The Bitter Beginning
My Dad drove me to Jardel, the Rec Center a few blocks from our house. I was hesitant; unsure of how I felt about this.
“Dad, I’m not sure I actually want to do this.”
“Look, your mother told me to sign you up – so that’s what I’m doing. Talk to her about it later.”
“Fine.”
That was the day I started taking Irish dance classes. Let me tell ya how thrilled I was about jumping, hopping, and kicking around the room while maintaining poise and grace. I was a soccer player. When you’re used to slide-tackling and doing so without the Ref catching you, you’re not exactly blessed with being graceful.
It wasn’t easy being ten years old and 5 feet tall – the tallest kid in 5th grade. It was pretty convenient to have long legs for soccer, but dancing? It was certainly interesting.
Alright, I Give
The first few lessons were awkward. I was trying to make sure my hands stayed stationery at my sides, my shoulders back, and my long legs looking like a real dancer’s.
But I started having fun once I learned some of the steps. Reels and jigs were my personal favorites, while the slip jig gave me trouble. I couldn’t always find the count – but once I found it, I felt graceful. Whoa!
I was praised by my teacher, Eileen. After a few weeks I was ready for a feis. Sounds painful, doesn’t it?
Now It Gets Tricky
The blessed feis. I was nervous. Would I survive the first one? Ha! If only I had known how easy it would be before I went. For those of you out of the loop, a feis is an Irish dance competition. About 300 dancers, give or take, get together, dress up in the most ridiculously expensive and uncomfortable dresses, curl their hair [or cheat like I did in my later years of dancing by wearing a curly wig], and dance in front of judges. Now, the tricky part, after all the humiliation of having to look like a poodle wearing a Celtic outfit, is to remember your steps, stay in time to the music [despite several other musicians playing for other performing dancers], and make it all look graceful & worthy of winning first place. Doesn’t sound too complicated, right?
Talent Shows
Now comes the really fun part. My freshman year of high school, after skyrocketing a full twelve inches since I started dancing [that’s a foot in 4 years!], my $500 costume barely fit anymore and I found girls at school that were in my dance classes. Flyers were going up around December about a talent show hosted and performed by the students for the entire school body. I found my dance friends, convinced them St. Hubert’s needed Irish dancers, and went home to tell Mom.
“MOM! GUESS WHAT?! GUESS WHAT?!?!?!”
“Whoa! Easy there. Breathe a little, then tell me.”
“MOM! You will NEVER guess what I’m going to do at school!”
“Am I going to approve?”
“Moooooooom! It’s not bad! You’re gonna be so proud!”
“Well then tell me!”
“Ok! I got the girls from dance to sign up for the talent show at school! We’re gonna dance in the show! How awesome is that?!?”
“Congrats! My girl: the star of the show!”
“Ok, way to kill it, Mom. A simple “That’s great, hunnie” would have sufficed.”
11.26.2008
11.20.2008
"How Writing Saved My Life..."
I always struggle with writing. It’s my saving grace, and at the same time it nearly kills me. I write to escape from the troubles of my life; or I write to take the emotions out my body and put them onto paper. I usually burn the angry pages.
“The nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings, otherwise I'd absolutely suffocate.” (The Diary of Anne Frank, March, 1944)
I have kept a journal since the age of six. That’s right; at six years old I was writing my thoughts and pouring my heart out onto the pages. Or not. I doodled flowers and hearts and practiced writing my name. But I still had my very own diary with a drawing of a bunny. It was something my Mom gave to me; she explained to me that it was important to have something for myself that no one else could see. It was my own private world kept together between the pages.
Through the years, I have written in a variety of journals. I have kept journals for dreams, school, friendships, poems, short stories – you get the picture. When I made it to high school the journals I kept got dark – at least it felt that way to me. I ran myself into an emotional ditch and stayed there for four years. I wrote about death: wondering what it would be like to not be on this earth anymore; I wrote about losing my cousin Matt when I was seventeen and how I couldn’t imagine life without him. I poured out my soul: how sad I felt and how helpless my life seemed to be at ages fourteen through seventeen. I also kept my work to myself; I couldn’t let others in, afraid that if I made a vulnerable move, I would be hurt.
