Dear You,

It seems sometimes I will need to write to you more than others.  I guess this is one of those times.  Here I’ve gone and rambled on and on about myself, and I know nothing about you.  I’ve spouted on about my family crisis and I don’t even know your favorite color.  I suppose this isn’t the best way to get to know you, but I haven’t forgotten you.  Looking back, I’m not sure how much you know about me.  I wonder what you’ve gathered so far?  I realize how confusing things might get; I realized just earlier my characters might need names.  That makes me Elle, and the others will be made up as we go along.  Now, so you don’t get further confused, the names are made up, but the people and stories won’t be.  The locations and details may be unnecessarily vague, renamed, or changed when they aren’t important, but the interactions will be real.


I just feel like I need to dump some of this out, some of myself it seems.  I’m 27 and already I feel full, but not in the good way.  Who I am specifically, and where I am geographically aren’t conducive to full disclosure.  That’s what I intend; I have a lot of life left, I can’t be over it all ready.  So, I’m going to get some of it out, and you get to make your speculations about the rest.

Christmas brought up a memory my parents thought I’d forgotten.  It’s possible I had for a while.  As my parents and I watched children climb on Santa at a family gathering, they asked me if I remembered learning about Santa.  I wasn’t really sure, until the kind of memory that bulges your eyes and makes you squeal hit me.  I jumped up and down as I remembered my 3rd Christmas; I’m not insane, my birthday is around the corner.  I was nearly 4.  “The Barbie Dream House!” I yelled, maybe a little too loud.  My parents started laughing so hard.  I caught them putting together my Christmas presents, at about 3 am.  They made the valiant effort of every parent to get me back into bed.  They tried to convince me I was dreaming, they offered treats, tried to distract me with the bathroom, but the Barbie dream house, IT CALLED TO ME.  From across the living room of our tiny trailer, it screamed to bring my Barbie dolls and GI Joes.  On a side note, I thought Ken was a boring, Barbie needed a cool guy, with guns.  My parents gave up, I could not be dissuaded from my main objective.  I remember running out of my room, still in only underwear, with pajamas and dolls filling my arms.  I ran shrieking at my parents, dropping toys and clothes at their feet as I thanked them in the obnoxious way that only I could.  I remember my sleepy parents watching me play with my new toys until we all turned back in around sunrise.

Seeing my parents laugh about it, I know it was ok, but I’m sure they were mortified in the moment.  I hope my profuse thanks meant something, because I meant them, I remember literally crying and saying it was a dream come true.  I was 3, and the Barbie Dream House had an elevator.  They told me I had probably woke up because the doll house was harder to put together than a particle accelerator and they were in the living room cursing like sailors.  I recall they tried to sell me on Santa again the next year, but I remembered.  I wasn’t having it, they managed to keep me out of my presents until Christmas, every flippin’ year.

So, no I know why I always knew about Santa, at least from my perspective.  I was always really thankful for my gifts, knowing my parents had worked and saved for them.  It’s also possible you know a little more about me.

Until next time,


No, seriously

No, seriously



People Porn

I’ve always thought I was different, but haven’t we all. I always wondered what was going on in other people’s homes, even as a child. I always wished I knew the things that we don’t bother to talk about, major and mundane.  It would be like pornography, seeing something I wasn’t supposed to.  I always wondered if anyone else was terrified of their much younger brother or if they HAD to eat macaroni and cheese from a blue bowl.  I’ve thought about it, and that’s what I plan to write about.  I want to tell about my life, selfish right? For me, it might be therapeutic.  There might be others like me though, who wonder what’s going on behind closed doors.  I still don’t know very much about what’s happening in the privacy of others’ homes, but I’ll tell you about mine.

So this will be my story, in no particular order, you’ll get to know me little by little.

The first time my dad nearly died, I was 14 or 15.  My mom worked 3rd shift, and always got home with just enough time to see me before I hopped on the bus and take my brother to school.  My brother is 8 years younger; he’d have been 6-7.  My dad was working 2nd shift, he’d be home with us through the night, and was supposed to get up with us in the morning.  Usually, he was too tired from working all evening, and I got my little brother ready.  As long as we were ready for school, my mom was satisfied.  This day was no different.  I’d gotten up to my alarm, taken a shower, and gotten my little brother up and ready.  We waited for her on the couch, with the tv on.  My mom always checked on my dad before she saw us off to school, just to make sure he’d just slept through his alarm and was ok.  When my mom arrived home from work on this morning, I got my brother up, got our book bags together, and went to get him in my mom’s car.  Once I was done, I waited for my mom to come out and take him to school.  The time she left and the time my bus arrived were very similar, we never could say which would happen first.  My mom didn’t come out, so I went to check on her.  I heard her saying my dad’s name.  She sounded scared.  I went into my parents room; the smell was the first thing I noticed.  It was awful!  My mom was crouched over my dad, and he didn’t look right at all.  He looked bloated, kind of like plastic, and there was blue stuff near his mouth.  Suddenly my brother was behind me, and my mom was yelling for us to get out.  She told me to call 911 and keep my brother out of there.  I went and did as she asked, and waited with my brother outside.  It felt like it took them forever to get there, but they finally came, and my mother gathered us up and we followed the ambulance to the hospital.

What had happened was that my dad had been feeling rough the night before.  He’d taken some cold medicine, a double dose.  While it’s not recommended, it wasn’t unusual for my dad to do this, and he’d been fine every time before.  Well, my dad was aging, and he was on blood pressure medication.  Anyone with blood pressure issues should take cold medicine indicated for them, not regular cold medicine.  My dad had taken regular cold medicine.  This combination caused his blood pressure to spike, and all the problems associated.  He’d slipped into a coma through the night.  He’d vomited into his lungs.  He was very sick, and we soon learned his heart had stopped 3 times in the ambulance alone.  He wasn’t expected to live much longer.  So we started calling family, and taking visitors in the ICU.

We were so lucky.  Maybe ten days later, my dad walked out of there.  We watched and waited.  We told our family what the doctors told us, and we told the doctors what we wanted to hear.  From the very first time those doctors told us that my dad wouldn’t make it, we simply told them they didn’t know him.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last time.  More importantly, we were right about my dad.

Our friend, pool duck

Our friend, pool duck

You don’t know me, yet

You will though. I’m writing these letters anonymously, to no one in particular. If you’ve ever read “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” maybe you’ll understand. Sometimes it’s just better to know that someone’s listening, whether they know you, or care, or not.

Lately, the days have seemed long. I’ve been depressed, suicidal even. I’m past the teenage years where I get all wrapped up in it. I’m in the adult phase, where my mental illness is just a part of my life, I still have to go to work, I still have papers due. I know I’m not allowed to blow my head off because it’s just not fair to my sweet, aging parents, and the friends that I’m supposed to love enough to want to live to spend time with. I know it sucks, and I know it will pass.

Today was a long day. I finished my Christmas shopping, I worked with a home health patient, I changed my flat tire. I got my car inspected, bought groceries, and wrote a psych final. Doesn’t seem like much when I write it out, but it surely filled my day. Maybe the fever slowed me down, I also have a MRSA infection, and really need to get to the doctor.

Road Trip

Road Trip