Drunk Texting

If you shouldn’t drink and text, you really shouldn’t drink and write.  That being said, I’ve had a few.  Just so you don’t worry, I’m home and safe.  I don’t drink and drive.  I was hit by a drunk driver, it was pretty bad, I’m pretty lucky.  Some say loose lips sink ships, but I always thought loose lips made friendships.  If you skew that too far, my logic doesn’t stand, let me explain.  I always felt like I really got to know people when we had sleep overs.  That was the point a person I met at school became a real friend, when they came to stay at my house.  Was it like that for you?

As an adult, I’ve tried to examine it.  Of course there is the bit about a person seeing your home.  You bring them over, and you’re so nervous.  You’ve hidden all the things that might seem weird, and cleaned up really well.  For as long as I can remember, my home is a completely different place when company is coming.  Whether it was the home I grew up in with my parents and brother, or my apartment now, it has to be immaculate for a guest, any guest.  Let’s say I have 20 minutes notice that a friend is dropping by.  She only has 10-15 minutes, she’s just picking up a book to borrow.  I’ll spend every moment, until the doorbell rings, cleaning and organizing.  Running the vacuum is a must, and sweeping the bare floors.  Junk and clutter must be put away, the bed must be made, even though people usually don’t wander into your bedroom.  I can remember doing these things with my mother as a child.  I loved to vacuum at the age of 3.  My mother has a boat load of pictures of me vacuuming; she even bought a cheap canister vacuum that was small to help me vacuum at an early age.  The point is the anticipation phase.

I’m 28 now, and I still get childlike when I know someone is coming over.  I can probably look out the window 100 times.  The cleaning, and the cooking or snack prep, those are the things I do to kill the time until they get there.  Then there’s the hanging out and entertaining phase.  Or going out together.  Which brings me back to the main point, where I wish my friends didn’t have to leave.  It’s not that I’m needy.  It’s not that I don’t understand that people have real lives and have to get up in the morning.  I love their children, I consider their significant others friends or at least people I hope don’t die, and I appreciate that pets don’t feed themselves.

I think I just miss the way things get in the middle of the night.  The point in the night when you’ve both, or all, been awake and together so long that you can talk about anything and everything.  “Earlier, I was wondering what my brain weighed.”  These are the kinds of random thoughts you can express when you are sleep deprived, and in trusted company.  “I only just forgave my parents for missing the fact that I was skeletal, suicidal, and covered and self inflicted wounds.”  A non-sequitur at best, but honest.  Do you ever miss the honesty of laying in bed with your best friend at 3 am?  I do.  I hate that there’s no awkward free way to invite my friends to stay over and listen to music and  chat with me until our minds bend.

Which brings me to The Boy.  That is what I’ll call him for now.  I mentioned him to you last time, and I’ve seen a lot of him since.  He’s cute, with dirty blond hair, blue eyes, really cute glasses,  pouty lips, and he’s tall.  I’m 5′ 9″, and have never been out with anyone much taller.  He’s muscular, and that normally puts me off.  I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it’s a long story.  I feel small and safe though, which is new and strange.  He’s older, and makes more money, and opens the doors for me.  These are all wonderful things, and so different from what I’m used to. He draws with me, and listens to me.  He drew me a picture for that was hilarious, and I had to keep from crying at how touched I was.  He’s a gentleman, and while Mary I’m not easy either, but The Boy is driving me crazy.

He’s not the only one, but he’s the one at the front of my mind that I wish I could ask to stay over.  I just wouldn’t want it to be inappropriate, or to set his expectations improperly.  We just put on a movie, or some music, and have these long conversations about life, art, books, music, the universe, and everything.  We went ice skating, and he was terrible, and we laughed and laughed.  He’s kissed me, a few times.  Then it’s the end of the movie, the end of the night, the front door, and I don’t want him to leave.  I don’t want to sleep with him, I feel the need to make that clear.

I think I want The Boy to see the real me.  I want him to see me with the make up off.  I want him to still think I’m cute in my pajamas.  I want to hear what he thinks about when he’s sleepy and his mind wanders.  I want to see his bed head, and I kind of do want to sleep with him, literally.  I want to cuddle up next to him, until we fall asleep, because i like him.  Why has our culture put that after sex in a dating scenario?  Can you explain that one to me?  Anyway, I like The Boy.  He is very cute, and he I’m starting to think he gets me crazy, and likes it.  Writing to you has kept me from drunk texting him.  We just met 3 months ago, it’s too early for that.

However, I don’t think it’s too early for a little tongue.  If The Boy doesn’t slip me some tongue soon, and maybe get his hands moving along, I swear……………   Did I mention I’m drunk now?