That’s when Mom got involved. She never actually read my journal, but she knew from my actions that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I wasn’t doing in well in school – I couldn’t have cared less about school when I was fifteen. I was angry with myself for not trying harder, but I took it out on everyone else or just wrote vigorously. So Mom asked me to start writing “happy stories” in an effort to make me happy. It almost worked.
What helped me to write “happy stories” was college. I got here with my “Fab Four” of friends and I had something happy to write about. I was happy, therefore my writing picked up an interesting perspective. I wrote about love, life, overcoming challenges; my Mom actually wanted to read my work, only I wasn’t willing to share. It was still very personal, no matter how happy it seemed to be.
September, 2007 I started dating my first boyfriend (yes, I got a late start on the relationship side of life). My writing changed so much with dating Kevin. Basically, my writing got a little cheesy. I wrote about the most wonderful love and how hard it is to find. I wrote clichés: he was the “one;” the “love of my life;” he was “in my heart forever.” But I was happy. My journal was filled with love poems, which I had never before been able to successfully write.
The interesting thing about keeping a journal, or a diary, is that no one else has to see it. You can write whatever you want – you can rant and rave about someone you don’t get along with, write about the person you like, create stories, describe your dreams – and no one else in the entire universe will ever know unless you decide to open up that part of you and share it with someone.
The only person I ever showed my personal writing to was Kevin. He always saw me scribbling in my currently purple journal and was so curious about what I was putting on paper. One day he flat out asked me, “So, what have you written about me?” I was nervous to share my love poems, or my entries of how hard I had fallen for him. But one day, when he didn’t ask, I brought my book over and read to him a few parts I felt he’d like to know. I read about the day we met, the day we started dating, memories of our first date, etc. When I started to read some of my poems, Kevin interrupted me and told me I should be published. I just stared at him. “Are you crazy?! This is my journal – I don’t want this all over the world!” He laughed and exclaimed how “wonderful” my work was. But I don’t think I’d ever have the courage to publish my poems.
I do, however, admire those who have had their diaries published, whether it was during their lifetime or afterward. The first diary I read was that of Anne Frank, the famous Jewish girl who hid with her family and neighbors during World War II. I was in the fourth grade and was mesmerized by how she captured the imagery of her neighborhood, her school, and her friends and family in hiding. It rocked my world as a nine-year-old. I wept. Never had I known anything to be so disheartening in my short life. But it only encouraged me to write more and to be more descriptive, so that if something were to happen to me, my family would have my written words.
"I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but... it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.” (The Diary of Anne Frank, April, 1944) I couldn’t agree more: I have yet to show myself that I have talent as a writer. Anne was just thirteen years old when she wrote in her diary. She had the courage to share some of the short stories she wrote with her family and neighbors in the Secret Annex.
One person who doesn’t understand my writing is my father. He thinks I waste time with “that nonsense.” It’s not a life skill that will give me a steady income, therefore I shouldn’t bother. But writing is so much more to me than making a living. It’s what keeps me alive so that I can function in life. Without my journals, I would be lost. I would have exploded with so many emotions years ago, had I not gotten them out of my system and onto paper.
So I keep writing; everyday, or as close to everyday as possible. It keeps me sane and functioning like a normal human being. I will never quit. It’s my crutch that gets me through.
“The nicest part is being able to write down all my thoughts and feelings, otherwise I'd absolutely suffocate.” (The Diary of Anne Frank, March, 1944)
I have kept a journal since the age of six. That’s right; at six years old I was writing my thoughts and pouring my heart out onto the pages. Or not. I doodled flowers and hearts and practiced writing my name. But I still had my very own diary with a drawing of a bunny. It was something my Mom gave to me; she explained to me that it was important to have something for myself that no one else could see. It was my own private world kept together between the pages.
Through the years, I have written in a variety of journals. I have kept journals for dreams, school, friendships, poems, short stories – you get the picture. When I made it to high school the journals I kept got dark – at least it felt that way to me. I ran myself into an emotional ditch and stayed there for four years. I wrote about death: wondering what it would be like to not be on this earth anymore; I wrote about losing my cousin Matt when I was seventeen and how I couldn’t imagine life without him. I poured out my soul: how sad I felt and how helpless my life seemed to be at ages fourteen through seventeen. I also kept my work to myself; I couldn’t let others in, afraid that if I made a vulnerable move, I would be hurt.
