younger, even three months younger, she had believed that she wanted to be alone for awhile, experience loneliness, experience independence. But there is no independence in loneliness and loneliness only breeds incurable sickness, the kind that squeezes the heart until the body shudders because it has run out of water to drip from the eyes.

Wondering if Peter Pan is Real

2008-10-12T20:01:00.000-07:00

As she lay in bed, her bed, she looked at the walls and tears came to her eyes. She looked around the room, her room, and felt lost. The walls were bright green, just as she had left them and her sister was sound asleep in the bed across from her, the way it had been for 15 years. But there was something different, something sterile, her influence on the room had been shoved into drawers and taped into boxes when she left eight weeks ago. In retrospect, her departure had been a mere two months-hardly a blip in her life's scheme-but in her young mind it was nearly a lifetime. Tears leaked down her cheeks and sank into the pink polka dot pillow case that was as familiar as her mother's scent.

Earlier that evening, her plane landed in her home airport. As the plane touched down, those same tears dripped down onto her ecstatic smile. She was home. She felt ridiculous, flying alone and within seconds of breaking into tears of joy and distress. She hadn't even been reunited with her family yet, but she knew that she did not want to leave them again, be sent back to college.

When the phone rang, she didn't answer. She heard the answering machine play its recorded message. "Hello this is the Healey residence if you are leaving a message for Pat, Diane, Erin or Daniel..." She stopped listening, internally hurt. Where was her name? Wasn't she a part of the family too? In her rational mind, she knew that it didn't make sense for her name to be on the machine. Her life was supposed to be in Wisconsin, all calls made to her cell phone. But must her name be left off? There was little frivolity in taking an extra moment to add it in. She hadn't died, been excommunicated, disappeared into the darkness of world. She was right here! Right here on the couch in the living room, her living room.

Just eight weeks away and her emotions were in shambles. She cried at every chance to think about her family at home. She yearned to be part of a clan. Before her departure, she was starving to be left alone, to be her own person. But upon return, she realized that she had become that person. She had seen her and met her, and this new person was miserable. Miserable and homesick. Because this new person had learned the importance of family and the connection that made them strong.

But after some time at home, she became torn. Torn between the first 18 years of her life and the next 18. She loved sleeping her bed and cooking her in kitchen and she loved not feeling lonely, but she knew that she needed freedom grow. So what next?

A Lesson in Loneliness

2008-10-05T19:12:00.000-07:00

For some reason, she was set on loneliness. From sometime in her early teens, she craved the time in her mid-twenties when she would be alone. When she would fend for herself, live alone and buy groceries for one. Since before she could remember, she had been in love with independence, and here it was. The beginning. Half a college dorm room, an income of $200 a month and a Sunday meal for one. As she walked to the grocery store in the rain, she wondered why she had always dreamt of this. At the store she strolled the aisles, following the patterns of her parents at home. Grapes cost a dollar ninety-nine a pound. She weighed, over and over again, bags of grapes hoping to find a small one. She could barely afford two dollars for grapes. Then the bread and the hummus, she had been dreaming of tastes from home. But one person doesn't need seven ounces and three-nineteen worth of hummus and eight ounces of baguette. She bought it anyway. She perused the store, searching for sales, a cheaper alternative. She bought enough laundry detergent to last her until May, when she would return home. But home, that box would last two weeks...maybe. It all seemed fruitless. Her dinner of cold and canned. Where was the heart in the meal?

She knew that marrying the man who held her heart wouldn't be ruining her dream, just changing it. At first she worried, but now she knew. She was miserable, checking out with a large bill and too much food that might go bad if she didn't hurry to eat it all. If this was the glamorous loneliness she had been looking forward to, it was nothing but a heartache. She had no one to care for, and was only filling a void as she walked up and down the aisles looking for something to quench the loneliness. All of her life she had shared, shared with her sister and her brother, her mother and father, her friends. For some reason, she believed that she didn't want to share. But eating an entire baguette alone just made her sick. And spending more money to fill her heart was ridiculous. In her younger years, younger moments even, she had overlooked the idea of cooking alone, of having no one to please. No one to help. No one to surprise. She was desperate to buy the ingredients of a four course meal, enough for two. The two of them, alone together. Neither lonely, nor overburdened.

She doesn't want to live alone. She doesn't want to buy a half gallon of orange juice to let it spoil.

9/11 2008

2008-09-11T21:31:00.000-07:00

At 10:03 AM CST I looked up from my book. I happened to glance at the microwave in my dorm room. It hit me then: 9 11. Seven years ago today it had already happened. Like the most of the rest of the world, Beloit College anyway, I had forgotten. It's still important as a memory, a haunting thought. But it isn't active anymore.

I saw a flag at half mast while I running today. It made me shiver. But I noticed, also, one flying at the top of it's pole. Dairy Queen didn't pull their flag down. Someone else had forgotten.

I was wallowing today, I had enough problems of my own. Problems that weighed on me and made me think only of myself, I had little time to stop and think about those others, those others who died, those others who had bigger fish to fry. Yet I was consumed with myself and after looking at the clock, turned straight back to my book. I didn't have time to contemplate something I couldn't change. I had to live now, in the time of 2 o'clock classes and 70 page reading assignments.

This must be what happened to Pearl Harbor. Everyone knew the date, thought about it. Now we pass that December day by, sometimes adults try to make us say the date. But few of us actually know. And when we're adults we'll ask kids when the World Trade Towers fell and they'll have no idea. The past is the past.

If Only A Dream

2008-09-01T14:46:00.001-07:00

She awoke to a hand stroking her back. It started at the top of her head and slowly, calmly worked its way down until it came to that little curve in the small of back. Then it started at her head again. She could feel the strong fingers in her hair, a palm running over her spine. Without opening her eyes she knew who it was and she grinned without moving a muscle. She didn't want to come to reality just yet. She savored the touch for another stroke, then opened her eyes to greet the world.

For some reason she had been expecting to be laying in her bed a lazy morning sun shining through her window, with him laying beside her. But when she opened her eyes, only shock shone through. All of a sudden she realized that he shouldn't have been there. She should have been laying alone, miles away from the comforting hand. Her movement startled him, but taken aback only for a moment, he smiled down at her and laid his hand on her cheek.

She was confused. Where had he come from? And where were they now? This was not her room, and this was not her bed or her pajamas. She tried to look around, but he held her down. Questions swam in her head, but the confusion of it all kept her silent. The room was white, so were the sheets and the flimsy piece of fabric that surrounded her. The sun came through a window that seemed miles out of her reach.

In a moment, she realized that this was not the situation she had been expecting. When, in fact, had she gone to sleep? There was no specific memory to cling to, just the generality of the man by her side. She looked him in the eye, hoping he could read her signal; she still without the capacity to speak.

He explained a problem, something gone wrong. She was safe now: fixed. But she didn't understand. There were no details, just a problem, an operation and a metal bed with white linens. There was no sense of time in the room, except the light that fell on her face. Why was there a problem? What was the problem? What had they done?

With a blow to the heart, she knew what problem. She knew and her body shuddered on the inside. He couldn't detect a movement. It was her fault, she knew it. Disobeying her parents, she had thought she'd be safe. Relatively there was no danger in her little risk, everyone would take it eventually. What pride she had experienced, making her own decision and coming out on top. Or had she?

As she tried to recall exactly what had brought her here, her mother walked into the room and was surprised to find her daughter awake. The mother's face was tearstained, but steady. At the sight of her daughter's open eyes she immediately ran to the bed.

What had she done? She had wrecked her life, just as her mother had prophesied. Wrecked it because she didn't wait. Tears started to flow from her once startled eyes. And the words began to flow in crying heaves.

"I will pay for it. I will pay for all of it. It is my fault. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I will pay for it, it is my problem to solve."

She didn't want to her mother to think that she couldn't take on responsibility. Her age was of no matter, in the end, she'd take full responsibility. Live up to the path she had chosen and pay every penny back: repentance.

But the mother so happy to see her daughter awake and speaking, took her hand and tried to calm the tears away. Once the sobs had subsided, she assured her daughter that she wouldn't have to worry about the bills, they were more than enough to overwhelm her. The mother was relieved just to see her daughter come to, she knew that she hadn't expected to wake here. Knew and sympathized.

She hadn't expected her mother's generosity in the matter. This problem, this money sucking problem was definitely caused by the defiance. But how had she ended up here? In this...this hospital? She couldn't remember anything that would lead to her this predicament. Did she choose to come here? Had they brought her here without her knowledge?

Her mother stood up to bring the rest of the family to see their girl awake and conscious. She moved quickly out of the room and assured her that she'd return.

The man took his seat again and resumed his petting.

"How long have I been here?"
"6 days"
"How did I get here?"
"By ambulance."
"What happened?"
"You passed out..."

***

She opened her heavy eyelids. The hand was gone: miles away. Everywhere she burned. She spoke into the night: no one. She would have to call an ambulance, quickly.

It Was Never Meant to Be Real

2008-07-20T11:37:00.000-07:00

He was talking about his dreams. Not big ones, not life changing; but that car he wanted. When he had enough money, he'd buy it. He grinned and his blue eyes twinkled in excitement. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to ponder the future. Figuring in his head how long it would take to do this or buy that. Always plotting.

She listened and enjoyed his enthusiasm. Then she decided she'd join him. So she said it.

"I was thinking, well I was thinking if I could save enough money this year that I might go to London next summer." He was the first to know. She'd been wondering about the endeavor for a few weeks with the prospect of saving money from her summer job before college.

He got excited and hoped he could come along. She stiffened. The statement wasn't an invitation, nor a prophecy. It was just that, a statement. It was one of her romantic ideas, of which she had many. Though this one had the possibility of being feasible, yet it was only as big as the whisper that brought forth the statement.

The moment passed, but she didn't forget her own words. They had just become real, more real than before and they wandered the back alleys of her brain.

***

"I looked up flights to London. With one stop and a no-nothing airline, it could be $900," she told him on the phone. And with that he was off and running. He'd been thinking about it too. And he didn't want to scare her, push too much into the future but...

What about a week with her friend in London, being true London students and a week of travel, of fancy excitement. At first she was just as thrilled. Twirling around her parents' living room as she dusted and listened to his ideas.

They'd rent a car, a Porsche maybe, he was researching as they spoke. No maybe a Aston Martin. So many cars, he kept talking. About B&Bs and English country sides. About posh restaurants, a week of exploration.

Then came the ambivalence. She shuddered silently to herself. The plan was forming in her head and it wasn't what she wanted. All she had planned for this trip was London, the floor of an old friend's city flat and sometime in the future. She knew nothing else or even if it would ever be more than a romantic idea. She had hoped many times for a chance to travel as a student, poor but fresh and without reservations. This was her first time to think about it as real. Even without his encouragements, the dream was slowly slipping out of her sleep and onto paper. But it wasn't important as a solid plan. It meant more as an idea, a reason to make to through, to work hard and save harder.

She knew she was poor in a rich world. She knew it and she loved it. She insisted one day that she'd be rich too, like her parents who kept her afloat in her student's life, but nothing more. The rest was for her to create and she was willing. Sometimes she hated the work and the worry, but it would pay itself off. And one day she'd be in London or Paris and would have earned it.

She didn't always believe in America. But she believed in the idea. She wanted to pull herself up by her own bootstraps. She wanted to work herself until there was nothing left and live just for her self. She wanted to make her wishes real, but knew better than to expect them.