Until Next Time,

Elle

Because I'm a vegetarian

 Lisa Simpson, Because I’m a vegetarian

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FAIL at suicide

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve reached out to you. I hope you’re well, out there living your life. I’ve thought of you often, and wanted to update you. I was busy. I’ve moved, rearranged my work schedule completely, wrapped up a school semester, and started dating someone casually. Most of those things could warrant their own lengthy explanation, and maybe they’ll come in time.  The guy is sweet, well mannered, and I’m starting to like him.  I’m starting to get obsessed with when he’s going to quit being so shy and kiss me already in the way only a woman can.  Not too obsessed though.  I’m confident, we like each other, and we’re moving slowly, it’s nice.

Tonight though, I’m feeling a little darker.  I’m not feeling like hurting myself, I’m not even really depressed.  I’m just feeling introspective, and entertaining the dark side.  An anniversary is about to roll around, of a suicide.  This year will make 6 years.  I didn’t date him, but we’d been friends for about 10 years.  Jason was my best friend’s boyfriend.  Katie was my best friend.  Stephen was my boyfriend.  All when we were about 14-16, the first serious relationships, and a guaranteed double date.  Katie and I had been friends since we were 7 and Jason and Stephen had known each other longer.  Stephen and I failed, Jason and Katie when on and off and on and off.  These stories are longer too, but we all managed to remain friends in the long run.  We remained friends until Jason hung himself, about 5 years 11 months ago.  The remaining friendships have all splintered and failed since then.  It’s a lot more complicated than that, but today, I’m trying to talk about my thoughts and experiences with suicide.

That takes me back to my first suicide attempt.  I was 14, 15 in 6 weeks.  I was a freshman in high school.  It was a weekend night, and it was late, or early, depending on how you look at it.  I was wide awake, with a million thoughts running through my head, just muddled.  It’s hard to describe this kind of agitated depression to a sane person.  Depression is so lazy, that’s how it’s understood.  This rage that bubbles up in me, this anxiety, this need to move, but a brain full of negativity, it’s so awful.  I’ve learned to deal with these feelings differently, but what I’ve learned to call agitated depression is the worst.  This was my first experience with these feelings.  At 14, I wasn’t having the easiest time.  Before I unleash my complaints, I want to state that I’m an adult now.  I see things a lot more realistically.  I am so thankful for the things my parents gave me in spite of the hardship they experienced.  As a depressed teenager, things felt different.  My family was going through a lot.  I had a grandmother that needed full time care.  I helped with that, giving up extracurricular activities and time with friends.  It also took up a lot of my parents resources; time, money, emotional well being.  Care giving is difficult.  We also had my brother with his budding mental health issues.  He was already having very real problems in school, had multiple psych appointments per week, and was on medication.  I was a good student and relatively well behaved and responsible.  My parents left me to my own devices more often than not.  Now I see this as a product of the environment we were in, and their way of giving me space after all the help I had to give.  Alone in my room on that night, I felt abandoned.  All anyone ever wanted was help, or work, or babysitting, or butt wiping.  My good grades didn’t matter, no one came to my concerts, if I was able to get away to go.  I didn’t go to dances, I didn’t go to football games.  The 1200 on the SAT freshmen year, still didn’t get me a single “atta girl.”

School had always been a good escape.  There I had friends, and books, and I was almost always the smartest in the class.  High school was really different.  I did not fit in at all.  I was a weird kid.  I had the multi-colored hair and the baggy, over-sized jeans.  No one seemed to like the smartest kid anymore.  Boys liked the smart girl LEAST of all.  All anyone seemed concerned about was pairing off.  I was teased and bullied constantly.  Freshmen year alone, I was: put in a locker (half size), spit on, had gum/candy thrown on me, water bottles thrown at me, asked about the color of my pubic hair, and I don’t know what all else.  School was no longer the safe haven it had been, and without the time outside school to keep my friendships up, most of them were failing too.  My old friends were changing, falling into cliques, and I was too busy with my dysfunctional family for all that.

So at almost 15, I’d had enough.  I had severe care giver burnout, and was being bullied and ignored.  As much as I had everything I needed, I had nothing I wanted, and I had no positive outlets.  All these negative thoughts and things had piled up on me, and I was so tired that I couldn’t even slow down or stop.  I’d been doing sit ups for about an hour, and I felt like I’d explode if I stopped.  I just wanted to stop the fever pitch of thoughts and feelings, taking over my brain and body for the worse.  Then, as if spoken by god or something it occurred to me.  Dead people don’t think, or feel, or anything.  I collected all the medicine I could find.  I got the biggest cup I could find.  As much as some people may say they were in some kind of fog, I wasn’t.  I was very methodical.  I can still remember all the medicine specifically.  I took everything, even the children’s cough syrup for my little brother.  I can still remember the one liter glass that I got, hoping to only have to make one trip for water.  I made a little nest of blankets and pillows on the floor.  I had a trash can, I thought I might throw up some, I had no idea what I was in for.  I eventually had to call 911, I wasn’t dying quietly, or painlessly.  It was pretty awful.  I died for a few minutes.  I spent a few weeks in the hospital, and got a reputation at school that I could have lived without.  I started a long strange battle with mental health that is still raging for me, and my room still smelled like my own medicine puke when I got home.  Oh, and that wasn’t the only time I tried.  Also, sometimes it still seems like a really good idea.