That’s when Mom got involved. She never actually read my journal, but she knew from my actions that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I wasn’t doing in well in school – I couldn’t have cared less about school when I was fifteen. I was angry with myself for not trying harder, but I took it out on everyone else or just wrote vigorously. So Mom asked me to start writing “happy stories” in an effort to make me happy. It almost worked.
What helped me to write “happy stories” was college. I got here with my “Fab Four” of friends and I had something happy to write about. I was happy, therefore my writing picked up an interesting perspective. I wrote about love, life, overcoming challenges; my Mom actually wanted to read my work, only I wasn’t willing to share. It was still very personal, no matter how happy it seemed to be.
September, 2007 I started dating my first boyfriend (yes, I got a late start on the relationship side of life). My writing changed so much with dating Kevin. Basically, my writing got a little cheesy. I wrote about the most wonderful love and how hard it is to find. I wrote clichés: he was the “one;” the “love of my life;” he was “in my heart forever.” But I was happy. My journal was filled with love poems, which I had never before been able to successfully write.
The interesting thing about keeping a journal, or a diary, is that no one else has to see it. You can write whatever you want – you can rant and rave about someone you don’t get along with, write about the person you like, create stories, describe your dreams – and no one else in the entire universe will ever know unless you decide to open up that part of you and share it with someone.
The only person I ever showed my personal writing to was Kevin. He always saw me scribbling in my currently purple journal and was so curious about what I was putting on paper. One day he flat out asked me, “So, what have you written about me?” I was nervous to share my love poems, or my entries of how hard I had fallen for him. But one day, when he didn’t ask, I brought my book over and read to him a few parts I felt he’d like to know. I read about the day we met, the day we started dating, memories of our first date, etc. When I started to read some of my poems, Kevin interrupted me and told me I should be published. I just stared at him. “Are you crazy?! This is my journal – I don’t want this all over the world!” He laughed and exclaimed how “wonderful” my work was. But I don’t think I’d ever have the courage to publish my poems.
I do, however, admire those who have had their diaries published, whether it was during their lifetime or afterward. The first diary I read was that of Anne Frank, the famous Jewish girl who hid with her family and neighbors during World War II. I was in the fourth grade and was mesmerized by how she captured the imagery of her neighborhood, her school, and her friends and family in hiding. It rocked my world as a nine-year-old. I wept. Never had I known anything to be so disheartening in my short life. But it only encouraged me to write more and to be more descriptive, so that if something were to happen to me, my family would have my written words.
"I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but... it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.” (The Diary of Anne Frank, April, 1944) I couldn’t agree more: I have yet to show myself that I have talent as a writer. Anne was just thirteen years old when she wrote in her diary. She had the courage to share some of the short stories she wrote with her family and neighbors in the Secret Annex.
One person who doesn’t understand my writing is my father. He thinks I waste time with “that nonsense.” It’s not a life skill that will give me a steady income, therefore I shouldn’t bother. But writing is so much more to me than making a living. It’s what keeps me alive so that I can function in life. Without my journals, I would be lost. I would have exploded with so many emotions years ago, had I not gotten them out of my system and onto paper.
So I keep writing; everyday, or as close to everyday as possible. It keeps me sane and functioning like a normal human being. I will never quit. It’s my crutch that gets me through.
11.19.2008
Freshman Year 2006
I wish I could go back to my 18 year old self and slap her. I made the biggest mistake my first year of college and it is now the greatest regret I carry with me.
It was August 24, 2006: my first day at Chestnut Hill College. My parents and big brother had left. I was officially on my own. I went back to Fontbonne and into the room I now shared with a complete stranger. Her name was Tracy. What was I supposed to say to her? What could we possibly have to talk about? Then I blurted out, “I miss my family already.” Tracy looked at me and said, “I miss mine too.” I was instantly relieved! Someone was feeling the same way I was and we could talk about it!
That moment – such a vulnerable, emotional moment – we shared was the gateway into the best friendship of my entire life. Our first days and nights, in room 516, were jam-packed with meeting other freshman, unpacking our lives, and a schedule of ridiculous orientation activities.