She tuned him out. He didn't see the independence she was layering into the idea. It wasn't a plan. It was a wish that was years old. Sometimes she was traveling to London, sometimes Paris, sometimes nowhere in particular. But there was always one caveat. She would be there. If there was no one else, it would be easier. There would be no to rely on, no one to let her down, change her dream. So she never spoke until she did. Then she wished the idea had stayed safely where it had lived since she was 13, in a locked place where only she had the key.

An Attempt At the Art of Writing

2008-07-19T22:33:00.000-07:00

She knew it had to be London.

It didn't make sense. The urge. She could barely spare the money for dinner out, constantly crunching numbers in her head. Her desire to move forward, to explore suffocated her; grabbed her fragile body into it's clutches infusing her with ideas that didn't suit her situation. London wouldn't give her an education, it wouldn't give her a physical object or a proper investment. London could only give memories: a reason to keep pushing through. She knew it was ridiculous. There was hardly money enough to support her hunger for knowledge, let alone a cross continent trip. She cursed her own silliness, wishing those ideas of want would disperse into space like matter from an atom gun.

She liked watching people on the street; studying their clothes, their gait, their mannerisms. Were they talking on cell phones? Eating ice cream? Running in heels? Each person had a story, she knew as she sat on benches in her own form of fashion. She always hoped people were watching her. She hated to be the center of attention, but she hoped someone noticed. Hoped someone like herself slowed to contemplate her carefully constructed attire. Not that it was anything special or fancy. But the jeans, and the layers of shirts with that overdone jewelry. She wanted to have a story too.

But she knew something else. That to have a story, you must have done something. Anything really, that made you stand apart from every other pierced and primped wannabe in the world. She could listen to all of the Death Cab she wanted, but that wouldn't give her reason to sit in the Arts District and have a wild history told in the smoothness of her young face.

Young, she knew that too. Too young to know what she was doing. Too young to have a story. But she knew people who had stories already. Yet she didn't want to be hasty, had been warned against it. But why wait? She couldn't understand. Thus she took up her post watching the young and the old, the couples and the singles, the artists and the musicians walking by thinking of what her story might become.

She was scared to wish away her life. Scared to hope for something and not get it. Scared to plan ahead, just to be left alone. So she thought about her heels clicking on the pavement and enjoyed the breeze against her legs. Noticed the tingly warm of her fingers around a cup of coffee. She stopped to wonder about the history of the fire house. What great stories must have started there! And she thought about the person who cemented her bench the ground and silently thanked them for their job well done. She smelled the wafting food from restaurant kitchens and winked at teenage boys as they strode by. She hoped someone would see her tucking life into the waist of her jeans and buttoning it into her shirt and zipping it up in her jacket. Keeping it as close to her skin as she could.

But there is something else out there, and she knows it. She knows she can't plan it. Knows that her story will find its way to her like the smell of peonies on a blustery spring day. And regardless of what the wise ones say, she knows it has to be London.

As I Sit Here Writing...

2008-07-03T20:08:00.000-07:00

There's a bucket full of nail polish in my doorway, a pair of purple knitting needles across the room and a best friend in my sister's bed. It's like heaven for real. There's light rock spewing from my (new!) computer, concert tickets with my name on them and a 4.5 mile running race in 9 hours. Heaven in exhaustion. But I'm learning and dealing and moving; making my life swirl around me. A dress that fits perfectly. I've taken control, holding life's hand and leading it down the divine staircase to some party I haven't heard of yet.

I spent one hundred and thirty dollars on bed clothes today. It burned my stomach, my money for sheets and pillows and (worst of all) a mattress pad. It will take almost three days of work to pay for those things that I need. "Good afternoon. Kipp Brothers. Sarah speaking, how may I help you?" "I'm sorry we're all out of that." "Your confirmation number is..." Eight long hours to collect 59 dollars then maybe a short night's rest and a couple kisses and a shower and dinner. Then again. "How may I...?" Twenty dollars here, Netflix, my pleasure for me. One thousand more, a new computer. No, no help for these things that are sucking at my newly enlarged bank account. I cringe. I feel strong from these huge expenditures and I feel nauseous and shaky. Gone are the days of paying only for my accessories, the extra clothes, lunches out with friends. Now I've got a cell phone bill and a fear of not saving enough. Of not getting hired next summer to be broke and desperate.

But that strength and toe numbing fear are pushing me to become an adult, no longer under the thumb. Telling not asking. Opening accounts, finding the cheapest-but most practical-way, keeping organized. Sleeping when there's time, but running from person to person-a working socialite of sorts. Sometimes I miss those nights alone. So I'm planning them in. Banning everyone from my special little party on Sunday night: "Munich" and tuna with rice. I sat down at the computer today and took steps toward the future. I spent money, lots of it, and called the man who loves me to make plans for that concert and inquired about a new job at school and promised to golf for my dad's birthday.

Chuck said it seemed that "Life is crazy, but good." It's a simple saying, but altogether true. I can't find a reason to stop smiling and my advancements are finally ones not made with grades. I've looked fear straight in the face and cried, I've gulped down my (rarely used) rich girl's whine and dropped (my own) beaucoup bucks on essentials that I never dreamed I'd be responsible for. And that's just it, I'm responsible. Responsible for my relationships, for my money, for my college life, for my job, for my health, for me. They're still watching me-the parents-but they've handed over the reigns letting the weight rest in my uncallused hands. It's like swimming with floaties; I've almost got the skill to swim alone, but I'm protected just in case I put my head in the water and forget to kick my legs.

I've got this energy beneath my feet like something under ground's gonna come up and carry me.
-The Killers

Somewhere Between Towne Road and Shelbourne

2008-05-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

I spent my last week at University feverishly working to turn in the last papers. (Though it wasn't anything compared to the last month of April.) I spent my last regular day at school in study halls because there is nothing left to do in class but chat and attempt to finish papers for the 3pm deadline. I spent my last period at University on a mad search for Mrs. Young with Elise then blogging. Taking 22 minutes to stop and look out the windows of the upstairs Commons with my feet propped up on a couch while strange sophomores pet each other in the other circle of chairs. Did I say pet? I think I meant paint (with eye liner)...oh, I'm not sure I should be leaving this place unattended.

I'm thinking about the future and the risks, I'm thinking about the past and the memories and I'm thinking about now and what it means to move on. I'm thinking about how I've changed, how the school has changed and how the school will change once we've gone.

I'm worried about what will happen to me in my lifetime. What will I really become? I'm worried about my relationship. It's great, but should it go on? I'm worried that I'll lose my best friend. I know I'll find another, but I don't ever want to forget now. I'm worried about this summer because...well, I always worry about summer. (Summer equals mischief and possible boredom.)

I'm thrilled for what Beloit holds for me. I'm thrilled for graduation, when I'll stand on the stage in the gym in my pewter silk eyelet dress with mustard shrug from Anthropologie and take my diploma from Mr. Webster. I'm thrilled for my graduation party. I think I've invited everyone that I know. And for once it will only be about me. For once, I won't feel obligated to give over for a sibling or a distraught friend. Finally, I get three hours when everyone is coming to see me. I'm thrilled to grow and move on with the dreams I've been formulating for years. I'm thrilled to learn and to read.

I love nostalgia. I love the sorrow in it. I love that you're happy and sad at the same time. I love to read too deeply into it. I've done it too often. I love to listen to sad music about nostalgia while thinking about the past. It's what I'm doing now, while making prose lists of my thoughts while I sit in the upstairs Commons looking out onto 116th Street. I never thought that the Commons would be located anywhere other than next to Andrew's Hall, I never thought the trailers would be replaced with grass and I never thought I would leave the University.

I didn't know I would ever grow invisible wings and fly away into the light of my dreams.

"Let life take you where you want to go."
-Dave Lichens

A Proper Ending to What Once Was a Beginning

2008-05-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

He drove away in his little yellow car at 2:49 a.m. and he took prom with him.

At 3:02 I'm still in my dress, on the floor of my bedroom, writing. I don't know when I'll get to wear the dress again, so I won't take it off. And with the disrobing, comes the growing. This was the last prom. I crossed every "t" and dotted every "i." I was even on time, early in fact. I had an amazing date, a one of a kind dress and I remembered to put deodorant on before leaving the house. (I forgot that last year.)

But its over now. It's all just a memory...the only proof of the evening are my ice blue toenails, and soon they will wear away. I told a woman today that I was 18. I think it was the first time that I announced my age as an adult. It sounded powerful, and new and young. (The woman thought I was much older.) But I am 18, just 18. Even the numbers look funny on my computer screen. With the coming of age and the end of prom, it is time to move on. To start preparing for graduation, packing for college and spending time with the people who I will leave in 3 months.

I wanted to stay out all night. We had big plans, he and I. Not big plans, so much as we were going to stay out all night...make it special, make it stand out. But my mother reminded me that I am only 18, and under her jurisdiction. Home by 12:30. I negotiated, at 11:55, to 1:15. Then there we were, stuck, with yet another time crunch. I was told not to stay up all night. So we sat on the front stoop, music playing from the little yellow car, his jacket around my shoulders and his hands in mine. I made sure to get lost in the moment, not to think about what the evening's events actually meant.

There was an imaginary banner flying behind the car as he left, it said "goodbye." I tried to wave, but my hands were full of dress fabric. Finally, I let the wave wash over me. There are no more proms. I will look back when I'm older and I'll remember tonight. I'll remember kissing on the dance floor-a first, and lying about my location at midnight and dancing on my driveway as he whispered in ear and taught me to tango. I'll remember standing at the front door, my hands full of dress fabric, my head full of kisses while wondering what was to come next and tattooing the evening into my mind: never to forget.

"Closing Time" just came on. Perfect timing. I could cry. It played on the last day of the University's musical, a sign. I almost cried then, too. All of my lasts are met with this song. Perfect. It's a hopeful song, but one of melancholy too. It's an ending. But "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." So I won't mourn the last prom, or graduation in 3 weeks or the state of my relationship. It'll work out. Because I am 18 and I stayed up until 3:22 to write about a beginning disguised as an ending.

Closing Time, time for you to go out, go out into the world
Closing Time, turn the lights up over every boy and every girl
Closing Time, one last call for alcohol, so finish your whiskey or beer
Closing Time, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
-Semisonic

Atonement

2008-03-27T20:58:00.000-07:00

I just watched "Atonement." It was amazing. It's going down as one of my favorites, not because I could watch it over and over again but because it moved me. Because it made me think, made me analyze, made me connect. Usually I hate movies that have unhappy endings. Or if I do like them, I refuse to watch them again. They have a tendency to bring me down, make me sad for days on end. But this one, this one was different.

The whole movie fit together like pieces in a puzzle, and it was one of those 5000 piece puzzles. It wasn't easy to understand, I didn't pick up on everything I'm sure to find if I watch it again. And I wouldn't have appreciated it had I watched it even a year ago. I wouldn't have understood, or found the connections that sold the movie for me. I liked that the chronology was jumbled and that there were two view points throughout the entire movie. I don't even mind that I couldn't escape into it the way I do most movies. I wouldn't want to live in that world.

One of the most important parts of the movie, for me, was what it meant for Briony to be a writer. She was enamored with it. She was completed by it, yet it was a wrecking ball. She wanted to live in the story, the way that I desperately want to live in some romantic fairy tale. She even lies to create this intricately wound story, to make drama, to see what would happen with her actions. You hate her for it. The character of Briony is the obvious antagonist, and for a small blonde teenage girl you want to kill her. What scares me is her love for drama and how she connects it with being a writer. She wants to see the drama, be the drama. And on some level, I understand. I would never do what she did. But some of her smaller attempts, some of her vicious little ways of getting attention. I've thought of them. I've wandered down that road, not far, still close enough to turn back. But I know that she wants the excitement, it fits well with her stories.

