Eeenteresting

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I absolutely love babysitting elementary-school aged children. There are few things as wonderful as being paid to watch TV or do my homework after they've gone to bed. And even before the kids crash, they generally make perfectly good conversation. Aside from that, making $90 on a Saturday night is totally worth missing a night out with friends.

I saw that nasty substitute teacher who I saw on a flight to Florida at the deli near my house. This was the second time I'd done so. Let me just say that I will never, ever be happy to see her. Never never never.

I'm trying to work out the order of dorms for my housing lottery form. I have a paper to read for internship that I really need to actually read. I have some free time on my hands and very little to fill it with.

I have a lot.

The actual Thiel Fellows got announced a few days ago.  I suspect that they were going to have 25, and I wasn't replaced, but perhaps not. 24 is a nice round number in its own way. I don't feel that I regret the decision I made---I wasn't ready, and I recognize that. Unlike some people (I kind of want to make a comment about Jeff here), I've been trying not to let all of this go to my head, though I'm uncertain as to whether I've succeeded. I suppose if I'd actually taken the Fellowship, and I'd spent recent days giving interviews and whatnot, I'd probably be even worse in the arrogance department than I am now.

I'm trying to figure out how many pegs college will knock me down. I know it'll be hard, but how hard? Hard enough that I should take regular-level multivariable calc? I've been looking at the psets, though, and they're manageable. I'm thinking I might not work during the days this summer. I won't make that much money in comparison to what I already have, and there are too many productive things I want to do.

I want to make those black box cost estimates I was told would be a good idea. I also want to use the online resources to teach myself the difference between this year's multivariable calculus and 18.02 (yeah, the school anonymity thing is totally not working out), because I'd like to try to ASE out. I think that, given the fact that I only have a month, those are sufficient goals. One is less structured, one is much more regimented, but I like it, and I like the idea of spending my days learning. And the fact that my parents are buying me a laptop saves me the equivalent sum of money to what I would have spent buying one.

So, on the whole, I think it's a good idea, and I think the productivity will mean more to me in the long run than the extra cash (my savings have been doing pretty well after this year, despite the rather large crash-related hit).

These are my plans. They may not be grand, but I think they'll be just as good.

The Difficulty of Remembrance

Delayed my train by 23 minutes. Quite a nuisance (though I hope whoever was unwell has improved). This, of course, meant that we got stuck behind a local train, which in turn meant that I was really, really late to class.

Which I care about. Clara and Helga care less, so I bid them goodbye at the campus gate and proceeded at a very brisk walk, mostly because I couldn't take another minute of not talking. As I was approaching Pupin, I heard the slapping sound of someone running in flip-flops and thought to myself "well, at least I'm not as hurried as whoever that is."

Moments later, a slightly breathless (which means he was probably running for a good while) Rube pulled up (yes, I'm using vehicular terminology) next to me.

"Hey," he said.

I blinked. "Hi."

"I'm late."

"Me too."

"I woke up really early, and I assumed that my parents were going to make me breakfast, so I lay down on the couch for a few minutes--"

I wished that I didn't know what his couch looked like, that my mental picture was less vivid.

"--And then I woke up, and it was 9:47," he continued. "So I got a cab, and here I am."

"There was a medical emergency on the train. Before I got there."

"I didn't eat breakfast."

"Oh."

We continued walking, his pace slightly faster than mine, because my shoelace was undone and I didn't particularly want to stop long enough to fix it. I looked down.

"Your feet must be freezing," I said, because, as I'd thought from the sound, he was be-sandaled (yes, that's a word).

"Eh."

"My toes would be blue. Or purple. Probably purple."

"When they go numb I can't feel it."

I believe I snorted. Let us pretend that it was a lady-like snort.

Anyways, we eventually got inside, and I went for the elevator, to which he said "elevator, really?" and I said "I'm on the thirteenth floor" and he said "reasonable, then."

Because it is reasonable. Eight flights of stairs is a lot.

He entered the elevator with me, even though he didn't need to. He'd held the door, too, when we entered the building. I can't think when that trait stopped annoying me when present in males. Perhaps when I realized that there are better outlets for feminism.

I flopped against the wall of the elevator, and he did the same, against the other. I realized, abruptly, that we were alone, and then, just as suddenly, that he wasn't wearing a hat. It was messy, too long, curling while flat against his head in that horribly adorable way, and I wanted--I squelched the thought.

"I'm sleepy," I said, though I wasn't.

"I'm not," he responded, as the elevator stopped for him. I stood in the elevator by myself as it rose the last six floors.

I walked out, across the hall, stood in the bathroom, alone. I began to laugh, perhaps just because of how fittingly him the exchange was, but also because I didn't need it. It was interesting, yes, fine, good, but uncomfortable. More comfortable than that last night, but not something I wanted more of.