I’ve had a few other friends attempt suicide and spend time in the hospital.  There are a few suicides on my family tree, one by starvation.  It’s a nut tree, if you’re wondering.  I’ve flirted with death, and still fantasize about it.  I’ve starved myself to look like a walking corpse.  With all of this experience, how do I feel about suicide?  Meta-cognitive, no bull shit answer?  It’s really selfish.  There’s all kinds of literature and positivity about how it’s a temporary solution to a permanent problem, and if you or someone you know is suicidal, get help, get help now.  Those things are true, and anyone feeling that way can call 1-800-273-8255.  Or, you can just realize how selfish it really is.  Go to any suicide survivors support group and talk to those people about their mixed and confused feelings about why that person is gone.  Think about who will have to clean out your home or your room, think about who will find your body.  Think about your funeral, and your crying friends and coworkers.  Think about your family.  Whatever it is that appeals to you.  Think about your online friends, think about the guy at the gas station.  You exist, and someone will notice your absence.  More than likely, several people will be very hurt and upset by your absence.  There are financial issues.  All of these things have to be sorted out, by someone else.  You just take all your problems, your whole life, and dump them on everyone else.  Not only that, but you take away all the positivity and goodness you have, and all the potential within you from your loved ones and the world.  What if you were the next great mind?  Cure for cancer?  Aids?  End world hunger?  Or maybe you just volunteer at the soup kitchen, because those people probably have it worse than you.  Get out of your own head and your own problems for a minute or an afternoon and maybe you’ll see they’re not that bad.

At the end of the day, I’m guilty.  I have been very, very selfish.  I’m getting older now, and I just feel so lucky to be alive and well.  Life is strange, but I read somewhere that the answer is 42.  I think I’ll figure the rest out, and so will you.

Elle

sometimes i make things

sometimes i make things

What’s a normal day?

I still wonder about you, how you’re doing and what you do all day.  Today was a pretty normal day for me.  My client rises around 7, and we start his morning routine.  We spend the first 3 hours of the day in the bathroom.  I feed the dog, I wash dishes, I do laundry, and I check in on my client over and over.  Then I help him shower.  He’s a quadriplegic, I help him for several days at a time.  I would take me a long time to list the things I help him with.  He’s also a good friend, and while we sat by the fire and chatted, my mind wandered.  Talking about being younger and the people we used to know made me think of him.

Maybe you have a friend like the one I’m talking about.  That friend of the opposite sex, purely platonic, maybe.  His name was William; I suppose it still is.  He always went by Bill.  I still remember the first time I saw Bill, and it was 15 years ago.  We were in gym class, 12 years old.  I locked eyes with him across the gym; I’d never been more mesmerized in my life.  It turned out gym wasn’t the only class we shared that year, most of our gifted classes were together.  It would be that way until we graduated high school together, as 2 of the smartest slackers anyone knew.  Sharing classes and projects, we learned that we shared a similar taste in music, movies, clothes, friends, and a lot more.  We had a similar apathetic attitude and aptitude for calculus.  We became friends, and we could run in and out of each others homes and rooms easily.

Somehow he never seemed to notice that I had the biggest crush on him.  He seemed to notice everything else; he seemed to be the only person who could see right through all my pompous crap.  After we became good friends, it was like we were of one mind.  We both dated, and I know neither of us ever had a suitor who wasn’t jealous of the friendship.  We were the kind of friends that could exchange less than 5 words, a ton of eye contact, a nod, and walk out together arm in arm.  I have never had the kind of closeness I had with him before or since.

I had always had my suspicions he felt the same way, but for some reason that was the one thing that never came up.  There were long nights spent in the back of his truck staring at the stars and talking for hours, and treks into the woods that brought us home well after dark.  There were lingering hugs as we got older, and always those eyes staring into mine.  He had to know, he could see it.

