Perpetual Smile

“I havnt talked to you in a while and wanted to say hi and stuff,” reads the text message. Ever since opening it, all I can think of are his hands around my throat.

* * * * *

Things have been absolutely bonkers on planet elizawhat. Aside from people from my past popping up like germs on a little kid’s hands, life has been packed with huge projects for clients with looming deadlines, a new niece to snuggle and love and gaze at while she sleeps, anxiety about Popi’s angioplasty that he had done today, a renewed sense of connection and even deeper love for Mike (who has been amazing beyond words through all of the shit hitting the fan), a slew of phone calls to schedule appointments with various doctors, more worry while we wait to see what the doctors say is going on with Dad, depression cycling in and out of me faster than fucking bunnies (and “fucking” is a verb here, heh), and a deep, unquenchable urge to play Sims and write even though I barely have time to sleep.

Suddenly, “bonkers” doesn’t seem quite appropriate; things are absolutely batshit.

* * * * *

Popi has been having chest pains, that go all the way down to his elbow. They found two clogs in the arteries of his heart, and did an angioplasty this afternoon to open up the arteries. They’re not sure why the arteries were clogged; it could be the chemo, it could be something that was already there before the cancer came along. More than likely it is the chemo, because a few weeks ago they did a full slew of tests and no clogs were detected.

I’m angry and afraid, to be perfectly blunt. I’m angry at the chemo, and afraid that it’s going to destroy him, piece by piece, before the cancer does. And then I saw him last night, and seeing him looking well and being with him made me think more positively. I look at my great-great-aunt Nan, who is in her nineties and was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer more than six years ago. She’s fine today, still kickin’, feisty for such an old lady. She makes her own clothing. She drinks wine. She cracks jokes, sometimes dirty ones. She’s got an uncanny strength for someone who looks so fragile. I admire her, deeply.

She is proof that Popi can make it through. It pisses me off when everyone starts discussing hospice. It’s like they’ve already given up. I don’t want to give up. Call me selfish, but I want to keep my Popi. I like to think that he can kick this thing’s ass, even if it’s already taken its toll in so many places: hip, spine, liver, lung. Fuck you, cancer. My Popi is stubborn and won’t go down so easily. I won’t let him.

* * * * *

My niece is a doll. She has Jaysa’s nose, Robbie’s face. Her hair is black and her head is full of it. Her eyes are big and constantly open, aware. She may not be able to see much yet, but she looks like she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. Ciana Olivia Pelletier already has all of us wrapped around her tiny, long fingers.

* * * * *

It’s hard to talk about everything that is swirling through my mind. I don’t really even know where to start. I’m bone tired, thanks to a week full of nights spent staying up until the ass crack of dawn to get pieces of projects complete. I keep reminding myself that if I work hard now, in five to ten years I’ll be able to enjoy things. Sometimes I wish I could be a “normal” twenty-one-year-old, spending my late nights partying instead of working, falling asleep with veins full of thin, beer- or vodka-chased blood, then waking up to do it all over again the next day. But my partying stages were years ago, when being fifteen meant that I didn’t care much about my future. Now, I want that future, whatever it may be.

* * * * *

I know things have been pretty serious around here. I promise to try to make this place fun again. Thank you for listening.

Wednesday, I hid.

I called out of work. I threw on some headphones. I buried myself under my comforter, afghan, and fleece blankie. I stayed like that for about an hour or so, falling in and out of sleep while listening to Lacuna Coil’s “Shallow Life” and Silversun Pickups’ “Swoon”, my current comfort albums.

I thought about going to the hospital. I thought that maybe I should talk to someone, someone who would get it and would be able to point me to a therapist who would get it even more. I imagined being handed a prescription to try, that might give me more energy and a little more sparkle inside.

I finally got up to go get dressed and eat so that I could go to the hospital, but I could barely eat and didn’t have the energy to get dressed. I crawled back into bed for another hour or so.

I know it was bad. I know that I need to get my ass into a therapist’s office. I know that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder, put on some medication, and need to go through pain management therapy. I know all of this, and still I shy away.

