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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

That Day...

I'm 17 years old, a senior in high school, and it's a Saturday in April. I'm in a 4 hour detention in the North Cafeteria, trying desperately to shave off detention hours so I can go to prom. I've just come back from the bathroom where I was smoking w/ my friend. Not 3 minutes after we sit down at our table, one of the security guards calls both my name and my friend's name and tells us to come with him. We look at each other, panicked, sure that we are being busted for smoking in the girls room. He leads us to the hall, I see my parents, I see her parents, I know something is wrong. My first thought is with our see, they are friends, our sisters. I'm sure something has happened to them and that's why our parents are here. I search their faces for an answer. Nothing is revealed, I just know something is wrong. I say "what's wrong?" least I think I say that. I maybe just think it. My parents can't talk really, my mom hugs me, my dad wraps around us both. Their names escape my mom's lips...they were found in the garage...and they are dead. It's not our sisters, relief floods me for a moment, until I register that it's my friends who have been found. I swear at my parents, call them liars, I say "f*ck you" to them for hurting me. I limp towards the Student Center, a wounded animal, I want to knock things down, I head towards a garbage can...I try to...I can't.

Slowly I see other kids coming out of detention, out of the auditorium, out of the walls it seems. The news is spreading, people are talking about it, I can hear them and I want them to shut up. I need to find my friends, there are two in particular. They are as close to them as I am, maybe closer even. I know one is at work, I call her, ask her to stop what she's doing before I tell her. She works at a deli-type restaurant, I don't want her to cut herself on accident.

I stand out in the front of the high school, I'm waiting for someone to pick me, my friend who is at work, her boyfriend is coming to get me. I'm waiting in the middle of gossip, and assumptions, and predictions. I still want these people to shut up, more now. Their voices are thunder in my ears, it hurts, I want them to shut up. A group of girls I'm friendly with, but not friends with, takes me within their circle, as if to protect me. They say the right things, they tell me that if I need anything, they are there for me. I know that I won't go to them for my needs, but I appreciate the offer. I don't care if they're feeling sorry for me, I don't care if they never speak to me again, I'm happy to be with them in this moment.

The only laughter I can remember that day comes when I'm at my house. I've gotten high, to take the edge off, to numb myself, I'm in a giggly mood. My parents have bought Cheetos among other snack-type foods, figuring my friends will become semi-fixtures at my house in the days to come. I have a bowl of Cheetos on the couch between me and my friend who works at the deli. I'm tossing the Cheetos to my dog Zoey who is sitting in front of me, and they are bouncing off her nose and onto the floor. She can't catch them, and I'm laughing at her. I think she knows it's helping, because she keeps doing it. That's the only laughter I can remember from that day.

Soon after that day is the first and only time in my life I consider suicide as an option. Then I remember suicide is what brought me to that place where suicide became an option, and how dare I think that way. I know better than that, I know how it feels to be left behind, I know how it feels to carry guilt, I know how it feels to think I could have stopped it. I know soon after that moment when I consider it, that I will never consider it again. And I don't.

I'm not sure what brought this to my brain today. It's not the first time I've thought about that day, but it's the first time I've felt compelled to put it in writing. Let's see if I post it.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I see the glass as half-empty because it friggin is...

You know, I end up drinking like, half of my chocolate milk during the taste-testing process, which leaves me with a lame half a glass of the stuff for enjoyable drinking. Christ, maybe I'll just start making my choco milk in a friggin pitcher so I have a decent amount left to drink once I've got the proper syrup to milk ratio. Of course, I could take the coward's way out and buy pre-mixed chocolate milk, but then what would I have to complain about?