I’m not sure how we did it, but we lingered in that limbo for 13 years.  Then he decided to move across the country to sort out some of his problems.  Knowing he was leaving, Bill and I spent a lot of time together in the week or so leading up to his departure.  I didn’t know what I was going to do without him.  I’d literally seen him at least a couple of times a week since I was 12 years old, usually more.  One night, after everyone else had left, and it was just the 2 latest night owls remaining, Bill kissed me.

Looking back now, I’m not sure how or why, but that kiss unleashed too much.  We didn’t have enough time left to deal with it.  The kiss led to the talk, and the talk led to the argument.  The argument over who should have told who first, the only argument we ever had.  Suddenly there was blame, and anger, and hurt feelings.  Next thing I know, I’m storming out.  I’m screaming how I hope he has a nice life out there, and how I never want to see or hear from him again.  He’s yelling too, but I’m not listening.

He left 4 days later, that was over 3 years ago now.  We haven’t spoken, or text, or e-mailed, or communicated in any way.  It’s just a normal day, and I really miss Bill.  I wonder who you miss.

I wish the world looked like my cartoon dreams

I wish the world looked like my cartoon dreams

Mostly Harmless?

I talked to my mom the other day.  That’s not unusual.  I love my mom, not just as a mother.  She’s a good listener and a good friend, I think she feels the same way about me.  We went through the pleasantries.  She thanks me again for her Christmas gifts.  She asks about my travels and my work.  My dad is good, his medication is expensive.  The rest of the family is good.  We talk about her sister some, and that’s a whole issue itself.  My mom’s sister, my aunt, is lovable and neurotic.  Eventually things drift to my brother, as they often do.

Greg, my brother, will be 20 soon.  Greg has never worked, and didn’t finish high school.  He did get a GED.  He still lives with my parents.  He sleeps most days from around 10 am to 5 or 6 pm; he spends his time awake alone, in his room.  Greg spends most of his time on the computer, no one knows what he is doing.  His interest in gaming seems to have waned a few years ago.  Greg showers once or twice a week, hasn’t had a hair cut in years, doesn’t shave, and has never flushed a toilet to my knowledge.  Greg doesn’t interact with others unless he has to, and it doesn’t go smoothly.  His speech patterns are strange, erratic.  His volume and pitch change randomly.  Sometimes he is able to stick to a line of conversation, sometimes he goes on wild tangents.

Greg has always been interesting.  He was born screaming, and he didn’t stop until he could talk.  I’m 8 years older, I remember most of it, he was difficult.  He screamed, and screamed, and nodded off for 15 minutes, and screamed.  My parents tried different formulas, different schedules, ignoring him, strapping him to them, and anything and everything anyone suggested.  Still Greg screamed.  I couldn’t sleep, my grades slipped from super star to average, and I started falling asleep in class.  My teachers thought I was being abused or on drugs.  Greg started hitting and biting and soon as he was able.   He was threatening as soon as he could form thoughts.  We kept knives in a tool box.  Some days, every chair in the house would be in the yard and we’d all be locked in the house, at war.  When things got ugly, weapons had to be removed.  If you took something away from Greg, it had to be AWAY.  Rules didn’t work, scolding didn’t work.  There were chain locks at the very top of exterior doors, to slow him down.  He has choked me with a table cloth.  I had 8 stitches in my head from a remote caddy he threw at me.  My childhood medical record is extensive, and yes, CPS investigated our home.  I’m not sure why they opted to do nothing, but they found my brother to be the source of my injuries, and his own, and left us alone.

I moved out at 16, my brother was 8.  He did not improve.  He got in trouble at school for fighting, for cursing, for not doing his work, for turning in violent work.  Greg went to alternative schools, and was in behaviorally and emotionally disabled classes.  Greg took medication, and went to therapy.  Greg hit a police officer in the face when he was in high school.  Greg has attempted suicide, been institutionalized, and totaled my parents car while running away to meet someone he’d met online.  Greg has had a list of diagnosis longer than my arm, and none of them fit, and none of the medication worked.  Nothing ever worked, no one could ever help.

My mother and I have always disagreed about Greg.  Maybe it was watching knives come through my bedroom door, or watching a child blow through it with all his might, but I lost hope for him.  I believe he is dangerous, and that he needs help before anyone is hurt.  I see a darkness that is bottomless, I see how he doesn’t care for any of us, not even his family.  He scares me, he always has.  My poor mom, she sees her baby.  I can’t imagine how she’s seen all the things he’s done and still believes it, but my mother tells me that he’s mostly harmless.  I look at the scar from where he broke a glass and sliced my arm.  No stitches, no one is home to take me to the hospital.  Duct tape works.  I was 14, he was 6.  I wanted to watch MTV, he did not.  I shake my head, I tell my mom I love her.  When we hang up, I just wish I could fix it for her.

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,

Elle

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