I make passing references to the people around me about how I’m feeling, but I don’t go all the way and say, “THIS IS BAD. IT’S REALLY BAD. I REALLY NEED HELP.” I don’t reach out. Instead, I keep it all to myself. I drop little hints, enough so that I can tell myself I said something, but not enough for anyone to get really concerned. Because, if I did truly say how bad it is, they might be very concerned.

It’s been a long time since I hid like I did on Wednesday.

In a way, it was just what I needed. I needed to regroup. And yet, on Thursday I felt the same as I did the day before. I felt drained, like I wasn’t really here, but at the same time it felt as if there were little teeny jumping beans inside of me and static fluff in my head. I barely sleep, I barely eat, and I feel like I’m barely making it through the days. Thoughts race through my head, about everything going on: about Popi, about Dad, about my stupid mystery autoimmune disease, about my relationship with Mike, about my new niece, about my clients, about my day job. On Thursday I felt like, at any moment, I was going to split into two. Or four. Or nineteen-thousand.

Today, I felt sort of normal — if normal means being on the verge of tears one minute and wanting to laugh like a maniac the next. At the moment, though, I feel okay.

It’s not just everything that’s going on; I go through these cycles all the time, for as long as I can remember. Last week, I thought about killing myself. For two or three days after, I felt high on life. And then I dropped again. I didn’t feel like dying, but I still dropped.

Part of me is ashamed. Part of me admonishes myself. “This was supposed to be over,” that part says. “We don’t want to go back to therapy. We were already there. Things should have been resolved then.” But the other part steps in and say, “That therapist didn’t do her job, and neither did the second therapist we saw about a year ago. We need to be tested for bipolar disorder. We need pain management skills. We need someone to talk to about everything.”

And the argument goes ’round and ’round, until I’m so tired of hearing these thoughts wrestling each other that I consider cracking open my head and throwing a grenade in there. (That’s a joke. You can laugh. I’m not actually going to grenade my brain.)

The truth is, my friends, that I NEED HELP. I am drowning, and with all of the external things going on as well as what is normally in my head, I’m having a really hard time staying afloat. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my mental illness to kill me. I don’t want to be the zombie I feel like. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of being afraid to say anything to the people around me, partially because I’m afraid they have enough problems of their own and I don’t want to be yet another weight on their shoulders.

It’s also because I am partially ashamed of going back to therapy. I don’t want to. I tried it again, with Kitty Bhide, and she sucked. I know that if I just try a few different people, I’ll find the right person. But then I make the excuses of, “Well, I don’t have that kind of money,” and “It’s going to take forever to get in anywhere, and by the time I get in, I won’t feel this way anymore.” Even though that’s true — hi, that’s why I need to be tested for bipolar disorder — it’s still not a good enough excuse, because I still know that soon I will feel this way again.

I go through this, every time.

And it’s draining.

During the summer before I turned nine (I’m an August baby), my little sister and I somehow managed to get lice. It still, to this day, makes my head itch terribly just thinking about it.

Lauren and I were probably playing Barbies or with our gigantic town of various action figures when we noticed a teensy black bug crawling around in our hideaway book. (You know, one of those hollow books you can hide things in?) We bounced down the stairs to wherever Mom was at the moment (probably in the living room watching General Hospital).

“Look Mommy,” we said, holding out the book to her. “What is it?”

I think my mother had a heart attack.

Luckily, my mom has always been calm and composed, and she recovered pretty quickly. She checked our heads and, sure enough, it was lice.

My sister and I were very close as little kids (and still are). At the time, we didn’t hang out with other kids outside of school. Since it was the middle of summer, we hadn’t come into contact with other kids aside from our cousins (who were lice-free). Yet somehow we had managed to both come down with the little buggers.

Mom immediately went out and bought the lice rinses, shampooing and combing the stuff through our long, shiny hair. I hated the scent of it, and I hated stooping over the sink as she rinsed it out. When we were both done, however, we seemed to be cured.

Of course, we weren’t. We did the treatment several more times over the next couple of weeks. Mom and Dad bombed the whole house, and soaked our stuffed animals in the tub with some stuff that was supposed to kill any eggs nested in our stuffed friends. All of our clothing and sheets were washed with scalding hot water, yet we still couldn’t get rid of the lice.