When I came upstairs, it was midnight. It was dark in the house, so I took out my computer and sat in the pitch black living room to write. Just as I did, it began to storm. There was thunder, then lightning, then the rain was rushing down from the sky. I can hear it melting into the roof and the grass outside. When I stop and listen, I shiver. I like when it storms, when all of that emotion is falling from the sky and you just have to sit and soak it in. It has nothing to do with nature, but the big booming crashes and constant downpour are strong and purposeful and scary and wonderful and...

I don't want to be like Briony. I want to live in some fairy tale, but what if it isn't true? What if even the realistic love stories aren't real? What if it doesn't happen like that? What if I don't live happily ever after? Briony ends her book happily, she feels it is her way to apologize. But that's not how it happened. They died, they died and they didn't get to live and to love. It wasn't a happy ending and it was befitting, but...does life really happen like that? Is there really no escape? It will come, life, and it will happen how it happens. I don't believe that when I was born that my life was preset for me. And I don't think I believe in destiny. But I believe in karma, and I believe in cheesy Hollywood chick flicks because they make me warm on the inside. I believe in the endless thunder and the purity of nighttime. And I know that day will come and I know that there is sensibility in the world that makes everything come together. But what I don't know, is where that will leave me standing.

Writer meets Boyfriend

2008-03-19T19:40:00.001-07:00

He was in my space. He was 200 miles away, but he was in space. He was encroaching on my breathing room, on my dying desire to be left alone, to contemplate whatever the hell I was trying to contemplate. He was pushing, pushing closer and closer and all I wanted was to push away. I almost screamed at him; I didn't know what I would scream or what would be the trigger. But I had to get off the phone, if I didn't I would have picked a fight. It didn't matter what about, but I was going to find a fight and I was going to run with it. Luckily, I got myself together and told him I had to go write. He only partially understood; he argued for me to stay on the phone, but I couldn't. I couldn't handle him anymore. I was going to tell him that he was suffocating me and I didn't know why and probably because I was more hormonal than usual and I had to write. It was that simple and that complicated. I told him I missed him before I got off the phone, but I didn't mean it. I just wanted to get away from him. I didn't want to make him think that I didn't want to date him. But I didn't want to talk to him, I just wanted to sit in a dark room and ramble into the night on my computer. I did not want to hear about how much he missed me or how boring his day was. I did not want to tell him how my physics test was or how I can't wait for him to come home. I just wanted him to go away. I wanted him to realize that I didn't want to talk and that I was only calling out of courtesy to him. Maybe I should have told him that rather than spending an hour on the phone growing more and more agitated. Will anyone ever know what it means to leave me alone? Will I ever meet someone who knows that tone in my voice and knows when to hang up? I didn't want to have a long goodbye tonight, I didn't even want to say hello. Tonight I didn't care who wanted to talk to me; I didn't want to talk to them. I didn't care who loved me; tonight I had to be left alone. Tonight was a leave-me-in-my-turmoil night. But he couldn't read it and chatted nonchalantly about missing me, so I told him I missed him too. But all I wanted was for him to go away.

You don't know me
You don't wear my chains
-Augustana

Remembering What Was, Seeing What Is and Wondering What Will Be

2008-03-01T20:04:00.000-08:00

I quit my high school girls basketball team at the beginning of last season. I knew I was making the right decision; I hated going to practice. I hated being the scapegoat and there were those days when I didn't give a crap about lay ups or drop steps. I got my parents' blessing (which was a terrifying experience) and told the athletic director and my coach that I would be ending my basketball career. I felt guilty, but I couldn't take it any more. So I quit and I felt so free. But today, today I missed it. I missed it so much.

The girls made it to the state competition this year. I was at the game to cheer them. At first I cheered in unison with the rest of the crowd, but then I got into it. I was screaming about lay ups and drop steps and critiquing shot form. All of a sudden it was like being back on the bench; I curled up and covered my face with my hands. My heart was racing and my breathe was shallow. I had spent so many hours on that bench, narrating in a raised voice that I fell right back into it. (The same way that I fell right back into my shot, when I played basketball with my brother later in the evening) I desperately wanted to be on that floor. I wanted to run with them, I wanted to wave my hands in those girls' faces and move through the plays. If nothing else, I wanted to be sitting on that bench screaming there.

But it's over. I know that. Maybe intramurals when I get to college, maybe. Something is holding me back. Somedays I all I want is to play, to feel free and watch the ball swish into the hoop. But other days, I remember the practices when I couldn't breathe, when all I wanted was to give up and stop. Those days when I tried so hard and all I got was reprimanded and beat up on: the days I came home crying. Those thoughts hang in my head and I'd hate for the real thing to return. To kill basketball for me again.

For a few moments today, I was a part of the game again. I loved it; I loved the adrenaline. And for once, I thought I might have regretted my decision. It had nothing to do with the state championship. It had to do with the ball and the team and the scoreboard. That's what matters, the game. Not all of the shit that goes with it, but the raw sport and the competition. That, that's what I miss.

I want to love you
But I don't know if I can
-Coldplay

Hello, I'm Looking for Nearest Exit

2008-02-03T19:59:00.000-08:00

Something has to change, end of story. For months I've been letting my life walk all over me. It's easy and it doesn't involve confrontation. Yes, I'm miserable, but no one is pissed at me. That's the way I want it. Of course I want everything to be different, too. I don't want conflict, but I do want adventures. I want to be a teenager and I, Sarah Healey, WANT TO MAKE MISTAKES. For most people, my mother included, this does not sound at all like the version of me that they know. And its because I'm petrified to show that side. I'm scared that it will get me into trouble. My mom would not at all be pleased that there is a part of me that wants to get into all sorts of trouble. She doesn't understand that I want to travel Europe with a backpack, a notebook and just enough money to stay at an assortment of less-than-posh youth hostels. This is what I want.

There is a catalyst of this outburst. I got an email from Elise today. She was pretty much screaming at me for letting everything kick my ass. I just sit back and let everyone walk all over me, then I complain about it. (Actually I wrote a piece last week, but didn't publish it because it was my list of whiny complaints. It was not good.) I'm stuck in a rut and she knows it and she'll probably smack me in the face if I don't do anything about it. And I WANT to do something. But how do you walk up to your mother, who believes you are one person, and tell her that you are another? How do you ask her to back off? How do you tell her you're going to start wearing makeup all of the time, even at school? How do you tell her that you're going to double pierce your ears the day you turn 18? (Which is quickly approaching) How do you tell her that you might want to date one of your good friends? (And he wants to date you too)How do you tell her you want to visit this friend at college? (Elise would come with, its just an adventure and only one night) How do you do any of this? That's the part I don't understand.

The funny thing is, I'm not so scared of venturing into the world because of my own fears. Sure I overthink things, but I have the ability to override those thoughts. It's my family that's holding me back. I don't want to get into trouble with them and I don't want to let them down. That's why I'm so excited for college. But Elise's note had a point, how will I be ready for college if I completely hide from the world during my last few months at home? If I'm having trouble acclimating now, what will I do then?

I've been thinking lately, that if I just start over again (i.e. college) my problems will be solved. I'll make sure to have a larger friend base and I won't be under the watchful eye of my mother. But can I really do it? I should use my time here to push my own limits because here, I know that I'm safe.

When I went to Beloit, my dad and I talked for nearly 10 hours. At one point we talked about the quote, "We're only young once, let's fuck it up right." Yes, this does sound quite explicit, but talking to my dad I told him I didn't want to completely fuck up my life but just experiment and grow through making mistakes. He told me that he thought that was a good idea and he'd gone through the same stage. It had been a good thing for him, but its not something my mother ever did. It made me feel good that I knew my dad knew what I was talking about because I know that my mom wouldn't. And she's the one I talk to all the time.

I'm very close to both of my parents, by I've never talked to my dad that way until Beloit. I tell my mom practically everything. She is very much the side of me that shows up to school and gets good grades. She is the side of me that is logical and black and white. She also has the ability to get inside my mind and make me feel insignificant and stupid because I knew it was a bad idea in the first place. So I don't often show the writer side of myself. She knows very few things about what I want to do when I get to college and beyond. She doesn't understand my infatuation with music lyrics or that I'm not always particularly confident. She only understands the part of me that is like her and refuses to see the rest. (Though I think she knows its there.) She wants to believe that her oldest daughter isn't "out there," but Mommy, I'm going to tell you, I am. I'm way out there.

I don't want to ruin my relationship with her by giving her my opinions and not just agreeing with everything that she says. She is my mother, thus she does get utmost respect. But do I get some wiggle room? I know that she trusts me, but she doesn't trust other people. That's the freedom problem. Even if she hasn't officially met the writer who lives down the hall. She could free her daughter from the intimidation. I'll give my mom credit, for the most part she is great about letting me be out with my friends. But I know that she is ambivalent about where I'm headed. Hanging out at Elise's house or going to the mall is one thing. But Broadripple? She's worried. Kate Moore's house? Oh yea, red light. Though for many of my questions there aren't even answers. There are guesses. But I'm too chicken to actually ask, because I don't want her to put me down. It's never a simple "no," there's always some snide voice or little anecdote to go with it that makes me feel two inches tall and like the biggest idiot ever. I know she loves me, and I appreciate that. But the passive aggressive nature needs to stop.

So that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I need help; I need out. Though I don't pack my bags for a few more months and I need to find a way to bond with what I've got and try to embrace the side of me that is currently camped out in the back of my mind. But how the hell do I do that? That's uncharted territory, though it soon needs to be explored. Because now that I think about it, there is no way that I can survive for another eight months like this. One week of second semester seemed like an eternity, what will 18 be like?

I never really gave up on
Breakin' out of this two-star town
I got the green light
I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around
-The Killers

Yet Another Moment of Friendship

2007-12-24T19:19:00.000-08:00

Let me paint a picture for you...

A seventeen year old, clad in pajamas and knitted slippers, slips down onto the couch, picks up a book in shaking hands and begins to turn to the page to where she last stopped. She's grinning as she waits impatiently for a knock at the door. Just as she opens to the correct page, she hears the door open. She hopes, so hopes that it's them. Like a small child she begins to stand, hands still shaking and heart beating uncontrollably. It's not unlike them to just walk right in, but it could just be her father. Then she heard her mother greet the new comers. It was them! And just like her childhood self she raced out of the room and took off down the wood floor. Her large feet in soft slippers skidded over the slick wood as she covered the long hall in a few wild steps. With long limbs flailing she jumped headlong into the arms of a girl who was almost a foot shorter. They hugged each other tightly for a long time. The others in the room were laughing at the excited greeting. When the girls finally released each other, she leaped into the arms of boy. He was surprised at her excited gesture, but laughed and hugged her tightly. She bounced around between the two people in the hall before leading them excitedly down to the basement.

This, obviously, was me...so me. I got back from Florida this afternoon to the tune of my family's desire for "family time." When my brother told me about all of the games we should play, I nearly started screaming. I can't take it anymore! I desperately wanted to find myself with my friends and away from this G-rated life. Finally, all I want to do is be out all night with my friends, away from my family and be curious, be a teenager.

So when Elise called to say that she and Tony would be over in a few minutes, I nearly fell off the couch with shear thrill. There are those days when I get so angry at them-though they don't know-that I can't wait for college just to get myself a bigger social pool to choose from. But when Elise called, her voice cheery and loving, my stomach filled with butterflies. I guess I love them more than I know at times. I could hardly stand waiting the five minutes for them to drive over.

I felt a little guilty ditching my family. My week away was spent with my sister and extended family. My parents had to stay here to work and my brother had school. So they were quite excited to have us home. My sister fell right into the groove, I, on the other hand, was itching to get out-or be left in solitude. This was as close as I was going to get to getting out, so I camped out in the basement for three hours with the best friends I could ever hope for.