I'm trying to reclaim the music he sent me. I went down to the beach last night, after leaving Cammie's. I played the Los Campesinos song that is so much fun, You! Me! Dancing!, with its wonderful exclamation points. The one that I played whenever I missed him over the summer.

I stood on the cannons, the song loud, looking at the sky. I thought about him, briefly, but then about the stars. About the sky, about the world, about where I wanted to be and how, in a moment, in this chill cold air, I could just feel. I jumped from the cannons to the ground, then danced, as erratically as if I were drunk, down to the water, singing lines that felt right. I thrust my hands into the water, splashed it on my face, then twirled back up to my truck.

It sounds like a baptism, now. I'm going to call it that. A new beginning. A fresh start, not for him, not with him, but for me, for myself, with, well, anyone other than him.

I am made clean.

It really is remarkable

Just how much work work manages to be. I remember next to nothing from these days, just a cloud of sleeping off sickness, infecting others (Dawson, I'm sorry), and reading paper after paper after endless paper.

Oh, and writing. That second milestone was a fair bit of work, I suppose, although I think a better chunk of the 13th was spent pretending to read S. Mckee's thesis on nuclear energy, which I never did get all the way through (although I did manage to forget to cite her half-life data. Whoops).

I'm going to say that this was the day that I walked to dinner with Jared and Bashir, because it will make for a more interesting post.

Bashir is the crazy Lebanese guy who works in my lab. He is, as I've said, crazy, but you will probably get more on that later.

Jared is Bashir's roommate. Jared is a big Asian guy from a big city (and I say big in a relatively loose sense of the word, because, while tall and muscle-y, he is still extremely skinny) who wears baggy t-shirts and long shorts and waves his arms and gesticulates in a manner suggesting a comfortable existence in a ghetto.

On this particular day, I walked out of the dorm with the pair of them.

"Why," asked Bashir, "are there no black people in RSI?"

Jared and I looked at him.

"There are not! I look, and I see black people, and they are all MITES. There are none here. Why are there no black people."

Jared looked pained.

"Why!" demanded Bashir.

"Well, there was supposed to be one, but his visa fell though, and he was, like, actually from Africa," I said.

"No, look, see," said Jared. "You can't just ask this shit."

"I just did. You say I cannot ask this, but then look! I do!"

"I think what Jared means is that it's not the sort of thing that one generally talks about. It's a sensitive subject."

"Yes! That's it. We don't talk about it. You just pretend that it doesn't exist."

"Why would I pretend that it doesn't exist when it so clearly does?"

"Because that's what you do," responded Jared. "You pretend, and then it just, I dunno, goes away."

"I'm not exactly certain that it--" I started.

"It will not go away. Look at your movies."

"What?" said both Jared and I.

"All the black people in the movies--they are stupid. Stupid. So stupid. They cannot talk, they cannot live, they cannot make money. They are poor and stupid. What am I supposed to think about black people here when all I see is 'blacks are dumb'?"

"SHUT UP! Bashir, don't let anybody hear you!" Jared looked worried.

"Well, what do black people do?" asked Bashir.

"I dunno, they play basketball," said Jared.

"I'm not sure that's the sort of thing you would think that you should be saying," I said.

"Shut up."

"Jared, I thought that you played basketball."

"I used to."

"Why'd you stop?" I asked.

"Were the black people better than you? Did they make your asian-boy look stupid?" asked Bashir, before beginning to laugh.

"Bashir, someone is going to hear you, and they are going to beat you up."

"No, they will not. The only one who will beat me up is you, and you won't, because you love me."

"I do not love you."

"You are my roommate. Of course you love me."

"You are so fucking crazy."

Bashir just laughed.

The Twelfth, the twelfth

What happened the twelfth? I'm trying to remember.

I took a nap in the morning, during mentorship, just like I almost always do, because the couch in the undergraduate chateau is so phenomenally comfortable. I did some more reading, because I spend most of my time doing reading, then I lay around for a bit feeling sorry for myself because I still felt sick.

Dawson called after he had mentorship because he hadn't eaten yet, and he kept weird hours, so there was no one in W20, so he came and at lunch in the 'lab' while Didge and I worked.

At some point, we all went back to Simmons. The lecture was informal, but for some reason I decided to shower beforehand, so I ended up wearing Mom's old halter dress and being cold. I have no idea if this is relevant at all.

I'm leaning towards no.

Noam Elkies gave a lecture on mathematics, physics, and music, which was basically physics I've already done + music I've already done + a teeny tiny bit of Euclidean geometry I hadn't heard of --> a slightly boring lecture. Then he did this ridiculously awesome piano improvisation thing at the end, and I was all "dude, just kidding about the boringness, you are freaking awesome" except only in my head.