Finally, some well-meaning person told my mom to soak our heads with Vaseline. I can still remember Mom and Dad getting ready for the project. Dad bought some Ajax, which was the only thing that would cut through to wash the Vaseline out once we were coated. Lauren and I sat in chairs as Mom and Dad worked Vaseline into our hair and put plastic shower caps and plastic bags over our heads to keep it from dripping onto anything. I’m not sure how long we had to let it set in, but eventually it was time to wash it out. To this day, I can’t look at a bottle of Ajax and not remember my parents soaping up my hair over and over again, trying to get all of the Vaseline out. Unfortunately, my and Lauren’s hair was so long that it just wasn’t happening.

“We’re going to have to cut it,” said one of my parents. (I’ve honestly blocked out who.)

“NO!” Lauren and I screamed.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mom said. And then she took out the scissors from the drawer — the same scissors Lauren had once used to give her Barbie a lopsided haircut — and cut our hair as we cried and begged her not to.

Once our hair was shorter (and by shorter I mean boy short), the Vaseline washed out without a problem. And the lice? Were gone, never to come back. But I had one hell of a horrible haircut, worse than the haircut Britt recently gave her daughter Emma — I promise!! (I refuse to post pictures, because it truly was that bad.)

For the longest time after that, I refused to cut my hair. It grew all the way down to my hips before, at thirteen, I decided to cut it. Now I could care less; I cut it all the time! But for some reason, when I was a kid, my hair seemed to be my sole identity.

Do you have a bad or funny haircut story? Comment here with your best (or worst), and let’s show Britt that she hasn’t totally traumatized her kid!

My phone vibrated against the desk. I shoved my bluetooth — that’s Mr. Bluetooth to you — into my ear and pressed the button, simultaneously checking my phone to see who was calling. My BlackBerry’s screen greeted my with my Dad’s Facebook photo.

“Hello,” I said, clicking at my screen.

“I’m not gonna get you in trouble, am I?”

“No,” I said. I glanced at the time on my desktop toolbar.

My dad seemed to hesitate, and then he asked the question that I am supposed to be always asking: “Can I borrow your car?”

His van had bit the dust a week or so ago, and he had bought a used car to replace it. Unfortunately, the Altima he’d bought turned out to be a lemon. He’s been taking my Ellie every so often to go do jobs — he’s an oversized load escort — until he can find something else because he doesn’t trust the Altima. Every so often he’ll ask or, like a couple of days ago, he’ll just borrow her for quick errands. (I’ve thought about using this all as leverage. Trust me. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity.)

“Sure,” I agreed. He explained that he would drop his car off in the parking lot at my job and take my car from there. All I had to do was give my building’s receptionist the license plate so that the Altima didn’t end up mistakenly being towed. No problem. Besides getting to drive something else, I was getting gas out of the deal.

After work I walked the block to my parking lot and got into the Altima. “Could have at least cracked me a window, Dad,” I said to the inside of the car. I lifted the mat and rooted around for the key. “Ah-ha!” As I put it into the ignition, I braced myself for the possibility of it not starting (its neutral safety switch is busted, just like Lisa Mazda‘s was). It started just fine, and I glanced up to start backing out. No rearview mirror. “Aw, Dad!” I checked my side mirrors and looked behind me. Fine. I could do this. No big deal.

I put the car into reverse and started backing out. BOOM. BOOOM. BOOOOOM. Where was that awful too-high bass sound coming from? Me? It was coming from me! Or, the Altima, actually. A second later I totally forgot about the sound as I began backing out, hoping that the side mirrors weren’t hexed and that I wouldn’t end up bashing into one of my coworker’s cars. (You never know. It could happen. Really.)

All backed out and ready to go, I started to leave the parking lot. BOOM. BOOOOM. BOOOM-BOOOM. “Oh my god,” I thought. “It sounds like a GIT car!”

Yep. I had the radio’s volume almost all the way down and yet it sounded like I had one of those bass booster thingamabobs in my trunk. As I sat at a red light, the entire car was shaking, as if I were sitting in one of those massage chairs at the mall.