I went to sleep that first night crying; I missed my family so very much. Sure, they’re only a half hour away from here, but I wasn’t at home, in my own bed, with my dog taking up all the room. I found out a few weeks later that Tracy did the same. Neither of us knew the other was so upset that first night.
After a series of absurd orientation ice-breakers, games like “Jack-tivities”, and lectures on date-rape and alcohol abuse, I was able to meet some new people and really get to know Tracy. We had a lot of the same tastes in music, movies, and books. But books are what really got us talking; since we’re both English majors, we couldn’t stop talking about books and how we can’t stop reading!
Classes started on Monday morning – an 8 A.M. religion class for me – and I was indescribably scared. I was starting over: brand new school, brand new friends, brand new me. I woke up that morning, put on one of my high school t-shirts (some sense of comfort on a scary day) and a brand new pair of jeans and walked out the door. There were other freshmen, who looked as lost as I felt, but there were also others who looked like they knew exactly what they were doing and they had it all under control; Tracy was one of those who had everything under control. She seemed to know it all: where she was going (on campus and in life) and knew how hard she had to work to get herself there. She told me that she made herself believe she knew what she was doing with her life and that, if she believed hard enough, then it would just all fall into place. Actually, that’s not true, but that is the outlook I perceived from her. She told me later on that she felt the complete opposite of my perception and that she could not have been more scared or lost.
I looked up to Tracy. She was in the same position as me, but she was so far beyond me: she had college credit from high school, she had relationship experience, and even had her driver’s license – all unlike me. I took the easy way out in high school, I had no social life to speak of, and I had to walk everywhere I went. Tracy had everything I ever wanted for myself as a teenager. She knew how to work hard and reap the benefits, while I had yet to learn how to work hard.
Tracy and I fell into an easy pattern within that first week: we were eating every meal together, wanting to watch the same movies, and turn the light out at the same time. She also became my best friend. It was in the dark, lying in our beds, that we had some of the best conversations. We’d recount our emotion-filled days with classes and new professors, swap childhood stories, and plan to go to my house for home-cooked meals and to surround ourselves with a family. We were inseparable, along with her new boyfriend, Tim, who was a sophomore, Matt, a freshman we met in Fontbonne, and Emma, a senior.
The five of us formed the strongest of friendships with each other in such a short time. I was so proud to have four best friends, when in high school I was lucky to have had one girl I could hang out with every now and then. This was all different. I had become a different person than I was in high school. I put myself out there in the social realm, hoping to find one person I could relate to; but, in my own head, I won the friendship lottery. I was so lucky to have met those four and become a member of “The Five.” It wasn’t just me; my Mom was finally off my case about meeting people and branching out (“expanding my social horizons” as she would say). In high school I was the one who went out with my mother on Friday nights, or my brother. My “friends” in high school would always get high before school in the mornings, or drink every weekend. That wasn’t my idea of a fun time; I preferred going to the movies, shopping, and reading; so I stayed home for four years. But during my freshman year at Chestnut Hill that all changed.
I had a great first semester; I was doing well with adjusting to college life. I found a routine with classes and getting my work done and being able to relax on the weekends with my friends. I was sad to say goodbye when it came to winter break. I thought a month without my four best friends was going to be torture. But I had no idea what was going to happen when I got back to room 516 in January.
After four weeks of itching to get back to campus and out of my parents’ house, I was finally back! Anxious to catch up with my friends, I jumped right into telling them how I did almost nothing except count down the days till I saw them again. But when Tracy started her story of break, I could see something had changed in her. She said break was fine, blah, blah, blah. But I knew that “fine” meant she didn’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t press the issue. I was worried about her, having seen her fall into a rough patch once before due to family troubles, and I didn’t want to see it happen again.
I spent weeks trying to help her out of her emotional rut, only to realize I was falling into one myself. She and I both were dealing with not being at home and with our families, as well as the weight of classes, homework, projects, papers, and relationships. Tension started to build up, relationships ended and friendships were about to be tested. It was disheartening. Tracy and I stopped communicating with one another – we stopped talking, stopped sharing our feelings, and stopped asking how the other was handling everything – and it was so uncomfortable to be in our room together. I felt like I was losing friends and clinging to others. I had no idea what to do. One day I came back to Fontbonne, and was presented with the suggestion of switching rooms with another friend in order to relieve the tension in room 516. I felt that this was a great way for me to focus on myself and my school work, as well as a solution to my communication issues with Tracy. I was seriously wrong!