When it was finally time for them to go, I walked them upstairs and hugged them both goodbye. I hated to see them go, but they were off to Midnight Mass with Tony's family. I wandered outside behind them to stand on the front porch. But Tony, always watching out for us, ordered me back inside. Elise called "I love you!" to my back in the funny voice that the three of use for each other. I yelled it back and they both responded, as is ceremony.

For me, it is the little moments that matter most. Elise asks sometimes if I feel left out, and usually I tell her I do sometimes. But I also tell her, that its not as important as the moments that really matter. Talking in large groups at school has nothing over standing in my kitchen as I come barreling down the hall into people that are just as excited to see me or people who will force feed me cookies. It's moments like those that matter, the moments when we use our funny sounding voices to express love for each other that are worth more than those superficial gestures. Because its those moments when emotion is involved and those moments that are plastered in my brain's book of good memories. Those are the moments full of sincerity and real personality. And those are the moments that mean something.

I am he as you are he as you are me
And we are all together
-The Beatles

Oh the Wonders of Facebook

2007-12-10T19:04:00.000-08:00

As I was trying to avoid studying for finals, I found myself surfing Facebook. I had a friend request from a girl that I knew from kindergarten all the way through 8th grade. When we were younger-as in before 5th grade-we were pretty close friends. We share the same first name, but as we grew up we lost touch. So seeing her request was something of a surprise.

I became completely engrossed in her profile, trying to find evidence of the people I once knew. I've just lost 30 minutes of my life to this little endeavor, yet it was interesting. I looked at all the people who I used to invite over for play dates and argue with during recess. They all look the same, its almost scary, these elementary school friends who look exactly the same as they did when we were 8. I became temporarily obsessed with digging up information and pictures about these people; I'm not even sure why. We aren't friends anymore, and they probably wouldn't recognize me post hair cut and jaw surgery. (Most people don't)

After my long trip to the past, I hurried over to Elise's profile to leave her a note. And as i saw her face amongst pictures of the people who are a part of my life now, it hit me how different everything is. When I was 8, even when I was 12 or 13, these were the people I knew. They were my school life, I didn't know all of them well, and some I only knew by name and face but they were the people I was surrounded by everyday and had been for years. Now they are distant memories, and this new group of complete strangers is my life. At this point, I don't know a world without an Elise and a Tony and Steve Clapp and Mischa, and Jordan and Kelsie. No, I'm not close with all of these people, but they are what make up the population I see everyday. But they are complete strangers to my zoned out eyes, I was lost in the College Wood days. There was something in those pictures that connected me to those old schoolmates and made my new ones impostors. For a quick moment, Elise was some grown up teenage girl who I didn't recognize, she didn't fit with those old days, my childhood.

It's strange how important these people are now. I never knew that I would know this University crowd, I thought I would always know the Carmel crowd. I thought that they would always be most important in my life, now I think that Elise and Tony will be most important. But when I leave college, I'm afraid, even that will have changed. Its life cycles, all of this ranking of importance of people. Though you don't realize that the cycles are taking place until you're on your laptop-the one you never thought you'd have-logging into Facebook-though you swore you'd never get a profile-leaving messages for people you call your best friends, but probably won't know in 10 years-though you swear to love each other forever. It's sort of depressing, to think about it like that. Yet, there is a light behind it all. Those Carmel people didn't do it for me, they left me in the cold. The University people have brought be closer, though only 2 have taken me in. So I'm getting nearer and nearer to being fully accepted and college will bring me even closer. These are stages, I guess, and as hard as it is to watch it all fly by, that must mean that the future brings even more hope than I had thought for.

Let life take you where it wants to go
-Dave Lichens

For a Soldier I Support and A War I Don't Love

2007-12-07T11:44:00.000-08:00

I thought that I was the only one holding back tears this morning. I could have let go, could have cried and cried for someone I don't know well, but love all the same. The glowsticks, the random videos, even the unpolished words that were said by students touched my heart and made the sentimentalist in me break through.

I'm glad I wasn't saying anything about Dr. Vesper's departure, I would have been on stage balling. It's not that he's my mentor, I've never even had him as a teacher, yet he is so important to the school and part of that big extended family. I hated to see him go, just for that reason, not to mention the possible dangers that he is heading into.

That looming fear behind the military had lodged itself inside of my heart and I felt overwhelming empathy for Dr. Vesper, though his calm voice and steady step showed not an ounce of ambivalence. For that, I couldn't have been more honored to be in his presence.

I never know what to do with these feelings, usually I diagnose myself with being "such a girl" and try to stop the tears so that I don't show weakness. But for Dr. Vesper, I would have cried in front of everyone. It didn't matter that my relationship with him wasn't as strong as others I have at school, the feeling of family and devotion to everyone here would make me cry for anyone.

I've got a sympathetic heart that beats,
and I don't mind that it's starting to get to me
-The Killers

Why Little Moments Matter

2007-11-27T17:44:00.000-08:00

Crying deeply, sobbing with tears streaming down her face, the girl knew that she had finally grown up. Not grown up completely, she wasn't even 18 yet-but she was getting close. She curled her body into her friend's lap and pushed her forehead deep into the crevice between her collar bone and shoulder and hoped never to pull herself away.

They sat in that awkward position, the larger of the two girls crumpled on top of the shorter one. The friend was rubbing the long heaving back and speaking calmly and slowly while the distraught one shuddered words of despair and curses against herself.

In those moments, neither doubted why they were friends. It was simple, regardless of any other fights or struggles, the fact that one was there to hold the other made all of the difference. Neither could question the simplicity in that.

Rarely did the crying girl ever cry, she didn't like to show weakness and didn't like to get involved in emotion. But there she was weeping, while her entire body shook and tears and mascara were smeared across her face. She wanted to get away. She wanted to be a grown up right then and there. She had lost patience in her family and in the life that she knew all too well. She was ready for a change and didn't want to stop until she got one. But everyone knows that nothing in life is ever that easy, so she rocked back and forth on the floor of her friend's bedroom so that for a few moments they both swayed like willows in the wind.

Finally the crying subsided and the girl pulled herself away to look into her friend's eyes and listen to the comforting words. At that moment nothing made sense, yet for some reason, that didn't matter. All that mattered was that she had someone to care enough to listen to her cry and swear not to tell anyone.

I've Been to the Top of the World And It is a Lovely View

2007-11-03T14:56:00.000-07:00

Today was the day. It could have been Armageddon all over again, it could have been Apocalypse Right Now. But it wasn't. Today fits under the category of Perfection. Of course there was tons of stress, but everyone needs a bit of stress every now and again to get the blood pumping. And all I have to say is, man, it feels good.

At this point my excessive giggly high has worn off. I waited until it had dispersed to write this. I wanted to have some perspective before delving into nine months of work polished off like one of those Mini Oreos in one quick-and oh so delicious-bite. They warned me about that, that all of sudden it would all be done and I'd have some sort of post race depression. Well, it has yet to sink in. Today went so well that all of the past may have been worth it in the end.

I have never been a popular person. People like me, sure, and I get along; but I am by no means a person with full social graces. I put on a good show and attempt small talk, but big crowds have a tendency to make me clam up. If you ask me a question, I'll answer with poise, but I can't start a conversation with people I don't know well. (Seriously, I'd be voted off of Survivor: Cocktail Party in about 30 seconds) Today, though, was different. After the race, I was shmoozing. (So to speak) I, my father's child, was working the crowd. I bounced up to people I rarely talk to and asked how they felt about the race. Anything I should think about for next year? I started conversations with people I thought that I should thank and ran around shaking hands as if I were some pro. Not to mention my stutter, which has been getting worse with the mounting pressure, was almost completely invisible. My tongue didn't get caught in that paralyzed position pushing the roof of my mouth and I didn't have to break eye contact to find my words and begin again. In fact, I was grabbing up microphones all over the place and speaking into them at a comfortable pace without shaking hands or too much mouth breathing. I was invincible. I was the freaking belle of the ball. Everyone was happy to see me, everyone was hugging me and congratulating me. I was getting my 15 minutes of fame, but I never knew it could feel this good. Is this what's it's like to be popular? (Exhausting, but quite pleasurable)

This was my way to make a big impact. I've spent my time at University working hard to help others and make my mark on the school. I never knew this would be what would do it, but I think Spirit Run gave me the boost I needed. When a student who graduated two years ago asked if I was playing basketball, I told him I wasn't and that I quit last year. He was flabberghasted. He screeched about "You're senior year!!" And finally I was proud to say, "THIS is my senior year," as I opened my arms to encompass all 451 participants, unnumbered volunteers, 4 cop cars, a 10 foot tall finish line banner, radio station vehicle, professional DJ, 6 tables of refreshments and chip timing company. Finally there was pride behind the event that I thought would kill me. By the end I didn't care if anyone remembered me for it or if it was some phenomenal success; I just wanted to get it over with so that I could go bed and forget about the whole ordeal. But now, the last thing I want to do is forget. (Well, today at least. The last few months is still questionable.)

But all of these weeks that I've toiled with my group of parents and few loyal students paid off. I got to school at 6am this morning to find that I had nothing to do. I helped with carrying things around and did what Jeff-our event planner-asked. I ran around and checked on everyone and after awhile, got the chance to direct volunteers. (Who came out in enthusiastic droves) Everything was going so smoothly, I couldn't have prayed for anything better. The moms were teasing me, saying that I was like the Bride, and they should have brought in a hair and makeup artist for me. Of course I was stressed, but I was smiling like I might never smile again. (Not to mention I drank 3 cups of coffee to stave off the exhaustion.)

There was only one glitch in the entire morning, and its good that there weren't anymore because I might have gone completely over the edge. Nick left his drum set at the firehouse in the darkness of 7am. (Which, I admit, is probably not the best idea.) He left for an hour and came back to find his kit missing. So I get the panicked call and started going bizerk. After about 30 minutes I got another call saying that they found it. A random man drove by and saw the drum set and took it home. He didn't want "anything bad" to happen to it. To which I say "riiight, that's not shady." But he gave it back and the world was set right. Of course the overwhelming feeling of relief turned into a bit of hyperventilation right before the pre race announcements...oops. But, to prove the whole day was a success, I was able to calm myself into a less breatheless state and move right along with the program, no questions asked.

I never thought the day would turn out like this. At the beginning, in March, I was optimistic, but I was naive and inexperienced. I knew that then, but I didn't know about the obstacles that I would run into or who I might be in the end. I didn't know that for months I would hate the race, that I would hate some of the parents and that for a few days my best friend might hate me. After the fateful day, though, I can say that some of it was worth it. And I never thought I might have anything optimistic-other than the lessons I learned-to say about the experience. But that feeling of being on top of the world counteracts all of the exhaustion, the hours spent preparing agendas and sending emails, and the deep dark wells that lined the pale skin below my eyes for weeks at a time. That high is priceless and you can't understand it until it has happened to you. Learning from experience has its downsides, but there are those moments that make every last painful day worthwhile. And I finally understand why.

I came, I saw, I kicked some ass
-Boomkat

The Significance of Fingernail Polish

2007-10-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

My mother finds the habit nearly repulsive. She has no problem with normal colored fingernails, but something about my favorite dark colors give her the creeps. Maybe the black polish often worn by people sporting a gothic style gives her the right to see my navy blues and dark browns as "scary," but itsn't at all meant that way. I would actually like to paint my nails black occasionally, but that might send her-and my sister-over the edge. To them, dark colored nails mean something bad. I'm not sure what that something is, but whatever it is, it ain't good.