Because, if I'd said it out loud, I would have actually sworn.

Holy Bejeesus

I'm leaving tomorrow morning. This is absolutely completely and utterly terrifying. Completely mind-boggling. I just need to focus on being excited, because I started getting homesick in advanced last night, and that just qualifies as generally bad, and I feel like while I'm at RSI it will be harder to get Rube/Ginny to tell me to stop it, since they won't be there, although I suppose Rube sort of will, even if I may not actually get to see him, and I'm sure that if I call Ginny and beg a teeny bit she'll talk to me, so I guess I don't really need to worry about that.

Oh, and, right, yeah, I'm leaving? I haven't finished my essay, and I haven't even bought all the stuff I need to bring, and I've barely started packing, and I don't even have any bags at all (although I did get (and hide) my traveler's checks). Anyone who would like to squeeze in a final goodbye, come by this afternoon or evening. Also, that includes Nyx. And Cammie, who wanted me to mention her.

On Getting in

RSI. Holy shit.

What actually happened was that I checked the mailbox three times before the mail actually came. When it did, I trembled a little bit as I removed the envelope I wanted and the small brown box that had been on top of it. I carefully tore the short side of the envelope to get it out faster. I read it frantically, and, at the moment I saw I was in, my mom pulled into the driveway. I yelled that I was in, waving the letter, then started saying “oh my god” repeatedly and grabbed onto her to stay upright. Then I went inside and started my homework.

It’s so weird. It’s like how, on American Idol, when they find out they’ve made it to the next round, their legs can’t hold them up and they fall over. It’s like that.

I’m accepted. I literally collapsed with shock after getting the letter.

I’m like a messed-up Weeble. I weebled and wobbled but I did fall down.

I was trembling so much that, even though I’d managed to get the damn thing open, I had to get my mom to read it.

I’m still in shock. I’ve basically come to terms with the fact that I got in. I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea that I’m actually going to be there this summer.

I haven’t done homework in three days. I’m too preoccupied. I woke myself up this morning at seven thirty, still over excited, although I think the stuffy nose might have actually been the cause.

Oh my gosh, I’ve been spazzing so much. Seriously- I woke myself up before six this morning thinking in acronyms, my only thought “RSI! OMG!”

I didn’t finish my homework last night. I guess I should go back to that physics.

Oh, yeah. Hi, Mom. No, I kind of didn’t do any homework last night. Can I go into school late? Cool. I’ll read Beloved on my way there.

Am I excited? Well, I was fairly psyched yesterday, I guess. Now I’m all depressed about dead babies and crazy slaves and I can’t jump up and down, so I’m checking my progress report and wow! Look! I got two ‘sparkles like a gem’ on my progress report! This is best thing ever!

Writing Away

What on earth inspired me to apply to RSI? It's not as if I'll get in- after all, it's RSI, nobody gets in. Sure, I'm special on occasion, but I haven't competed in six hundred zillion math olympiads or won a six-foot diameter science medal to use as a headboard. I'm good, but I doubt that I'm really top-fifty-in-the-country material.

And yet....if I got in, it would be so. freaking. cool. I mean, all summer, for science, and research, and hanging out with other people as obsessed as I am (not that I don't do that already), and getting out of the house for once (if I have to listen to one more phrase about folding laundry or syrup allocation, I swear to god, I will scream), and.....if only "how much you want it" were a section on the application. I guess "why I want to go here" is supposed to be subtext.

Either that, or the great omniscient "they" assumes that everyone wants to go there because it's MIT, and anyone who doesn't want to go to MIT clearly isn't worthy anyways.

I think I've spent more time reviewing these essays than I spent revising my research paper. Which I get back tomorrow. My lord that art in heaven, if thou doth let my paper not sucketh, I wilt be most happyeth.

By my lord, I mean Shakespeare, and I think he only understands fake olde english, so this prayer ought to get through just fine.

Yes Man

I got home from school today utterly exhausted. There should not have been school today. I don't care how goddamned not-icy the roads were, the online snow day calculator gave me a 99% chance of snow day. I think the problem is the administration. Harsh doesn't begin to cover it. Our frog of a superintendent would simply prefer to pretend that snow doesn't exist. I think Becky's plan is the best- get into a car crash, and put your blood on his hands. Now, I probably will not actually do this, and likely neither will she, but I have a feeling that nothing short of a catastrophe could change the administrative opinion in question.

I just watched Yes Man, which basically consisted of a rubber-faced, not particularly attractive protagonist who never does anything because he's so insecure he thinks that as soon as people truly know him they'll just start hating. Then, he goes through some mystical self-help transformation and says yes to everything and finds his own manic pixie dream girl. The basic idea behind the Yes Man premise is that we shouldn't be letting opportunities pass us by, and if we'd just embrace it, our lives would be fuller and better and a whole host of other positive adjectives.