The five of us were no more. Emma and Matt had broken up and the group nearly exiled Matt. Emma and I strengthened our bond of friendship by running away from Tracy and Matt and the rest of our problems by hanging out merely with each other. I realized I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do with moving out of room 516. I was supposed to be fixing things with Tracy, not making them so much worse. So I e-mailed her over Spring Break. I apologized for abandoning her in her emotional time of need, and fully explained my actions. I got no response.
The rest of the semester drudged on full of drama; that useless, annoying, worthless crap. Matt was upset about his break up with Emma and took it out on me for “abandoning Tracy.” Tim was angry with me for “abandoning Tracy,” and never let me forget it. My mom wasn’t exactly happy to hear my news of moving out of 516 either. She questioned my judgment and worthiness of Tracy’s friendship. I knew how badly I screwed up and I tried to fix it, but I failed. Drama: it really does ruin people’s lives. I lost my best friend, my first friend at Chestnut Hill. I drove her away with my own stupidity. I regret this everyday. I went home that summer hating myself and wishing I had done more to solve my problems rather than run away and hide.
I spent most of my sophomore year trying to communicate with Tracy and to begin patching up our friendship. It worked for a little while but I ended up trying to focus on other issues and problems that had entered into my life. I was surrounded by negativity. The problems I was still facing consisted of struggling to do well in classes, maintain any of my original friendships, and counting down the days till I could pack up my life and go home again. Was it the school? Was it the people I was hanging out with? Was it me?
Now, in my junior year, I have learned that the most important thing you need in any kind of relationship is open communication. The word communicate is defined “to transmit (information) by speaking or writing” (Oxford Dictionary). As long as you can talk to one another, then you can be so successful in your relationship. That’s all you need: communication and no drama.
It was August 24, 2006: my first day at Chestnut Hill College. My parents and big brother had left. I was officially on my own. I went back to Fontbonne and into the room I now shared with a complete stranger. Her name was Tracy. What was I supposed to say to her? What could we possibly have to talk about? Then I blurted out, “I miss my family already.” Tracy looked at me and said, “I miss mine too.” I was instantly relieved! Someone was feeling the same way I was and we could talk about it!
That moment – such a vulnerable, emotional moment – we shared was the gateway into the best friendship of my entire life. Our first days and nights, in room 516, were jam-packed with meeting other freshman, unpacking our lives, and a schedule of ridiculous orientation activities.
I went to sleep that first night crying; I missed my family so very much. Sure, they’re only a half hour away from here, but I wasn’t at home, in my own bed, with my dog taking up all the room. I found out a few weeks later that Tracy did the same. Neither of us knew the other was so upset that first night.
After a series of absurd orientation ice-breakers, games like “Jack-tivities”, and lectures on date-rape and alcohol abuse, I was able to meet some new people and really get to know Tracy. We had a lot of the same tastes in music, movies, and books. But books are what really got us talking; since we’re both English majors, we couldn’t stop talking about books and how we can’t stop reading!
Classes started on Monday morning – an 8 A.M. religion class for me – and I was indescribably scared. I was starting over: brand new school, brand new friends, brand new me. I woke up that morning, put on one of my high school t-shirts (some sense of comfort on a scary day) and a brand new pair of jeans and walked out the door. There were other freshmen, who looked as lost as I felt, but there were also others who looked like they knew exactly what they were doing and they had it all under control; Tracy was one of those who had everything under control. She seemed to know it all: where she was going (on campus and in life) and knew how hard she had to work to get herself there. She told me that she made herself believe she knew what she was doing with her life and that, if she believed hard enough, then it would just all fall into place. Actually, that’s not true, but that is the outlook I perceived from her. She told me later on that she felt the complete opposite of my perception and that she could not have been more scared or lost.
I looked up to Tracy. She was in the same position as me, but she was so far beyond me: she had college credit from high school, she had relationship experience, and even had her driver’s license – all unlike me. I took the easy way out in high school, I had no social life to speak of, and I had to walk everywhere I went. Tracy had everything I ever wanted for myself as a teenager. She knew how to work hard and reap the benefits, while I had yet to learn how to work hard.