The whole ride home, I thought for certain that it would die on me. Or that someone behind me might get pissed at my slowness. Or that the brakes might fail and that I would go sliding into another car. Or maybe a cop would pull me over because of the little ghetto car’s looks.

Instead, everyone ignored me. For once, no one rode my ass — even though I drove slower than ever! (They must have thought I was one of them, due to the BOOM BOOM-BOOM BOOM.) I drove past two cops and they didn’t so much as blink at me. And best of all? No one died. Hooray.

“No wonder you didn’t want to drive this thing,” I said to Dad when he called me to make sure I got home okay. It occurred to me then that he might have thought I wouldn’t make it home alive in that thing, either!

Leave a comment and tell me: What’s the worst car you’ve ever driven? (Bonus points if you can tell me where I got the title of this post from!)

This morning I had an appointment for my third B12 shot.

When I got out to my car, unlocked the door and opened it, I was greeted by two friendly bees. They were sitting on my window, just daring me to do something about it. The first thing I thought, of course, was that there might be a nest somewhere in my car. I stood watching them, willing them with my ESP to leave. They, of course, didn’t.

So I did what any self-respecting tough girl would do: called my dad and made him take care of it. One of the bees flew away, and then my dad came out and killed the other one. I figure, why get my hands dirty when my evil henchman is perfectly capable?

He then inspected the car and, finding no nest, sent me on my way. “Just, you know, if you see any more while you’re driving, don’t crash or anything. Just pull over and get out.”

Me, the sissy who squeals and hides when anything buggy and winged comes within a three foot radius of my face? Pull over? Right.

So I went to the doctor’s office, fifteen minutes late, for my third B12 shot. Pam asked if I was feeling any different and since I don’t she said I didn’t have to get another one. I figured for the hell of it I would, but she doesn’t think it’ll make a difference at this point. I told her about last Monday and how my legs hurt so bad I could barely walk, and she said she still really thinks it’s Lyme Disease. She asked if I would mind getting more blood work done. Since I have already been needled a bazillion times, I figure I am a pro at it and one more won’t kill me. I have to wait two weeks since she’s also going to check my B12 levels again and we did three B12 injections over the last three weeks. (She said that the injections would make my levels skyrocket and they wouldn’t get an accurate reading.) I’m supposed to go pick up that B12 oral vitamin prescription, but my bank account isn’t going to have any of that. I guess we’ll see what I’ve got left over after I do my tires this morning. (I’m getting new ones, an alignment, and struts and whatever else goes down there.)

Walking out of the doctor’s office I wanted to cry, and only because these appointments always leave me feeling drained and hopeless. As much as I like Pam and as hard as she is trying, it still doesn’t change the fact that I am getting nowhere. Though I do feel a little more hopeful, I’m kind of wary. Still, the fact that she added an official looking diagnosis to my blood work requisition form kind of gives me a lift: fatigue, myalgia, vitamin deficiency.

Well, I’m off to go see the new tire wizard. They’re buy three, get one free, so keep your fingers crossed that each tire isn’t like a bazillion dollars or something.

PS: I know I absolutely rock at blogging lately, because I can tell by all of the comments I’ve been getting. If I haven’t killed you with all of my boring-ness lately, maybe you could leave a comment and let me know you’re still alive.

I only get out of control with shopping if there are two variables involved: Target and Staples. I went into Staples yesterday planning on spending a max of $10. I planned on getting a couple binders and some pens (I keep losing pens). I walked out with a laptop cart, an ergonomic plastic bean filled wrist rest, a pocket size dictionary, a pocket size thesaurus, two binders, a box of pens, a copy holder (so that you can stand paper up when you have to type something up)… You get the picture.

The thing is, I couldn’t not buy the desk, wrist rest, and copy holder because I’ve been saying for months that I need these things. Obviously, they could very well help decrease the amount of pain I experience day to day. So I was totally justified when I broke into my savings account to help cover the cost. This time.

At any rate, I had a lot of fun putting it together.