Of course, only to send them into a bigger frenzy, I can't explain my occasion obsession with nail polish. Sometimes I just get the overwhelming need to go to "the creative side" and experiment in a world of color. Thus I'm currently wearing a lovely shade of dark brown with red undertones and something shiny. It's as if the writer in me is taking over and the person behind the poems leaps out in a true writer's fashion-without any reason at all. This doesn't resonate with my scientific minded family, but they go along. They can't understand why my nails must be some dark and un-matching color. And I can't tell them about the urge-the same one that makes me obsessively line up all of the silverware when I set the table-that tells me to whip out my box of varnishes, regardless of whether or not I actually have time to painstakingly paint the little brush along all ten of my thin nails. I can't explain in words why I want to pierce my nose, double pierce my ear lobes and wear an absurd amount of rings and bracelets. Just because, is all I can say, and that is hardly a reason.

But every now and again, I understand the creative side of myself, the side that makes me write. And I can't forget to embrace it. Whenever the poet decides to inhabit my brain, I must lay out the welcome mat and comfort her as if she were a queen. Because I never know when she will step out and when she might return again. Without my writer self, I am like my Mom (not that that is a bad thing), but everything becomes more systematic, less emotional and much more cut and dry. But there is something exciting and mysterious in being a writer, and I don't want to lose it to whatever ideas a streamlined society might have in mind for me. My haircuts, jewelery and nail polishes should let me stand alone and wear my poetic colors as if they were my skin.

In your heart you know what you must do
You've only got yourself to answer to
-John Gregory

I...Can't...Breathe...

2007-10-25T19:31:00.000-07:00

My chest is tight, like I've just finished a long run and deep breathes are only making me dizzy. I feel like I should be moving in super speed, like a video game, but I can't move. I'm too tired to think, let alone keep myself from hyperventilating.

But I finished my run 4 hours ago and the house is silent except for my typing fingers and computer speakers. I'm not surrounded by masses of people (which can bring on this feeling), but I'm alone with piles of work to be done some time in the near future. And I'm not sure if I can handle it all. There will be a break down, I think, and it will be soon. I hope I don't flip out like I usually do and end up in breatheless tears. But if it means that this feeling of being overwhelmed will go away and I'll be rational, then I might take it.

When I am exceptionally stressed, I twitch. It's not Tourette's. (I checked online.) But it is something, it got really bad in the end of my junior year, but almost completely disappeared during the summer and has occasionally recurred this year. Right now, it won't come. The twitch, which is usually a violent shake and deep inhale of breathe, sounds and looks very strange-if not sick-but it usually relieves some stress in my body. I can't control it, but sometimes it will take over my body for hours, so that I'm moving uncontrollably every few minutes. And sometimes it will come once and go away. But my body won't twitch now, I can feel the tension building and I'm holding my breathe as I write. (not on purpose) It isn't making anything better, and I wish that for once my body would do me the pleasure of a moment in twitching frenzy.

I should be doing something productive right now, but I can't think. Hell, I can't breathe. How did I get myself into this mess? It probably isn't that much, but for the moment it looks as though I've fallen into a very deep well. The homework isn't too overwhelming, but the Spirit Run, Student Action Foundation and a dreaded babysitting job are mounting themselves upon my shoulders. I always say I can take anything you can throw at me, I probably can. But right now I don't want any of it. I want to sit in a quiet room, twist my body into some strange yoga position and meditate for a couple of hours. But there is no time for that, Spirit Run is in 9 days, the silent auction-which I haven't started working on-is in 3 weeks and Jeff isn't here to help me. And I HATE babysitting for the Sarjents! I keep taking the weekly jobs to make sure that Erin has a job once she gets off of her crutches. But the ways and thought processes of small children are hard on me. I don't understand games without structure and I DON'T respond well to whining. But at $8 per hour, I guess I should take whatever they throw at me, it's not like I have plans for Saturday night.

Oh, I can't do this, any of this. Get me out of here! I need out, I can't handle it. I just can't. But I have to. I signed the suicide note myself, so I have to go through with it, all of it. Maybe the weekend will help. Maybe I will be able to dig myself out of this mound of charity work. Charity, it's a good thing. But when did charity become the growing the tumor in my airways?

Head under water
And they tell me to breathe easy for awhile
The breathing gets harder
Even I know that
-Sara Bareilles

Rhodes in an Evening

2007-10-19T13:50:00.001-07:00

Even as I walked confidently onto to campus, I couldn't decide whether or not I was walking myself into some sort of trap. It is best to do overnight college visits to get an idea of how the atmosphere is away from the admissions office. This overnight is supposed to see how you feel amongst students in the college, experience college life and learn about the less than utopian parts of the institution. Well this all sounded well and good but, I know me. And I know that I don't take kindly to large groups of people and have a tendency to be way to serious in social situations because I have no idea how exactly I'm supposed to act. In the past this has gotten me into all sorts of outcast situations and has made me fear getting lost from Elise and Tony. I am never sure if I can stand on my own socially. I can conquer the world, but an evening with people I don't know; just kill me now.

Something about visiting Rhodes was exciting. I knew that it would help with this whole college decision process-or make it worse depending on if I liked what I saw. And I was excited about the prospects of living college life for a night. But the usual social inadequacies were becoming overwhelming. Still I was going to do what I had to do and try to mimic the people around me to fit in. (This made packing very difficult, I had an outfit for every type of person that might host me. Trivial, I know, but go with it.)

Melissa met me in the huge Haliburton Tower at the edge of Rhodes' gothic style campus. We started chatting quickly, as most people do when they're being good "hosts." I do that small talk all the time at open houses and such. We wandered around campus, talking and discussing Rhodes. I was fascinated, of course, by the place. I'd been there before, but it had been two years. And I was in raptures with the beautful limestone buildings.

Then it was time to meet her friends. Nate and Heather were doing homework in Heather's room. Melissa needed help with Spanish, so we gathered in the nicely sized dorm room (Of which I made a mental note) Nate was much more interested in getting my entire life story than working on homework. I did fine answering his questions and was able to act with great calmness. I tried not to talk too much, but to be poignant and thorough. The good news was these answers showed that I fit perfectly with these people. I like rock and alternative music, but hate Nickelback. I love to learn and am very competitive. I have a knack for French and I'm very close to at least one of my siblings. And I have a sickening obsession with Grey's Anatomy.

Though all of this was only surface deep, I was connecting and they seemed to like me. We all went to dinner and afterward it was hair dying time. The three girls who lived in the dorm room that we were hanging around in decided that we needed entertainment and thus it was time for new hair colors. So it turned into social hour. People from other rooms and floors were coming by and it was like an open house. People would come, chat, leave, come back. I wandered about and talked with everyone. Because it is still early in the year, being a "ProStud" was still a hot commodity and thus most everyone at least shook me hand. (I even got a compliment on my firm handshake.) This was great. Then it was Grey's time and we made every noisy person leave because god forbid we miss a moment of a McDreamy monologue. Then it was right back to socializing. I was getting tired (thanks, eternal exhaustion) so I started to withdraw. But I wasn't uncomfortable. I was still enjoying myself and involved in the general buzz of conversation. Nate sat me down and talked to me for nearly half an hour at one point, and he seemed a lot like me. We understood each other, proving that Rhodes would probably be a good fit for me.

After hours of endless talking, three heads dyed and way too many YouTube videos. Melissa and I went back to our room at 12:30am. We talked with one of her roomates, then got ready for bed. But when I came out of the bathroom, there was a very large man laying on the floor face down. As it turns out his name was Chris and he was well....a bit sloshed. Once the girls got him laying on the futon he realized it wouldn't be good that a ProStud saw all of his drunkness. Of course, I was hardly fazed and quite entertained, and told him not to worry about it. But after many failed attempts at getting up, he decided it was timet to leave. So leaning on Anna he started to exit, but looked back only to say. "Hey, you're cute. I'd make out with you." He winked, then kept slurring. "Come up and see me, maybe tomorrow." And, as rumor has it, he talked about me as he walked upstairs. So I must not have looked too much like a newbie after all. But Melissa and I had a good laugh. And I happended to see Chris this morning, he winked at me and smiled. (Which means, I presume, he did actually remember last night's beer fest extravaganza)

After my own extravaganza, (but alcohol linked of course) I was confidnet enough to wink back a Chris. I never once had that deer in the headlights look of underage and antisocial fear. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and hated to leave. Does this mean I'm going to Rhodes? I still don't know. I need to see how Beloit turns out. But regardless of what happens at Beloit, I know that there is a place for me at Rhodes and more importantly, a place for me in social life.

"I came, I saw, I kicked some ass."
-Boomkat

It's one of THOSE moods

2007-10-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

It's 11:30 and my parents are out, my sister is with her friends, and my brother is sound asleep. The three fifths of the family that is abroad should be arriving home any time now. But I don't want them to get here, not yet. After watching a French movie and preparing a large French dinner with a friend, we talked about philosophy, love and family. It was one of those deep conversations that I rarely get to have with anyone. And this is a person who I rarely speak to, but she and I can connect when we do spend time together. After she left, I was alone. (Except for my snoring brother) I knew that I should go to bed, I'm exhausted. But instead I felt productive, which brings me to where I sit on the floor of the unfinished storage room in the basement that has been fitted to be my sewing/scrapbooking room. I did a couple of long overdue alterations on some new clothes, but then was stuck. I couldn't keep going becuase I ran out of small projects. I'm listening to my favorite songs, mostly songs about the future, life and love-or lack there of. They're the ones that make me feel strong. During our conversation, Kassy and I seemed to cover the world twice over and it all made me contemplate everything. I feel like if I sleep or even turn on the TV I'll lose it. I want to stay stuck in this moment. But my family will return soon and turn off my deep introverted self. I will have to ask how their evenings were and then I will be told that I should get some sleep. (Which is true) I have to be up at 8am tomorrow, so sleep is dire.

And they're home. Heels are clicking on the floor above me and the images are slowly trickling away.

I've just asked every last posing and polite question I could think of. I feel like I can't stay in this contemplative state becuase I'm being watched. Though everyone else is heading off to bed, I'm not alone anymore. Right now, I want to be alone, I want to appreciate whatever part of me was alive ten minutes ago. But its too late for that now and the part of me that is usually active, the sensible side, is telling me to do my stretches and get to bed before time keeps passing me." You silly writer; life will eat you if you let it wash over you, don't be naive, be concrete. It will keep you out of trouble."

"Don't bother me with all of your realities."
-The Veronicas

Qui vole mon sommeil? (Who stole my sleep?...it works better in French)

2007-10-03T19:18:00.000-07:00

Anyone who saw me today, this morning especially, could tell that something wrong. Looking the mirror, my face was a pasty white tinged with yellow. My brown/black eyes didn't shine, but were dull with a bored brown tone. Beneath my eyes sat pools of filled with hints of green and purple hues. There were lines etched deep into my face that roped off the bags under my eyes and made my lack of sleep obvious. Everyone knew, it was if I had a sign on my forehead that screamed "Sarah is about to fall off the edge of the earth." And I could have, I could have walked off of a cliff and not even noticed. I was falling asleep in AP English and didn't even need to entertain myself in government because I was sleeping with my eyes open.