I can understand that, to a certain extent. I do think that one needs to be careful- there are people who say yes too often, who don't get their own homework done because they're too busy helping everyone else in the entire class, who give so much that they don't have anything left to hold as they fall asleep at night. I'm not sure I really have either of those problems. I mean, I do do some things. There are times when I say no, I'm too busy, no, I don't want to, no, I have a...thing, but most of the time, I do try to be somewhat open. After all, I know how depressing it is to not do anything.

When I was younger, I used to always have absolutely nothing planned for the first week of summer. I would veg, completely and totally, for that time period. Then, the year after fifth grade, all of my friends (granted, I only had three friends at the time, but this is beside the point) went to camp, and I was left alone. I did nothing for a week, and my clearest memory is of lying sprawled across the couch in the kitchen, moaning to my mother, "I'm soooo bored."

So, moral of the story, do stuff, because boredom is boring. On that note, I'm going to find something to do.

Chuckles of Doom

As of yesterday, I had 269 posts. This made me chuckle. I can't remember what Tybalt's sequence of them was (he told Kathrya, who told me a while ago). I think we determined that 691:$ is two people sixty-nineing on a bed with wheels that somebody left money under.

I'm making completely crappy progress on the applications front. I write a little. I read a lot. I write a little more. I eat a lot. I stare at the page and revise a sentence. I go and see Avatar. I come home. I go on College Confidential and read other applicants stats. I get gloomy. I stop writing. I wring my hands over the futility of it all. I blog.

As you've no doubt noticed, I'm very productive.

To do tomorrow:

-write entire methods section of ASR paper

-finish printing those stupid briefs for gov.

-finish application, photocopy test scores, panic about typos

-pack up binders that have been scattered across the four corners of the house

I think I can handle is. Maybe. Kind of. Probably not, but I suppose I'll manage.

I'm actually looking forward to being back, if you can believe it. I love being here, and doing nothing, but learning is kind of fun (although I have been learning perl, I'm struggling with the newest chapter. Who knew that subroutines could be so complicated?)

Late Nights

I haven't posted for the past two days because I didn't get home until after midnight, at which point I figured there really wasn't much point, since it was actually tomorrow.

As far as Friday goes, Harry and I had a lovely conversation about celeste cues during rehearsal. I think he's finally gotten the hang of standard speech. Now, I just have to work up enough guts to have a serious discussion about his excessive pedaling, which I really probably shouldn't, it's just that it doesn't sound good! The Fugue for Tin Horns is supposed to be bouncy! After all, it's a fugue, not a dirge.

Dirge was, by the way, an SAT word that I learned over the summer that was actually on the PSAT. It made me extremely happy.

Then, yesterday was Halloween. I went to Nyx's house and participated in delightful activities like "Soda Pong," which is, really, quite quaint. Then we went trick-or-treating, because, really, you can never be too old for that. At one point, Kathrya and Cammie were singing "He Had It Coming," or whatever it's called, from Caberet, as we approached a group of skankily dressed teens. Then, right when they finished, Chelsea and Selena attacked them with silly string and the entire group bolted.

Ginny, Lysander and I had been lagging, but we did our best to keep up. I went sprinting after Samurai Nyx, who was in front of me. The group we'd attacked made a good chase.

"Who are you? Wanna fight?" they called.

"Sure," I yelled over my shoulder. "We have one sword. What've you got."

They were silent for a moment before someone yelled, "Nothing. Nice pants, though!"

"Thanks!"

Summer Clothing.

Summer clothing is, I promise you, almost as fun as summer lovin'. At least, that's what I tell myself.

My haul for this year:

-green protect/respect/effect tee from Eastern Mountain Sports

-brown sneakers from some random outlet mall in New Hampshire

-bright green pants that are two inches to short (a hand-me-down from my little sister)

-jeans with patches on them from delias (ordered online, may or may not fit)

-pale blue Save the Earth tee

-light wash version of jeans I already own, also ordered online.

-one knee-length green skirt from the sale rack at Anthropology

-gray leggings.

Both pairs of jeans were 19.99. Yay cheap pants!

I feel that, since this is my blog, I have every right to use the space to brag about my shopping conquests. At the very least, I can use the new clothes to alleviate my back-to-school stress (I already feel slightly nauseous). See you soon!

Old Friends

Shelby spent most of the week calling her friend from last summer, trying to get her to come visit. She finally did, today. This girl is extremely fond of King of the Raft, in which everyone tries to shove each other off. Shelby and her friend spent a good deal of time pushing, then they turned on me, so I did my best to fight them off, but still ended up falling in twice. Then, after they were both in at the same time, I said to Genie, "this was a lot more fun when we were wrestling the guy from last summer."