My dad took video of me putting together some of this because he thought it might end up being really amusing, but I have to get it from him. To be fair, he did help me a little, and if it weren’t for him I would have put it together backward. Heh.

I’ll add that video whenever Dad gets to uploading it to Facebook.

Growing up, my mom always reminded us over and over to change our underwear. The old mantra goes something like, “change your underwear in case you have to go to the emergency room.” I always changed my underwear, of course, but I could never figure out why it mattered. In my little mind, I thought the only reason I’d go to the emergency room would be if I got into a car accident. And, of course, if I got into a car accident I would probably wet myself (or worse), so obviously my underwear wouldn’t be clean when I got there.

I made it almost twenty-one years without ever going to the emergency room. Well, wait. I went once when I was fifteen, when I was more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life and didn’t want to be in my head anymore. But I went to the Behavioral Health section and spent the night locked in a narrow room, lying on a narrow bed. I didn’t get any IVs, though I did get to wear a gown (never understood why hospital gowns have open backs; they’re so freaking cold!), and little booties. The only other times I’d been to the ER were to bring someone else, and I almost went in that time I got stung by a wasp and my hand went numb but decided not to sign in and went home instead. (I like to push my luck, what can I say?)

So I pretty much made it twenty-one years without anything really major happening to me, until Tuesday.

I held my face over the plastic bowl we normally use for baking, balancing on my hands and knees. My entire body kept shaking, but not from being cold. I’d been randomly twitching and shaking for the last couple of hours, but hadn’t said anything because I’d felt so out of it. Spots danced in front of my eyes and my vision kept flickering, like strobe lights. I had no idea how many times I’d thrown up in the last five or so hours.

“Mom,” I said. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, so my voice sounded strange. “I wanna go to the hospital.”

She didn’t hear me in the other room. She came rushing in with two cold cloths — one to clean my face and one to cool me off. I felt like a prisoner inside of my own head. I couldn’t calm down, but I knew that I had to stay calm or things would only get worse. I felt dizzy and nauseous, and the fact that I was still shaking and my vision was still off scared me more than anything.

“I want to go to the hospital,” I said again.

“Okay,” she said. I stayed on the floor while she called my dad and told him she wanted to take me. I couldn’t keep anything down; not ginger ale, not chamomile tea — nothing. I hadn’t taken any of the pain medication my oral surgeon had prescribed me in about ten hours because I’d been so nauseous and sick, but the pain was besides the point. I didn’t have any strength left in me, and I was terrified.

We drove to the hospital at about eleven-thirty that night. I could barely remember the day or even the last couple of hours. I remember clinging to the door handle the entire ride there, my eyes closed. I remember it feeling like my mom was speeding, even though she normally drives the speed limit.

The emergency room was nearly empty by some stroke of luck. They took my vitals and information as soon as we walked in. I couldn’t stop apologizing, to myself or my parents. “I was doing so well. I was taking deep breaths and that was helping with the nausea. I was sipping the tea.” I think I was delirious.

In less than twenty minutes they had me in a gown lying on a really comfortable gurney. My nurse — Emily — popped an IV in me and gave me fluids and some anti-nausea medicine. Within ten minutes I began to feel a little better. I could stop fighting — almost.

The doctor who saw me — Dr. Sanders — said I was dehydrated. We’d been so worried about me getting dehydrated that none of us had realized it had already happened. Dr. Sanders was really nice. For some reason, I had expected her and all of the other staff to be rushed and stone cold. Maybe I watch too many movies. Maybe they all had an extra supply of TLC because the ER was so slow. Maybe I just looked pathetic.

Once the fluids and the Zofran kicked in, the pain volume went way up. Normally, I think I’m pretty good at dealing with pain. I mean, I deal with it every day so I think I’ve gotten pretty good at managingignoring it. But at that point, I was just too tired. I had used every ounce of energy in me fighting the nausea and the pain for the last two hours. I didn’t want any more Vicodin (what my surgeon had prescribed me initially), and I didn’t want any Percocet (what my surgeon prescribed me after the Vicodin stopped working).

“Can I have Tylenol?”

Emily went to go grab Dr. Sanders for orders for Tylenol. She came back with morphine.