I've been working so hard and so long that I usually go to bed around 11:30 and drag myself out of bed at 7:30 to leave at 7:50. I've mastered the 5 minute shower-which includes washing my hair. And-I'm quite proud of this-I can shave my 36 inch inseam legs in under six minutes, without cutting myself. Though these are subtle (and ridiculous) accomplishments. How fast I can wash my hair shouldn't be something I'm proud of. But right now, if it means that I get to sleep five minutes longer, I'm willing to try to anything. I may not be up until 12:30 or 1am like many people, but how many people make the very most of their waking hours? I'm doing at least two if not three or four hours of homework a night. And that doesn't include whatever other sort of activity I've got planned for that day. There are weeks where I'm tired, but surviving and weeks that I can handle the work load and amount of sleep. But weeks like this one come just often enough to keep me aware of physical and mental strain. I'm pushing the limit right now, pushing it with all of my might. The fact that the entire school could see my exhaustion meant that I'm going head to head with the breaking point. Hopefully I won't reach it, but I won't know until there is a head on collision.

"This is just the price I pay, destiny is calling me." -The Killers

8 Reasons Why I Have No Interest in Being a Mother

2007-10-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

1. Being awakened by a terrified 10 year old at 5 AND 6:45am is not my idea of a relaxing Saturday morning. The first wake up call came with “I heard weird noses in the house.” This was a simple answer of “The house creaks. Now go away.” Of course, this didn’t suffice, so the ankle biter took up residence on the floor of my bedroom. The second time that the boy was leaning over my bed, he was convinced that there MUST be someone in house. So I dragged my exhausted behind out of bed and took a lap through the halls followed closely by my charge. And, as I suspected, this revealed that there was absolutely, positively, no one wandering around the house.
2. I couldn’t yell at the petrified child because that would be cruel. I remember the days when I was convinced that someone was going to break into my house. I remember being terrified right out of my Pocahontas pajamas that the thunderstorms were going to “get me.” But I also remember that my parents didn’t wail on me for wailing on them, so I felt I owed the same to my annoying little brother. (Regardless of whatever ungodly hour it may have been)
3. I have to get up at the early hour of 9am to take the aforesaid child to his soccer game. Not only does this completely suck on the grounds of waking up before my body was done sleeping, but those games have a tendency of going on forever. This specific example though, comes with a twist. The boy was supposed to wake me up at 8:30 for the 9:15 game. But because of his early morning excursions, he was sound asleep at 9am, when the 15 year old happened to wake up and scream, “It’s 9! It’s 9! Get up!” At this, we run around the house trying to get ready to go to the field. A very short time later, our soccer player realizes that actually it is 9:15, not 9. I then run helter skelter into the “mommy mobile” dragging my brother in one hand and carrying my shirt, shoes, socks, keys, and purse in the other. After finding out exactly how fast the mini van takes to go from zero to sixty, we arrive at the field no worse for the wear. But that is definitely not a desirable way to start the day.
4. Cleaning up the kitchen while everyone else watches T.V. is a definite bummer. Not only are they enjoying themselves while being entertained by the “boob tube” but they aren’t working! How fair is that? Not to mention, I’m the one who got covered in watermelon juice and had to cook the dinner in the first place.
5. Listening to little children jabber about nothing is not particularly exciting. Of course, that doesn’t matter because they’ll do it whether you are interested in hearing it or not. And, as it turns out, some children-like my favorite 10 year old-have a tendency to take three hours to spit out one sentence-which is probably chock full of bad grammar. Thus I must correct the dear child and try not to strangle him as he repeats the first three words each sentence 3 to 4 times before finally completing the idea.
6. The art of making smelly boys shower. My first question is, since when is a shower a bad thing? I, in fact, am a fan of such an activity. But, because this is life, my brother feels exactly the opposite. Not only does he reek of three day old B.O., but he is covered from head to toe in sweat, grime and remnants of meals from the last 36 hours. He must think that his certain scent is attractive-or at least not repulsive-but he is sorely wrong. Even opening all of windows in my mommy’s red mommy mobile couldn’t help the hideous problem. And he had no interest in actually taking a shower, he was much more interested in arguing with me about it.
7. Making lists of things that I MUST NOT forget while trying to fall asleep. As a rule, mother or not, I’m always making lists. But when I am planning as a mother, everything that comes to my head at midnight is much more imperative because it pertains to people other than myself. If I forget my Physics book, that’s my problem. If I forget to remind my 10 year old dingbat to bring his soccer cleats to soccer practice, it becomes both of our problem.
8. All of sudden I'm always worrying, always cleaning up and always thinking about what we should have for the next meal. For the most part, I don't fall victim to the day to day practices of being "mother like." I know plenty of teenage girls who are positively overjoyed about babysitting-for more than just the money. They are the girls, usually, who already have names picked out for their hypothetical children and used to play with dolls when they were little. I have never been this girl. I do have a tendency to turn on the motherly instinct when put in charge-temporarily-of my brother, but rarely to I crack to the tendency that was instilled in me as a female. But something about being left in charge of both my siblings for 3 days really got to me. I was sick with "momminess." I was constantly cleaning up messes made by the three of us and running to the grocery to make sure we'd have enough food for whatever meal I decided we would have. For three days, all I did was worry about feeding and taking care of my siblings. I forgot about homework and my social life, I was Mom. I didn't gripe about getting out of bed to check for intruders or moan about getting water for my sister on crutches-not outwardly anyway. I actually thought about driving the speed limit. (This is a step for me.) And I was very conscience about my brother's hair and clothing. He wouldn't like a heathon while I was in charge.

For all of this added stress, I have no interest in making this a permanent part of my life. Maybe, in ten years, this will change and I will look back at my 17 year old self and laugh at my own foolishness. (This is very possible, I have done this many times before.) What the hell was I thinking? I might wonder. But for now I'm sticking to my points. I have one mommy and 50% of the time, I drive a mini van. This is more than enough mommy for me, thank you very much!

Blunders and Beloit, and why they go together

2007-09-20T19:37:00.000-07:00

For the second time in my entire 17 years and six months of existance (exactly 6 months as of today) I have had an epiphany. Yes, I know I must sound nuts and spend way too much reading into AP English. But no, I'm not the only one who has declared last night's unexplainable jumpy feeling as an epiphany-my father, mother and Mr. Webster agree.

After a half an hour session listening to the rep from Beloit at "University's College Night" I was filled with so much uncontrollable excitement that I could hardly relay my thoughts into speakable sentences. Before sitting in Room 212-where usually I'm crying with pain from my Physics class-I knew that I liked Beloit, in fact it was possibly number one on my list. But it was tied with Rhodes. They both fit the small, liberal arts stereotype and I would do well at either one. Lately though, as my parents and I discuss college and receive an entire forest's worth of mail, Beloit is seeming more and more like it is IT. Their pamphlets are filled with disjointed words about life that are supposed to explain to you what you'd get at Beloit. To my mother, this all sounds quite ludicrous, but she knows me and sees my general exstaticness (Is that a word?) and agrees that Beloit is pulling into first place among the colleges.

Anyway, yesterday after school I was supposed to have an interview with Beloit. Well, I thought it was Beloit, but somehow in my haste and lack of concentration towards anything not pertaining to my rigorous high school schedule-and my favorite Spirit Run-, I had been emailing Rhodes for the past month setting an interview up with their rep, not the one from Beloit. Big time oops! (Though it is now Mr. Webster's favorite Healey story, I guess he was telling people all about it at that parents get together tonight. At least I provided entertainment for someone.) Well I went right through the interview as if I knew exactly what was going on-which I didn't. By the end of the my 45 minute chat with Meggan, I still liked Rhodes. But was Rhodes IT? I needed more time-which I have-at both places and I knew that.

So later last night, I wandered myself into the room containing the Beloit rep, Valerie. Mr. Webster had already talked with her-thinking I had seen her that afternoon. He told me how excited she was about me and she knew all about me-as it turns out, from the woman who interviewed me when I was on campus. Valerie was most excited to meet me and told me she had heard all about me. (I was impressed.) I listened to her shpeal and took notes about the things that fit me perfectly. I was feeling really good about Beloit. So I made sure to push myself upon the poor woman after her presentation. I told her I thought that Beloit might be IT. I wasn't lying, but was it a true statement? I hadn' t quite decided yet. So I shook her hand after a short converstaion and left the room. That's when it hit me.

All of a sudden I was consumed by this overwhelming feeling of joy. My stomach was curled in a tight ball filled with about a million very eager butterflies and my whole body rushed with blood and I shook as I walked. Every last one of my favorite "pump up" songs swam through my head at the same. I could hardly speak, but I had to tell someone. Tell them what? THAT BELOIT IS IT! I couldn't contain myself so I whipped out my cell phone and began dialing my mom's cell number. (She spent the evening with Erin, pondering the future of my much undecided younger sister) I couldn't wait until I practically flew down the stairs to find them, so I had to call. But the phone made a funny beeping noise and cut out. NO! I had to tell someone, epiphanies aren't something you just keep to yourself.

As I dashed down the stairs, I was looking for anyone who would care about my wildly beating heart and quickly mounting stutter. But my mother was nowhere to be found, Mr. Webster was deep in conversation (because that is so unusual) and Mrs. Vreede hadn't seen Elise in some time. Finally I spotted my mother and sister. In two steps I must have covered 10 feet and I was screaming in my mother's face. "IT'S BELOIT! BELOIT IS IT! I HAVEN'T FELT LIKE THIS SINCE COMING HERE!" I was jumping up and down and pointing to the floor that my feet were thumping.

My parents knew that I didn't want to even look at University initially, but I listened to Mr. Webster for 15 minutes and knew I would never go anywhere else. I had that same overwhelming feeling of knowing, just knowing. And last night my mom wasn't going to argue with that. I was shivering from head to toe and was practically running in circles around her waiting to tell Mr. Webster, who was just as excited, but told me to try to breathe a little bit and gather my thoughts.

By now, between Mr. Webster and myself there has been a full frontal assault on poor Valerie, some of which I consider fate. Mr. Webster's intitial meeting with her could have gone very badly, considering my wrong information. But it worked, they were so impressed by me that she knew who I was regardless of the fact that I hadn't had an interview that day. It was one of those things that worked, the same way that I know exactly what that feeling means. Everything came together like puzzle pieces and though I'm not usually a person for believeing in fate, I think this might it.

I've still got to do my overnights at both colleges and apply to even more. But I'm am nearly 100% sure that I will be at Beloit in a year. A YEAR?! Wow, that's soon!

Suddenly it seems so right.
-Aqualung

A Prayer for the Inhabitants of 5559 Washington Blvd.

2007-09-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

Silence fell over us and the clock ticked and the floor creaked. The only human made sound was the quiet but labored breathing of the 22 year old resting in a chair between her grandparents. Her hair was braided into two greasy ropes and she wore sweats over her large body swollen with disease. Her hands were clasped around a glass of cold water, but bringing the drink to her lips was more effort than she could afford to spend.

When the moments of silence descended upon my grandmother's kitchen, my poor cousin would look down dejectedly and wait for someone else to continue talking. It wasn't an akward silence, it was filled with sadness for Kelsey and her own exhaustion. Among Kelsey's many medical diagnoses, the latest is renal failure. Currently she is in the Teach for America program and is supposed to be living in Mississippi for two years working as a teacher. But with this latest medical setback she had to come home to rest and recuperate.

Usually the life of the party, Kelsey hardly moved and groaned whenever she shifted in her chair telling stories about her latest adventure. Her voice was soft and her eyes were sad and glazed. She couldn't tell anyone what medication she was on, she just knew there was a lot of it. She didn't laugh with her younger cousins and tell the stories of hilarity that she has been promising for some time now. The book that sat next to her glass, right where she dropped it when she entered the house, didn't interest her the way books usually do. She couldn't remember what it was about and she'd have to read it another time.