Tracy and I fell into an easy pattern within that first week: we were eating every meal together, wanting to watch the same movies, and turn the light out at the same time. She also became my best friend. It was in the dark, lying in our beds, that we had some of the best conversations. We’d recount our emotion-filled days with classes and new professors, swap childhood stories, and plan to go to my house for home-cooked meals and to surround ourselves with a family. We were inseparable, along with her new boyfriend, Tim, who was a sophomore, Matt, a freshman we met in Fontbonne, and Emma, a senior.
The five of us formed the strongest of friendships with each other in such a short time. I was so proud to have four best friends, when in high school I was lucky to have had one girl I could hang out with every now and then. This was all different. I had become a different person than I was in high school. I put myself out there in the social realm, hoping to find one person I could relate to; but, in my own head, I won the friendship lottery. I was so lucky to have met those four and become a member of “The Five.” It wasn’t just me; my Mom was finally off my case about meeting people and branching out (“expanding my social horizons” as she would say). In high school I was the one who went out with my mother on Friday nights, or my brother. My “friends” in high school would always get high before school in the mornings, or drink every weekend. That wasn’t my idea of a fun time; I preferred going to the movies, shopping, and reading; so I stayed home for four years. But during my freshman year at Chestnut Hill that all changed.
I had a great first semester; I was doing well with adjusting to college life. I found a routine with classes and getting my work done and being able to relax on the weekends with my friends. I was sad to say goodbye when it came to winter break. I thought a month without my four best friends was going to be torture. But I had no idea what was going to happen when I got back to room 516 in January.
After four weeks of itching to get back to campus and out of my parents’ house, I was finally back! Anxious to catch up with my friends, I jumped right into telling them how I did almost nothing except count down the days till I saw them again. But when Tracy started her story of break, I could see something had changed in her. She said break was fine, blah, blah, blah. But I knew that “fine” meant she didn’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t press the issue. I was worried about her, having seen her fall into a rough patch once before due to family troubles, and I didn’t want to see it happen again.
I spent weeks trying to help her out of her emotional rut, only to realize I was falling into one myself. She and I both were dealing with not being at home and with our families, as well as the weight of classes, homework, projects, papers, and relationships. Tension started to build up, relationships ended and friendships were about to be tested. It was disheartening. Tracy and I stopped communicating with one another – we stopped talking, stopped sharing our feelings, and stopped asking how the other was handling everything – and it was so uncomfortable to be in our room together. I felt like I was losing friends and clinging to others. I had no idea what to do. One day I came back to Fontbonne, and was presented with the suggestion of switching rooms with another friend in order to relieve the tension in room 516. I felt that this was a great way for me to focus on myself and my school work, as well as a solution to my communication issues with Tracy. I was seriously wrong!
The five of us were no more. Emma and Matt had broken up and the group nearly exiled Matt. Emma and I strengthened our bond of friendship by running away from Tracy and Matt and the rest of our problems by hanging out merely with each other. I realized I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do with moving out of room 516. I was supposed to be fixing things with Tracy, not making them so much worse. So I e-mailed her over Spring Break. I apologized for abandoning her in her emotional time of need, and fully explained my actions. I got no response.
The rest of the semester drudged on full of drama; that useless, annoying, worthless crap. Matt was upset about his break up with Emma and took it out on me for “abandoning Tracy.” Tim was angry with me for “abandoning Tracy,” and never let me forget it. My mom wasn’t exactly happy to hear my news of moving out of 516 either. She questioned my judgment and worthiness of Tracy’s friendship. I knew how badly I screwed up and I tried to fix it, but I failed. Drama: it really does ruin people’s lives. I lost my best friend, my first friend at Chestnut Hill. I drove her away with my own stupidity. I regret this everyday. I went home that summer hating myself and wishing I had done more to solve my problems rather than run away and hide.
I spent most of my sophomore year trying to communicate with Tracy and to begin patching up our friendship. It worked for a little while but I ended up trying to focus on other issues and problems that had entered into my life. I was surrounded by negativity. The problems I was still facing consisted of struggling to do well in classes, maintain any of my original friendships, and counting down the days till I could pack up my life and go home again. Was it the school? Was it the people I was hanging out with? Was it me?