"Yes," she replied, "Him and all his muscly muscles."

The friend heard this, and told us that said boy "and his really hot friend" spent time at the beach last summer saying the following rhyme:

"Have you seen my beachball?" (flex arms over head)

"It's about this big," flex in, around belly-button.

"And it went that way," gesture with one arm pointed out, the other bent.

"or maybe that way," switch directions.

We were in hysterics for a good few minutes.

Grease is the Word

and it opens tonight. One minute ago, to be exact, but they probably haven't actually started yet.

Genie spent all day with her hair in curlers on the back of her head. She has so much hair, it looked like she'd attached a second head, then covered it with curlers so I couldn't see it.

Vicky came over for about an hour this evening. She leaves for Chechoslovakialondon etc. one Saturday. Have fun, Vicky!

Forgetfulness and Remembrance

I completely forgot to post yesterday, and I'm very sorry for that. I'll do my best to be more consistent in the future.

Yesterday, I went to Nyx's house with Dora. We mostly just hung out for a very long time. I borrowed three of Nyx's sister's books (Dream Stone, Petals on the River, and The Elusive Flame, all of them utterly ridiculous romance novels). I even went swimming- kind of.

When we got out to the beach in front of Nyx's house, Nyx ran right out into the water, Dora went in up to her waist, and I waded in almost to my knees before deciding that it was, really, far too cold and gross for this sort of thing and got back out. Dora soon joined me, but Nyx had already made it out to the raft and untied her boat. She paddled it over to us.

"How about I ferry you out?" she asked.

"No way," I responded. "You'll tip me in!"

"No, I won't."

"Will too."

"I didn't even have the idea until you suggested it."

"Hmph," I said. Dora had already climbed onto the little Laser. "Fine. But no tipping."

"Fine."

I climbed into the boat and Nyx pulled it over to the raft. Then she climbed onto the raft and then onto the boat. The whole thing tipped with the addition of her weight. I squeaked and quickly moved to balance it out. Nyx lay down on the front of the boat and paddled like it was a surfboard. When we came next to a buoy, Nyx climbed in and scrambled towards the side of the little sitting place.

The boat tipped dangerously. "Nyx!" I said loudly, moving to the side as a balance again. Dora even squeaked a little bit. "Don't do that! We might fall in."

"Hmmm," said Nyx. "I have a plan. Tea, hook your feet under that strap and lean all the way out of the boat."

"No way!" I said.

Dora laughed, and Nyx leaned out anyways. The boat tilted sideways, but didn't fall over, fortunately. Nyx eventually came back in, and we made it to the raft without further incidence.

We sat there for a little while, just talking, when I realized that it was starting to tilt into the water. I laughed as a memory of last summer came back to me.

"What?" asked Nyx.

"Last summer, in New Hampshire," I began, "we met another family that was staying nearby. They had a guy my age and a couple of younger girls, and a raft in front of their house that we'd play on."

"Was he cute?" Dora, of course.

"Yeah. Bit short, but very cute." I smiled, a little bit dreamily. "We'd basically hang out on the raft a lot. We played king of the raft, which pretty much involves wrestling everyone else off."

"Wrestling is fun," said Nyx.

"And, one time, we got my Dad to come on, and everyone stood on one corner and the whole thing just tipped right in and we all fell off. It was fun."

"Sounds like it."

"Yeah. Anyways, the raft tipping reminded me of it."

Ah, remembrance. I'm really beginning to look forward to vacation.

I Can Make a Difference

You asked, so here it is.

I stood precariously on a wall overlooking the ocean. The sky was a flat gray, and there was a strong and chilly wind. The entire world seemed to be tinted gray; the only color left was the tan of the sand and the greenish gray of the ocean water. It was the sort of setting a movie would have for a suicide, and, at that moment, I wanted my life to end. It is by far the most terrifying moment of my fourteen years of existence.

The first person I tried to tell was my mother. Through tears, I told her that I thought about bad things, that I might be depressed, that I needed help. She responded by telling me that I should exercise to get more endorphins and feel better. I ran up and down stairs, but there was no improvement. Telling her the first time had been so painful that was not willing to go through it again, so I attempted to wait it out. Two weeks later, I was getting worse, and she seemed to have completely forgotten about my problem.