Seeing my cousin in this much pain was nearly unbearable. It is common knowledge-to the family-that Kelsey is always hurting somewhere and always having some sort of medical related problem, but for her to give in and show it means there is something tremendously wrong. And the silences that kept befalling 5559 Washington Boulevard were proof of the pain that was overflowing the room. Kelsey graduated from Butler University less than four months ago, she is young, smart and the hardest worker I've ever meant. But she is sick, she has always been. I hated picking her up at the airport when she was so dejected about leaving the job she loved. She felt worse about leaving these kids who needed her more than about what was actually wrong with her.

And we don't actually know what went wrong. We may find out sometime in the future, but it may also stay a hidden secret like her Lupus. For someone who has so much potential, she has as many things pulling her down. But this seems to be a trend in the family. My grandfather has overcome a great physical disability-cerebellar ataxia-but in his old age is creating a longer list of diagnoses. His inability to balance makes all of these new problems worse and makes it nearly impossible for my grandmother to leave him for periods longer than an hour. And at times, a variety of reactions in his body make it impossible for him to leave the house, thus they both are stuck.

And seeing my grandfather last night was also a painful sight. For once he wasn't dressed in dress pants, nice shoes and a button down shirt. He wore sweats and slumped in his wheelchair. His usual loud and neverending voice was nearly silent and though he usually slurs-a piece of the cerebellar ataxia-he was nearly impossible to understand. Unfortunately, he was not one of two dilapidated creatures in the room; he was one of three.

My grandmother has taken a great beating from all of her husband's recent malfunctions. Though she puts on a great face and has dealt with the cerebellar ataxia for the last 50 years, this recent bout of infections and such are wearing on her. She is pale and walks a little slower. She was trying her best to care for Kelsey as she dragged her own failing body into the house, but Mo was more than ready to let Erin and I take the reigns the moment that we entered the house. She has been missing out on her usual activities in the church and with her well established friends around the city. When they couldn't come to Rosh Hashanah dinner the other night, she was crushed. One day she is going to wear herself down to nothing, and the world will come to a momentary stop. In my mind, that time will never come. She is invicible and she will stay that way, right?

The younger cousins filed out of the house behind their father, the grandmother's oldest son. The grandmother led the wilted granddaughter to a back bedroom and away from the warm kitchen. The grandfather slouched in his chair and said goodbye to the departing party, and they waved back, wishing the people they were leaving behind Good Luck and hoping they weren't making a mistake leaving them alone. But the grandmother called out that they would be fine and to quit worrying so much.

But we can see past all of their brave faces. As a Healey, you are good at covering things up and regularly tell yourself how lucky you are, regardless of how bad the future may look. That's what they're doing, hopefully they'll know when to ask for help, because I'll wait up all night for the phone call.

Where to turn?

2007-09-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

(Disclaimer: I'm probably beating a dead horse with all of this nonesense, but I don't want to share all of with my mother, for fear that she will look at me reproachfully and give me some speech on why I shouldn't date and why THEY shouldn't be dating. And I could write about this and not share, but that would be a waste of writing time. Thus here is my never ending babble on the story of friendship...if the story gets old, I apologize in advance.)

Everyone loves to "oo" and "ah" over a cute couple. Everyone also has a tendency to gaze akwardly at the lone person who spends time with the adorable duo. Or at least, this is how it all seems. And as it seems that I am the lone single at the side of one such dynamic duo, I get to write in frustration of the love that I "get" to watch blossom.

The event that is spurring this current outburst is the events that are and are not taking place this Friday evening. It should be noted that Friday is Tony's 18th birthday. There was talk that the three of us would go to dinner that night to celebrate. I had a feeling that plans might change, but I hadn't seen that they might go in this direction.

As it turns out, Elise and Tony are going out with his parents. This is all well and good for everyone, except the third wheel.

Would it be weird for me to go along? Yea, probably. "But," my mind is screaming. "B-b-but. What about me?" I want to yell at them and curse their relationship and my relationship with them. And I want to tell them every last mean word that I have thought of to say to them and tell them, for once, how I truly feel. But life, I've found, will never be that easy. Because, I love them, I really do. But their relationship just complicates the friendship, which is not a problem for them because they're in the relationship, not watching it.

The words are still burning in my mind and in my heart. I know that I shouldn't be pissing and moaning and taking all of this to heart, but I am. This is why I closed myself up in middle school. Too much drama and the teasing of other girls made it impossible for me to keep myself open. (Note to self: teenage girls are cruel.) So, I turned my heart to stone and let little affect me. But thanks to the two people curled up together on the couch four feet away from me, I took that wall down. It took time and at times I was worried about what might happen by making myself vulnerable, but I was in the hands of people who loved me, they wouldn't hurt me. Or would they?

Unfortunately-or maybe fortunately-they have little to no idea how much this stings. I should have known better than to open up too much, but I felt so safe that I let go. And then the adorable mess of arms and legs and computers over there decided to follow their hearts into whatever swamp of emotions might be in the near future. Did they know it could get ugly between them? Yes. Did they know they were putting me into a strange position? Yes. Did they think it would be that bad? Hell no!

Of course, it isn't their job to look out for my every emotion. And it is probably my job to find more friends and have other people to run to when they sicken me with their neverending love affair. Do I want them to be happy? Yes. Do I want to search the world (or the whole of UHS) over for new friends? Not so much. Should I? The jury is still out on that one.

The female half of pair on the couch just asked what I was up to. I told her I was writing. "About what?" she wanted to know. "Life," I told her because thanks her and large body encapsulating her, this is my life. "Do you need me to read it?" she asked. "No, thanks though." I said. I never took my eyes off of the computer because I didn't know what might happen if I did. I wanted her to read all of this. I want her to see all of my words and know. But that sounds like an awful and unfixable mess, so it sounds easier if my words are left to flounder in cyberspace. Though it would be nice to talk, really talk, to my best friend about all of the feelings welling up inside of me. But, I'm afraid, it won't be that easy.

Soft spoken with a broken jaw
Step outside but not to brawl
Autumn's sweet we call it fall
I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl and
With the birds I'll share
This lonely view
-Red Hot Chili Peppers

Looking for a Muse

2007-09-05T17:43:00.001-07:00

Finally I've found a spare nugget of time to write and I've nothing much to say. Nothing exciting is happening, which I presume is somewhat good. Because the excitement of last week was too painful to recount. (It involved Mrs. P-my Spirit Run buddy-Elise and way too much unneeded drama)

I could explain in great detail the four to five inch long muscle spasm on the right side of my spine. But even I, the enthusiast of my own words, might fall asleep to that one. (Or think about how much it is killing me right now)

There is my obnoxious brother, he's been driving me nuts; but that might just be cruel.

How about my hours of homework resulting in an unending fatigue? Well that would let way too much complaining insue.

What now? What now?

I haven't gone out with my friends in just over a month. I'm at a loss for companionship, but I don't want to write about that because then those nasty little thoughts might become real.

Damn, welcome to the land of writer's block. I know this happens, it happens to me all the time; but time! I have some!! I need to use it. Though I could sleep, sleeping has become something of a luxury. Even a three day weekend couldn't make up for my current deprivation. I'm in something of a fog that is filled with sulleness and the occasional happy moment. I feel like I might be falling overboard on some sinking ocean liner. (Thank you, Titanic) But I know that some of it will be over in under 2 months. Spirit Run will come to a close and I will be free. (And I will throw myself one really big party) I think that will help. And maybe, just maybe I'll find time to see Elise and Tony; that will help fix much of the depressed and lost feeling. As for the homework, well that isn't going away any time soon and I will have to embrace it. Because there is little else to do.

Ok, I've written a sufficient amount. Does this count as plausible writing? It's more outlet than anything, but I started with what I knew and went from there. But the homework calls again and I must turn away from wherever this was or wasn't going and plunge deeper into whatever life this is supposed to be.

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
-Coldplay

Digging for Problems in the Heart of a Man

2007-08-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

Never before have I worried about Tony. He’s the stability of the trio. Elise and I rarely fret about Tony’s problems, because it seems, he has very few. And if he does, he doesn’t show them too often. But today and this week have been an exception.

I know that Tony has problems with his parents, they’re hard on him and sometimes unfeeling towards him. One day this week he came in looking like someone had just unleashed a bulldozer on his emotions. He hardly spoke and his mischievous eyes had lost their sparkle. All he could do was hold on to Elise; he was leaning on her body as if he might fall if he let go. I am not a touchy person, but I wanted to hug him. I wanted to hold him, because maybe the pain would leave his eyes and maybe he would know that I loved him-no matter what his mom screamed at him.

He’s been off all week long, he hasn’t been smiling and laughing and joking: the usual Tony. I’ve been guessing it’s his parents and Elise was worrying it was her. (And sometimes I worried it me, was I being obnoxious and pissing him off?) Something was wrong with Tony, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

Coffee, Starbucks on 126th Street 3:45 PM Saturday

He will hardly look at me. And for once, the usual talkative Tony has nothing to say. Normally we could talk for hours, but I can’t get him to speak with the usual gusto. Where is he? Where is his mind? Where are his laughing smile and quick jokes? I’m attempting to prompt him without being too emotional. “Parents? Are they bugging you?” He responds in little “yes” and “no” answers with a few extra words in between. He’s absently drawing circles with condensation and a straw on the hot table. He doesn’t hug me when he brings me home and he hardly looks at me when I get out of the Suburban. But I can’t figure out what to say without being sappy and girly. So I say “goodbye” and “Thanks for coming with me.”

I’ve spent very little time worrying for Tony. I usually worry about Elise and spend time trying to make sure that she is still in once piece. But her problems have been moved to the back of my mind and my worries have been turned to Tony. For the moment, I’m petrified. I don’t know exactly what the problem is and I don’t know how he will react. But I feel like I need to resolve whatever is plaguing him.

I know something is broken and I'm trying to fix it.
-Coldplay

Desperately in need of a punching bag

2007-08-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

Well the Spirit Run saga continues....

But today, I'm fighting with one of the adults. (Why am I always the one stuck in an arguement?) Well this is more of a confrontation, Mrs. P (we'll call her) and I have had some issues of control since the very beginning. We confronted them during last school year and I thought we'd at least be able to stand each other. (Though, on the outside she is the sweetest person you will meet) But over the summer some of the animosity came back. She was always trying to take my jobs and "mommy" me. This, it seems, is a trend with her. She does this with her own children. So I've been distancing myself from her. I've quit chit chatting with her and quit being extra friendly. I've become kurt and businesslike and much more blunt. To me, this seems to be the best way to handle it. I haven't said one mean thing to her, nor have a completly discluded her. (against my better judgement) Yes, I did change the structure of the committees to get rid of her-which didn't work. But I was doing this with the assistance of another adult and it wasn't because I didn't want help. Help I need. I don't need crazy mothers with insane agendas.

So today she sends me an email (in response to a long and painful process that we aren't going to discuss) that bashed my overall character and position as a leader. In this email she blamed a variety of problems on me and tried to say that I was resisting parent involvement. (as every rightful teenager should) On the contrary, I have been asking for plenty of help and asking tons of questions. I've also been delegating to my student chairs. Actually I'm very proud of myself for learning to work with so much information and turn it into workable assignment for peers.

All of this left me quite hurt, then quite angry. It's a good thing that she didn't show her face in school today, she might not have one anymore. (and I'd be facing assault charges, i.e. why I need a punching bag installed somewhere convienient) This was the first time, though, that I didn't go completley bizerk and cry and need a therapy session with Mr. Webster immediately. It didn't send me over the edge like it would have a year ago. And I'm proud that I could control myself. (Though my stress ball did get a good work out) But wow! It was a real blow and I was overcome with emotion to the point that I was shaking. How could an adult attack a child like that? I was amazed by that thought alone. Of course, that doesn't even count the fact that she has never talked with me about these issues lately and she did all of this bashing by email. Is she really afraid to say it to my face? I want to know, yet I'd rather not have to talk with her about any of this. I'm not a fan-at all-of confrontation and I'm afraid that this one could get ugly. But at this point, after a Mr. Webster coaching session, I should be prepared to climb between the ropes with Mrs. P.