My eyes widened. “It’s not gonna make me sick, is it?” The thought of throwing up one more time sent me into a frenzy; if given the choice, I’ll take pain over nausea any day.

“No, it won’t make you sick. I’ll give it to you real slow. And I have extra Zofran in my pocket, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding that maybe at that point I could throw up one more time, if it meant that the mindless throbbing in my mouth would stop.

There really are no words to describe the pain. Basically, it radiated from the four holes where my wisdom teeth had been into the top of my head, my jaw, and my ears. It was like a red pulse, except I could feel it and it did NOT feel good.

And suddenly, it was gone. My head felt light and airy. I felt like all of the pain had been soaked up into some invisible atom inside of my head.

“Mommy,” I said. “My head feels spongy!” Emily, Mom, and Dad all laughed, and I laughed with them. I felt like I was floating on clouds. I could feel my mouth, but there was no pain. At all. My teeth felt like they were sinking into my head. Like a sponge.

I stayed for another little while, long enough to finish up the fluids and for Dr. Sanders to write me a prescription for more Zofran and Tylenol with codeine (AKA Tylenol 3) in lieu of the Percocet. I was advised to drink tons of Gatorade and to start out eating soups, working my way up to solid foods. Then they discharged me. I went home, had some tomato soup and some Gatorade, and passed out.

I got the best sleep I’d gotten — and would get — in days. And my underwear? Were clean the entire time.

---

What was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you? Tell me, I demand to know!

I had my first class at the “big girl school” last night. I decided to leave early so I’d have plenty of time to get gas, get there, park, get my parking pass, buy the other book I needed, get some dinner, and then find my class. I felt a little nervous but mostly exhilarated at going somewhere new and meeting new people. A new semester always gets me going, but a new semester at a new school for a new degree? I was really pumped.

I made it to campus without any real problems, aside from The Deathtrap — aka Lisa Mazda — refusing to go faster than 40 mph. (I got passed an awful lot and people kept riding my ass. I wanted to slam on the brakes a few times, but I was afraid the car wouldn’t get going again.) When I got to the first parking lot, I stopped and asked the parking lot monitor or security guard or whatever where I could park so I could walk to the campus police building and get a parking pass. He spit out directions at me a couple of times, even though I had no idea where I was going and I thought I could just park in the lot right there.

I tried to follow this guy’s directions, but I’m not familiar with the area at all. It was the first time I’d driven up there alone and the third time I’d been on campus, period. I’ve driven to the city once before for a concert but that was relatively easy to find. Needless to say, I ended up at some random magnet school, surrounded by one-way streets and evil, unfriendly New Havenians. I pulled into the school’s parking lot and tried not to cry, then called Nikki. She told me to try and come back the way I came and to meet her in the parking lot. Naturally, all of the streets shifted and I ended up on a one-way street to hell.

I called her as I was driving and told her I was lost, again. With my eyes bugging out of my head, I looked around for some sort of landmark so she could come get me. Finally, I found a Shell station next to a Popeyes. She told me she and her dad were on their way, and then I was alone.

I knew that inside of that Shell station would be a guy standing at the counter looking bored, but behind him would be a wall full of cigarettes. All I wanted was one of those cigarettes, but I didn’t dare leave my car. I didn’t want the mean New Havenians to see me cry. So I called my mom and cried to her.

“I’m lost,” I wailed.

“You have to calm down,” she said.

Five minutes later, I turned to my right and a street sign magically appeared. “Oh, fuck. I’m on Whalley Ave*. All I have to do is take a right out of here. Fuck.”

---

*Whalley Ave is the street that leads to campus. Yeah, I know.

---

“See? You usually just have to calm down and then you can figure out where you are,” my mom said.

I thought about how much money I had on me. I could just buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and everything would be all better. Fuck this quitting smoking bullshit.

Nervously, my head swiveled around and around looking for Nikki. When you’re lost, ten minutes feels like a damn hour. Finally, when I thought I would either go insane or have to break down and buy a pack of smokes, I saw Nikki — my hero — walking to The Deathtrap. I let my mom go and opened the door so Nikki could hear me (the window doesn’t like going up once it’s down).