I spoke again, balanced precariously on the edge of a bathroom sink. I began to speak, the words slipping through the tears. My friend looked on, concerned, not understanding why I was crying. "I almost, I almost." I was sobbing so much that a gasp worked its way into my words, but I forced them out. "Killed myself." She was shocked. I continued my story, filling in the details, explaining that I did not know why, that I did not know if it would happen again, that right then I did not want to die. I was scared out of my mind. I was shaking, and the automatic sink behind me went off, spraying my pants with water. I cried even harder. She asked if I wanted to go to the guidance office. My guidance counselor, a creepy old man who didn't even know my name, was not someone I wanted to explain this to, so I shook my head no. My friend promised to keep my secret, and we returned to lunch, me with tears on my face, hers expressing her uncertainty as to what she could do to help.

A week later, I stood in the shower under the pounding hot water, fear flooding through me, trying to let the heat and the noise drown out my sadness and loneliness. I clearly remembered the feeling of standing on that wall. It hit me that I would need only seconds to slit my wrists and finish what I had considered beginning. A battle was raging in my mind. "You don't want that" screamed between my ears, but a little fragment managed to worm its way through the noise, whispering seductively of how easy it would be to let it all go. I rand from the piece, hiding beneath the shower, but running from myself I couldn't get very far. The conflict built to unbearable levels in my mind, so I shoved my fingers into my mouth, biting down so hard that my gums began to ached, trying to give myself a tangible reason to hurt and to make the pain and sadness fade with the marks on my knuckles, just as they had so many times before. This time it didn't help. I sank down to the bottom of the shower and promised myself that Tuesday, tomorrow, I would tell.

I had written about that colorless afternoon no the wall near the ocean. It was a poem in which I tried to figure out how to put my pain into words that people could read and possibly understand. It was scribbled in my worst handwriting in the back of my science notebook. It was accompanied by footnotes and doodles in the margins, everything I felt was needed to explain. The next day I showed it to another friend, one who also wrote poems, not mentioning that it was autobiographical. She said it was creepy but well written. I had promised myself I would tell, so I whispered to her that I was the suicidal girl in the poem. She urged me to go to guidance. It took her about fifteen minutes to talk me into it. We sat across from someone I did not know, a counselor for another grade. I handed her my poem; she called my parents. I was suspended from school for being a danger to myself and others, pending a letter from a mental health professional. I felt worse than I had before.

I saw someone the next day who gave me a letter to get back in school. It was another two and a half weeks before I finally started seeing a therapist and was allowed to close my bedroom door.

A few weeks ago, that second friend moved away. I was walking home from school and trying to console myself. I reminded myself that she was just and friend, and that, without her, I'd still be in the same place I was that day. It was then I realized that I was completely wrong. She brought me in. I have no idea where I'd be if I hadn't gotten help. It could be that I would have found another way, but I could just as easily be dead. She was gone, but I was so lucky to have had her there, and to have been able to survive. I was lucky, and I felt the good luck wash over me in a wave incomparable to the pain in the shower. I was alive, I was happy. I was walking through the first snow of the year, a snow I came so close to never being able to see. I breathed in the flakes and yelled out to a street silenced by ice, "I survived!" "But," I added inwardly, "only just." It was five weeks after I first told my mother that I got help, and I was troubled long before then. I may not have scars on my wrists, but I had a problem, and it is far more common than one might guess. Approximately one in every hundred and fourteen teenagers injures themselves. For some of these teens, five weeks may be too long.

I think mainly it was so difficult for me to get help because people do not really know what to do. I think my mother may have denied the problem, although we don't talk about it at all now, so I'm not sure. Gretchen tried to be a good friend by keeping my secret. Amy finally brought me in, but I was only placed in the care of my denying parents again. People need to be educated about what they can do to help in these situations.

I can make a difference in the world by telling my story and educating people about what they can do to help. Self-injuring and suicide are topics I have yet to cover in health class. I think that some who have not experienced it misinterpret it as a plea for attention, thinking that because people are hurting themselves, they alone are to blame. I do not believe that this is true. No one wants to hurt, and causing physical pain is not a healthy way to deal with painful emotions.

People can be healed. It was six months later, summer, that I saw that I was truly better. The permeating sadness that had hung over me seemed inexplicable gone. I was lying on a hill at music camp. The sun was beating into the back of my jeans, but rather than feeling too hot, I was pleasantly warm. Scales and songs wafted through the breeze, discordant as they mixed together, but rather than being annoying, it was soothing. I smiled into the warm grass, thinking about the friends I would see later, the music I would learn to play, and the new school that I would start in the fall. The warmth of the sun felt as if it had permeated my entire being. It took me a moment to find a word for the unfamiliar feeling: contentment. The happiness in life had come back to me. My life wasn't any better, but I was.

By using what I learned from my own experience, I can help others to feel the same contentment I am now able to feel. I am starting here. This piece of writing is not private. I am spilling out my story because it needs to be learned from. Suicide is the third leading cause of death among adolescents and young adults, but suicides can be prevented. Students need to be able to tell people more easily, and those whom they tell need to learn what they should do to help.