Maybe all of this now doesn't sound as horrific as it did at 2:30 this afternoon. I've calmed a lot since then and now laugh at her stupidity. Does she know what she has coming? I'm going to make a guess at no, she doesn't. But we shall see what the morning holds...hopefuly it includes hugs and love for Sarah and maybe a little less character bashing...

And I'm running from my problems
I got my funny face painted on
And then I'll think of what you said to me
And then I'll think of what you did to me
I'll think of you and probably laugh
And then I'll think of you and probably laugh
And then I'll think of you and probably laugh
You're the one I'm running from
-Boomkat

"I've never felt so close. I've never felt so all alone." -The Blow

2007-08-19T18:42:00.001-07:00

I have two best friends. Elise and Tony are my extended family and I couldn't love them anymore. We're a trio, the "odd couple" as triplets. But lately things haven't been as easy as they used to be. I keep considering it to be my fault, but my responses only come from their actions.

Nearly 6 months ago, Elise and Tony became an item. They started dating. Of course, to begin all of this I was horrified. How could they?! Who knew where this relationship was going, but wherever it went I would go too. They promised that the Trio wouldn't change (well, change is relative). And they do get points for being completely supportive and not trying to lose me, or get me stuck in the middle of an arguement. They are always promising me that they love me and love being with me. And I believe them. I have to believe them, if I didn't, not only would I be compelety depressed but I would be friendless. (Not only are they my best friends, they're the only people I really do things with outside of school.)

Lately though, they've been together more and more. I can't blame them, they are dating, and they are becoming very close. I respect that they need time alone. We've talked about all of that and they aren't completely all over each other around me. (which I greatly appreciate) But there are times when I want to be with them and I know that they are together. Tonight is an example. I called Elise as I was making lunch. (We usually call each other at night and chat for a few minutes.) She commented that Tony was over. It is a nonchalant and-she assumes-not unkind thing to say. It's the truth and a could hear his voice in the background. I would rather know that they're together than be completely in the dark with the relationship that swirls around me at all times. But it hurts, nine months ago I was always invited to everything they did. We were all on the same level. We aren't anymore. There is them and me. Sure we still do tons of things together, but sometimes I call Elise and know that Tony is over. Its happening more and more, and it should, if the relationship really is progressing. And I'd rather they make out when I'm not present. But I could have used a friend tonight or last Wednesday night or last Saturday.

It makes me tear up every time I think about it. I've talked to them about it and they understand but they don't. They don't know what its like to be a member of a trio made up of a couple and a single-and be the single. I'm not losing them, I don't think. I just don't have the connection to them that they have to each other and it makes me sad. I don't want to date either of them, but I want to feel loved the way that they do. I want someone to want to come over all of the time, just to be with me. I want someone to make me feel wanted, the way they do for each other.

I'm so excited for them. They make each other so happy. (It's sickening at times.) But I feel left out from this love fest. (Which would make sense) It's a topic that keeps coming up and I hate to burden them with my stupid feelings that will pass in a few hours. I hate to make them feel badly or piss them off. But they're my best friends and I want them to know that I hurt.

"When everybody loves me I will never be lonely." -Counting Crows

Official time: 12:28am

2007-08-18T21:28:00.000-07:00

So the question on my mind is, when did I grow up?

I remember the main events and the schools and the people and the vacations, but where did the years go? Is there someone out there with a file labled "Sarah Healey's Life" filled with the near 18 years of my existance?

Driving home from Tony's house I started thinking about it. Tonight was Elise's Surprise 18th Birthday Party. Her actual birthday was two weeks ago and we spent it together. (Elise, Tony and me) It sounds so eerie to say that August 4th, was my best friend's 18th birthday. 18 is so old, 18 is the "cool kids" in the mall, the ones with cars who hang out with friends all the time and don't come home until tomorrow. 18 is that unattainable stereotype, the age, as a child, you are convinced you will never reach because it so far out. 18 equals adult. We can't be adults, not yet. But we must one day turn 18 and begin the ascent into "grown ups." Now, though? It seems too soon, yet as I drove home at 12:15 I realized I must have become one of those people along the way.

My car radio was blaring with all of the windows down. (Despite the windy chill) I was speeding way too fast and passing everyone I saw on the highway. My bare feet pressed the gas peddles with an air of freedom, as my 2 inch stiletto heels fell off of the seat next to me. My brightly colored-and wonderfully loud-shirt was falling off of one shoulder, showing a black strap and I could feel the wind flowing past my back in the backless polyester shirt. Short red hair flew around my face and my rings clinked the steering wheel as I tapped out a beat taking the turns with confidence and an air of fulfillment.

That was me, so is that what an 18 year old is? Did I finally fufill the prophecy of a true young adult? It is a weird thought, to be one of those people (finally) who comes home too late and dresses in revealing clothing and meets friends for hours at a time. Whatever it is, I like it. As scary as 18 is, it hasn't proven bad yet. (Though I'm still something like 6 months away.) I still can't believe that 18 isn't old, Elise isn't old. She has points that make you wonder if she will ever grow up. Tony won't be old in less than a month and I won't be old in 6 months. We'll still be the inseperable trio, too young to completely understand what the world holds for us. We'll still be the best friends we were a year ago, at 16 and 17. Time is changing around us, but it's as if we're standing still. Because I don't remember 18 becoming a "normal" age. 18 has always been the people you look up to. (or the ones you shouldn't date) But 18 was never us, we never thought we'd get to 18. But it seems like there's no stopping what time has in store. So on that note, it is 1am and I must go to bed because morning time will come too soon.

I feel strange, I feel change, I feel strange -Better Than Ezra

And I put up with this crap because...

2007-08-16T18:30:00.000-07:00

As of sometime last year, I am the official chair of the Spirit Run. Did I know what I was getting into when I started? No, I had no idea. I thought it would be like my many other adult run committees, I sit and add my two cents every so often and call it a deal. I don't mind being the leader in fact, I love it. But Spirit Run has taken on a whole new kind of leadership oppurtunity. As it turns out, these adults wanted me to organize and plan the ENTIRE race. Yes, they'd be there to help and we've got a great event planner (Jeff) who is walking me through all of this. But no one every asked, "Would you like to give your soul away to a cause that might kill you?" I might of thought twice about saying "yes," if I had been asked that question.

So, coming to the present. I've worked my butt off all summer revising the structure of the committees to rid myself of the mothers who were supposed to be helpful if needed but have turned into leeches. (I give you, the stay at home mom gone mad.) Anyway, to shake these women, I've distanced my committees of students who weren't doing anything-because the moms were doing it for them-and I've given them specific jobs to do. I've rubbed this all over the faces of the parents who don't believe that this system will work. Of course my optimism tells me that everything will work-the kids will do their jobs-and I will win. (Yay me!)

Today, though, I have been proven wrong. An email was supposed to go out on Tuesday to our big email list. Just random updates and such. There were two people assigned to this job, but I knew with school starting that it would not be done by Tuesday. So I, as the benevolent leader that I think I am, said have it me by Friday. But today, I knew it wasn't done or even thought of. So after an infuriating round of phone tag and horrendous excuses I was proven right. (For once in my life I was dying to be wrong) In the end I yelled (no, not yelled, blew steam at) one girl and the other got my post-steam-blowing yell-a-thon. (But the second girl is my best friend, so I couldn't get too mad at her. She just got to listen to me scream and join in the piss fest when I took a breathe.)

Now I am staying up later than I had hoped to help my best friend write this stupid thing. But I will do it, when I said I would do this I wasn't kidding. But I am so infuriated at this point that I could run a marathon and still be full of pounding anger. My new plan is going to fail and I'm going to look like I can't hold my own in the real world. (Though I am 17, so I've got a bit of an excuse) And, just for shits and giggles, I think I might just jump off a bridge to save myself the pain and agony of two and half more months of this. Unfortunately, I think it's too late to quit. (which I must say is sounding better and better by the second.)

It still isn't time for bed, but I give up narrating the events of the last 4 hours. (Which is almost how long it has taken me to write this) I going to deal with whatever else has to be done tonight and get my sorry butt into bed before I keel over on my computer screen.

Take a breath, just take a seat, you're falling apart and tearing at the seams
-The Fray

Dude, that's Scary

2007-08-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

Jeff is a friend of mine, or an enemy. Ok, to tell you the truth, he's kind of both. We had some major control issues with a Foundation that we founded that led to a large screaming match that sent me to the bathroom of University kicking and screaming. For awhile we didn't speak, we worked together silently for our Foundation, but otherwise we ignored each other. I swore if he got to close to me, I'd deck him. And he was causing a coupe amongst his cronies against me. More or less, we'd gone from close friends and partners to sworn enemies.

But in the last year or so, we've gotten back to talking and even spent time together while in France on a Jterm trip. Sure, it will never be the same, but I was finally enjoying his company again. Jeff does a lot for the school, from the drama department-alive and well-to our barely breathing foundation. It seemed like last year he always had a new project of some kind and worked like a maniac. But to my surprise, a note on Facebook confirmed rumors that he had been asked to leave. The rumor, which I heard through very reliable sources, says it was because of grades. Jeff won't talk about it. I couldn't believe it, when I heard the news. How could you get rid of such an important person in the community? It would take 3 people to do his job. But the deed was done and that was all that mattered.

The part of all of this that has been plaguing me though, is where Jeff will now be a student. He is at a large unnamed public high school. He and I both came from this district's elementary and middle schools. At University, we scorned our old school. We talked about how much we hated it and how thankful we were for University. The feeling of knowing that I would never go back was like floating on air. But Jeff, now Jeff has to go back! How would that feel? How would it feel to go back to a place that you had mocked for three years? This school held nothing more for Jeff and me anymore, we had let it slide to the recesses of our minds and there was-supposed to be-no turning back. It makes me shiver to think about returning like Jeff is. There is a feeling of dread in my heart just for him. He's brave, I'll give him that. But how do you get yourself kicked out of the place that suits you best? I'd do nearly anything to not return to THAT school. Now he has to return and his diploma will always say ________ High School on it. Our past came back to haunt him, for me it would be like living in a nightmare. But I will never ask him what it is really like, because I don't want to think about what his answer might be.

I just can't look It's killing me. -The Killers

Testing, Testing 1,2,3

2007-08-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

Wow, this is akward. I feel like I should be writing to someone, and well I'm writing to a computer screen. Usually, I write for a purpose, to untangle whatever words have lodged themselves in my brain. But this kind of writing, writing just because, it feels so foreign. Never before have I had specified time just to write. And I'm not complaining one bit. If I could write forever, about anything (or nothing) I would. But the world doesn't work like that, and as I grow older I realize that. I'm not forever at the mercy of my parents; and their bank accounts are not forever at the mercy of me. (Taking a minute to say "Oh shit.") This first day of senior year is scary, but scary in an exciting way. I'm almost done! I am so near to moving out of this stage of my life that I can barely contain myself, but leaving high school-and home-have an air of foreboding. They represent the things in life that I don't know. And what I don't know calls to me in a way that is wonderfully tempting. But it also sneers at me with a little snicker for what waits behind closed doors.

All I want is the wind in my hair
To face the fear,
But not feel scared.
-Natasha Bedingfield