“I hate New Haven. It sucks. And yes, I’m aware that I sound like a two-year-old,” I said, tears spilling down my cheeks. I couldn’t even control myself at that point.

“Aww, it’s okay,” she said. I bashed New Haven a little more and then someone at the pump behind me beeped.

I thought about telling them to learn how to back out of a space, but Nikki told me to just pull up alongside her dad’s van. I closed my mouth and moved so the dumb New Havenian could get out. Nikki and I followed her dad back to the sprawling, disgustingly huge campus that is SCSU, and then I was on my own again. I parked and set out to find the campus police building, campus map discreetly in hand and my kickass Alice in Wonderland tote on my shoulder. It only took a few minutes, and then I went back to my car and put the sticker on it.

My next stop was the student center. I could do this. Nothing was going to get in my way.

Except suddenly the campus seemed a lot bigger than I remembered. And it was getting dark. The buildings seemed bigger and the map didn’t make any damn sense. It was freaking cold and my stubborn ass was too proud to ask for help. I wandered around, trying not to look like I was lost. I’m enjoying the campus scenery, I thought to myself. The cold stung my face and my legs. I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t brought along an extra coat and a thicker pair of gloves (and possibly a moving space heater). It got darker and darker and I started to think I was never going to find the building when I saw it.

From outside I could see the campus Dunkin Donuts. I practically ran inside and bought myself a coffee and breakfast sandwich. (The girls working were sort of rude but sort of nice. I guess New Havenians are just weird like that. She was super polite but ignored me and slowly wrote something down while I waited for her to finish taking my order.) I shoved the sandwich down my throat (it didn’t taste as good as it does here in Waterbury), and then set out for the bookstore.

Everywhere I went, people stared at me. I was seriously starting to wonder whether I had a sign on my head. Maybe my nose had fallen off from the cold. I browsed the bookstore — which is a Barnes and Noble disguised as SCSU Bookstore — and found my book. I paid and went back upstairs. This time I went to the student center cafeteria. I sat down, opened up a letter from one of my pen pals, and ignored everything around me. I wrote back to her and it still wasn’t time for my class. I began to think that coming this early had been a bad, bad idea.

I decided to go find my class. The room was listed as B303, and I had no idea what B meant. I went across the way and into the building my class is in — I didn’t get lost this time but it was still really cold! — and found my class relatively quickly. It still wasn’t time, so I sat on the floor in the hallway with a bunch of other students and endured more stares. (Maybe my sign read, NOOB HERE?)

Of course, I had to use the bathroom so I wandered back downstairs and tried to find a restroom. I must have walked by it three times before I asked someone where it was, and she told me it was around the corner. I also left my coffee in the stall and didn’t realize it until I was already halfway back to my classroom.

The class went well, though. I like my professor so far. She’s four months pregnant and told us she can’t guarantee that she won’t burp or fart or burst into tears. We’re going to be studying and writing about the five senses to work on our writing. It seems interesting and I liked my first homework assignment so we shall see.

Of course, once the class was over it was time to leave. I had to find my car — which was a little easier this time — and when I finally got back to it the first thing I did was call Mike. “You’re going to keep me awake,” I told him. (It was almost nine.)

I took a left out of the parking lot and then a left at the light; even though Nikki had told me to take a right, right didn’t look right. After about ten minutes I started to get the nagging feeling that I was lost. “I think I went the wrong way,” I said to the speakerphone Mike. Another five minutes passed. “Fuck, I’m lost. I gotta let you go. I’m gonna call my dad.”

Dad — my other hero — used his GPS and got me out of the crazy New Havenian network of one-way streets and back onto 69. By the time I crossed my city line, I probably would have kissed the ground if I didn’t want to have an A Christmas Story moment and have the cops pull my frozen lips off the pavement.

Anyway, I’m exhausted and achy and exhausted, so I’m going to bed. I’m not looking forward to driving up there tomorrow, and I’m not too sure about going to the “big girl school.” I’m pretty freaking determined, though.