I am a living, breathing example that it can get better when troubled teens talk, but the people they talk to also need to know what to do. I had to talk to two people before I found one who was willing to help me stick around, so that I can taste snowflakes and feel sunlight, but many people are not so lucky. I can make a difference by speaking up, so I am going to talk.

The DMV call center is a bitch. It took FOREVER, but I finally got an appointment on September 19th. In other news, who wants to go see Harry Potter on Saturday night?

Farewell

Italian Festival pt. 3

At a bit past 10, Nyx and I decided that we really should be leaving. We debated calling our parents, but Benny said he'd drive Nyx home, and I lived nearby, so it seemed unnecessary. It took forever to drag Benny out of the fair. He wanted to say goodbye to just about everyone, and he kept running into more people (a note: he is not among those who fear 'man hugs'). To top it off, he didn't actually know where his car was parked, and he didn't have automatic locks, so he couldn't flash the lights.

Very few of the automatic things in the car worked (I had a list, but I forgot it). Despite the iffy brakes, we made it up the hill, and I was home by 10:30. He and Nyx went back to Nyx's house, and she gave him the cupcakes, and they reportedly sat on the wall by the beach and talked for a while before he left. Johannes, however, had his own ideas about what transpired, as evidenced by this facebook chat between Johannes and Tawny (on Nyx's account).

Johannes: how was the ride home lol

Tawny: umm this is tawny not Nyx :):)

Johannes: haha

Tawny: shes sleeping and i know her passward so im stealing photos of myself off peoples pictures

Johannes: oohhh wats up? haha

Tawny: but her ride home was good and they sat outside for a while looking at the moon and I walked over and said hi

Johannes: u know everything dont u! thats nice u know if anything happend

Tawny: nothing did what do you know from benny

Johannes: i don't know anything

Tawny: come onnn

Johannes: thats y i was askin u haha really

Tawny: boring

Johannes: i havent talked to him since he left to drop Nyx off

Tawny: whataboule luysander lysander

Johannes: what u mean?

Tawny: umm nvm

Johannes: no tell me! lol come on

Tawny: whatever she just thought maybe he liked her so she thought it would be awk between lysander and benny and really i didnt say any of that

Johannes: ok idk

Tawny: k good

Johannes: lol

=-------end of conversation--------=

They didn't even say goodbye. This is further proof that Johannes (who took pictures of himself on Nyx's camera) is weird. Also, *ahem* Benny and Nyx, sitting in a tree, etc.

Thank you very much.

Nyx Had A Dream

It went as follows:

First, i was sailing, with a bunch of people. we were in Hunter 420s, which is what we use on sailing team, but it wasn't the sailing team people. It was starting to get dark and a boat capsized, and when they righted themselves one of the crew members was missing. We spent a lot of time looking around for him but couldn't find him. (At this point I was in a motorboat with someone but I'm not sure who it was. Definitely male though.) Then the girl who had been sailing with him began to sail back to the dock, and when she started moving I saw an arm underneath her boat, which turned out to be attached to the missing guy. Still not sure who he was, mighta been Henry. The guy I was with on the motorboat jumped in and got the body and carried it back onto the boat. Then we went back to the dock (not one I was familiar with) and derigged all the boats. I don't know what happened to the body. Nobody was really sad though, we were all just kind of not really sure what happened. I don't think the concept of the situation had hit us yet.
Next, I was sitting outside my house on the glider with Kiwi. It was day time again. A loop of line, which i think was a really long dog leash, was staked into the ground near the oak tree in the front yard. There were more lines attached to it, and the other ends of these lines were attached to my bike helmet. For some reason I felt it necessary to put on the helmet and try to walk, but of course I couldn't because the lines were taut when I stood up. I kept straining at the ropes, and it was like some bizarre exercise machine.
Then I heard someone say, "And this is Nyx, strapped into her own yard!" I turned and saw that it was Lysander, talking to to older men on the sidewalk across the street. I unstrapped myself and went back to sitting on the glider, and as I did so he walked over and came into the yard. I asked him if he wanted his jewelry (i think it was heirloom or something) back, though I'm not sure why I had it. He had given it to me in a tacklebox which was also on the glider, but it was all mixed in with my beads and jewelry making supplies. Kiwi and I helped me dig through it looking for the jewelry, but Lysander didn't seem to mind the wait. When we finally gave it to him he left and went back across the street, where a black convertible was waiting for him with someone (maybe his dad?) in the passenger seat.
Then I went to your house, and you had just received a valentine from Lysander, even though we knew Valentine's day was still a few days away. It was a booklet made of unevenly-stapled red and pink construction paper, written and drawn on with crayons like a kid would do. Each page had something different on it. One page said Love.
Wondering if Lysander actually liked you or if he was just desperate for a girlfriend, I wanted to go check my mailbox to see if he had slipped one in there when I wasn't looking. (This is very reminiscent of me wanting to check my cell phone.) But I decided that it would be better to wait until the morning. Then I slept over at your house with a bunch of other girls and we gossiped about guys all night.
The next day was the first day of school, and of course I had already gotten to school and it was already 7:25 by the time I figured that out. I had not checked my mailbox. I also did not know what rooms my classes were in, but I knew that I had physics period 1. (There was also a while that we spent in the library and something happened but I forget what it was. Then I lost track of you and realized I had to get to class). I raced to the elevator to take it to the third floor, because I was riding on a library cart. The doors shut and opened again and an old lady in a wheelchair tried to come in but couldn't fit because of my cart. As the elevator went up I had the fleeting realization that if I had moved the cart over there would have been room for her, but I was in too much of a hurry to care.
On the third floor, all of the walls were black. Actually, the third floor was more like a train, which happened to be moving. Each car held one or two classrooms, and I passed from car to car (through the annoying between-car spaces) trying to find someone in my class - I think it was you. Finally I found a class and asked Vicuna if it was physics honors, and he said yes so I went to find a seat. The lab tables and benches were arranged on each side of the train car and looked like diner booths. I couldn't find any cute guys to sit with, but finally I sat down with Anita and a blond girl whose face I recognized but whose name I don't know. Meanwhile, the windowless train was still trundling along - quite loudly, I might add.
I looked around to see if I knew anyone else, and saw Tawny in a booth diagonal from mine. She appeared to be sitting on Benny's lap. But then suddenly they were sitting next to each other instead and he morphed into a girl so that was okay. Then I woke up.