Growing up, I never really had to do anything for myself, by myself. Usually my mom would be there to help me out and take care of things — like doctors appointments and school — for me. Even after I turned 18, my mom still helped me take care of all that stuff. If I did have to do something on my own, I never went in blind. It was always something I’d already done with her.

Recently I’ve become more independent. Yeah, my parents are still there to help me and support me, but most of the time it’s me making the phone calls, me making sure everything is okay.

It’s empowering, and a little scary.

Like on Thursday. I went to SCSU to meet with my advisor, register, take my picture for my photo ID, and all of that fun new-student stuff.

It was really weird. First, SCSU is a lot bigger than NVCC (the community college I just graduated* and transferred from). Luckily, everything I needed to do was all in the same building. It was also a little confusing, because of the transferred credits and my financial aid situation.

I did find out that I can use my financial aid at SCSU. I just had to login to the FAFSA site and change my school code. So I’ll probably be taking two or three classes instead of just one.

This also gives me more freedom to put money into the Sunfire! I’m probably going to get it registered tomorrow, and hopefully can get the shifter problem fixed soon. Oh. I didn’t write about that.

The Pontiac Sunfire has just a couple minor problems. The power steering pump needed to be replaced, which is all done; now Dad or I just have to return the tool so I can get my rental deposit back. There is some damage on the passenger side, but it’s nothing that Dad can’t fix later on. Also, there’s something rattling in the front but Dad said that wasn’t a problem. He can look at it and fix it.

The main issue is the shifter. Right now it doesn’t go into Park, so the key can’t be shut off. This obviously drains the battery and — wait, did I already write about this?

Anyway, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. I got it registered yesterday, so if Dad can’t figure out the shifter deal I can just take it to a mechanic. The downside of it being registered is that it cost me $149. Luckily I still have to return the tool we rented at Autozone and I also get the core charge back for the power steering pump, so I’m gonna have another $40 once I do that. In the meantime, I’ve got a little over $20 in my checking, $14 in my savings and Mom forced $20 on me after I stupidly admitted I was broke. (I got my stubbornness from her.)

I have no idea where this post was going — I originally started writing it a few days ago and then never published it — but Sarcastica wanted to read it, so here it is.

And for something completely random: I took an Ultraset — the painkiller my neurologist prescribed for me to try — about half an hour ago and so far don’t feel any different. I’m still getting twinges of pain.

GRR.

---

*Although I’ve finished all of my course requirements and transferred, I haven’t received my diploma yet. The ceremony is in the spring, so I’m assuming I’ll get my diploma mailed to me before then. Hopefully.

I was nervous. I blowdried and straightened my hair, singing old Evanescence songs to keep my mind busy. I didn’t want to think about whatever my big surprise was. “Gotta relax,” I told myself.

My sister came upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. “Mikey’s here,” she singsonged.

“‘Kay. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

It was good to see him. He looked awake and alive. He was wearing a Joker beanie with holes for the eyes and he was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. He sat at the table, so I bent down to kiss him — over and over. I wrapped my arms around him and stood behind him, refusing to let go.

“I should probably let you go, huh?” I said a few minutes later.

“Yeah, you don’t wanna choke me.” He paused. “Can I give you your presents now?”

“Uh — shouldn’t we wait? ‘Til after dinner?” I chewed on my lower lip.

“Can I at least give you one? I’ll give you the smallest.” He reached into a ginormous JCPenney bag and pulled out the latest issue of The Dark Tower: Treachery.

“You got my Stephen King!” I flung my arms around him again and smothered him with kisses. “Thank you!”

I managed to get him to wait until after dinner. He reminded me of a kid on Christmas morning, he was so excited. We went out for a cigarette after dinner and he said he wanted to give me my presents when we got back downstairs.

“I got you three — no, four — things.”

My eyes popped out of my head. “Four? Dammit, I lose! I only got you two!”

“It’s not a contest,” Lauren said when we came back downstairs and I told her about my defeat.

“Yeah, well, he said his present was gonna make me cry, so it kinda is,” I grumbled.

“Can you hand me my bag?” Mike was practically bouncing off the walls. I tried my best to be cool and not explode into a million little pieces as I handed him the large white bag. Read the rest of this entry »