it was only after the dream was over that I realized that a certain spare-brainless lab partner was not in my class. neither was Richard.

please interpret?!

My interpretation will follow tomorrow.

More Books (and a little embarrassment)

I think that embarrassment should be spelled embareassment, because having a bare ass would be embarrassing.

This morning, Mom had Kerry and his landscaping buddy over. I talked to Kerry for a couple of minutes, but there were these little gnats flying at my face, and I started panicking about being afraid of bugs and pretty much ran away. It was awful.

On the upside, I did manage to finish two books today. First, I wrapped up Ender in Exile, by Orson Scott Card. It was just as fun and exciting as everything else Card has written, so no surprises there. Then, this afternoon, I read To Catch a Duke, by Eloisa James, and it was every bit as enjoyably awful as it sounds. I have a large portion of my heart that will be forever devoted to godawful regency romances. This one was as wonderful as always, with lots of romantic confusion, horribly exciting arguments, witty dialogue, and gratuitous sex (there's a reason I used to have to sneak them past my mother).

Anyways, all in all, it was a good day.

García's Heart

I just finished a book, and, remarkably, it's only the third one I've read this summer. I feel like such an underachiever. Then again, it's more reading than most high schoolers have probably done in the last two weeks, so I suppose that I'm semioverachieving again.

García's Heart, by Liam Durcan, was pretty good. It was absorbing, and the voice, which walked the line between pretentious and entertaining, leant more towards entertaining. Since the last book I read (The Dark is Rising, by Susan Cooper) was a children's book (albeit an enjoyable one), it was refreshing to see a sentence like "[s]tanding among a group of businessmen in the lobby of the Hotel Metropole and watching them disperse into the Den Haag drizzle, he had already begun to feel conspicuous, almost wishing he could pick up a briefcase and join their ranks for a day of bloodless regulatory triumph" on the first page. However the ending was unsatisfying to an great enough extent that I almost didn't read the last chapter, and when the novel abruptly shifted from dwelling in the past to actual events in the present, the protagonist's realizations felt forced. However, the book did, overall, provide an interesting view into morality and history.

Vacation

I've been 'cleaning' for the past hour, but I keep getting distracted by the cool stuff I find. My journal is now covered with adhesive glow-in-the-dark planets, and my leg is sporting what I like to call "ballerina mash-up." It's a statement about.....um.....the destruction of childhood dreams upon encountering an adult body (I learned that in Rediscovering Ophelia today).

These are each the first sentence or two of my vacation journal entries from the summer after 6th grade.

Costa Rica, August something

The plane ride here was terrible.

8/7/05

Today's horsebackride was boring. Pretty much, we just walked. And walked. And walked.

8/8/05

only a single word must be used to describe the worst thing about Tortuga Lodge: bugs.

later that day

dinner was umm.....interesting.

8/10

yesterday was actually pretty fun.

8-14-05

This was definitely the best place we stayed yet.

Thursday, in CO

camp was a total bore.

--end of journal

complain? who, me?