Now, in my junior year, I have learned that the most important thing you need in any kind of relationship is open communication. The word communicate is defined “to transmit (information) by speaking or writing” (Oxford Dictionary). As long as you can talk to one another, then you can be so successful in your relationship. That’s all you need: communication and no drama.
11.18.2008
“This Summer I…”
I had a nose job when I was eight years old. My mother didn’t even hesitate when she signed the forms at the hospital. You must think my mother is crazy for letting an eight year old child have plastic surgery. Well, I’m about to tell you something even crazier.
Sometime in August of 1996, I thought I died. At least, that’s what my cousin Micah screamed to my parents when he found me lying in the middle of the street, bleeding, and tangled up with my bike. For a split second, I believed him.
We, my cousins, my aunt and uncle, my parents, my big brother, and I, were staying at the Pocono Mountains for a week. We all piled into my aunt’s station wagon and drove what seemed like all day. To pass the time, my cousins, my brother, and I all talked about going swimming in the lake, riding our bikes, and staying up late every night. It was going to be an adventure for the Grosses and Kellys.
The first few days were filled with swimming in the cold lake with dead catfish, bike races, and lying on the dock soaking up the sun. Until the day it rained. It rained so hard that we were banned from all outdoor activities for the day. I couldn’t believe it! What good was a summer vacation if you couldn’t go outside? So the five of us kids devised a plan to take over the living room and build a giant fort, and then spend the day eating junk food and watching movies. After all the excitement of being allowed to watch movies all day, we fell asleep in our fort.
Later we woke up to a sunny afternoon! Immediately we decided to ride our bikes down to the lake. My brother got on his bike first and put Michaela, the youngest, on his lap. Micah followed them and they raced down the long, steep driveway. Misha and I took a slower approach to admire a family of deer we found a few yards away. I started to pedal faster in an attempt to race down the driveway and my bike stopped. My bike stopped, but I didn’t. I kept going. I went right over the handle bars. I flew head first into the wet street. I quickly sat up; I was in total shock! I had just flown off my bike! Misha didn’t say anything. Was I okay?
I turned around to look for Misha – that was when the screaming started. I couldn’t figure out why she was screaming. Yeah, I fell off my bike. I had done that a million times. It wasn’t until I looked down at my hands and knees that I realized this fall was different from the rest: the blood was everywhere. I could feel it pumping and racing through my veins. When I put my hand to my face this sound erupted from me. I don’t think you could call it a scream; it was more a shriek of pain and a cry for help. My face had never hurt like that before: it was like a Mack truck had come and driven across my face. There was more blood on my nose than on my hands and knees. There was so much! My heart started racing and my adrenaline was pumping, but the pain was beginning to push through the shock. Everything hurt so badly; everything hurt worse than the time my brother pushed me down the stairs to see what would happen (and that hurt pretty bad).
I blacked out and came to with my Mom in my face. She was checking my pulse and my breathing and trying to assess how much blood I lost. She had that look on her face: what I call the “nurse” look. It’s an appropriate term since that’s what she is: a nurse. For once the look helped calm me down and I knew I wasn’t dead. She started asking me questions like “what day is it” and “what’s your full name?” I looked at her and asked “you don’t know who I am?!” I must have gotten my heart rate up really high, really fast because I blacked out a second time.
My brother Michael and our youngest cousin Michaela eventually came to the scene. Michaela saw everyone and thought it was a party in the driveway and began dancing around. Michael knew who was hurt immediately. He knew how much of a klutz I could be and didn’t need to ask who was hurt. He did come up to me and ask me what I did “this time” and question my character as an “accomplished bike rider.” He mercilessly made fun of me for have only learned how to ride a bike with two wheels that very summer. I guess that was the price I paid for not wearing my helmet or not having enough experience to ride on a wet, steep hill at “high speed.”
After Mom pushed Michael out of the way, my aunt Maureen pulled up in her old station wagon. We were headed to the hospital which was twenty-four miles away. I wanted to wait for an ambulance. I wanted to ride in the ambulance just so I could tell my friends “hey! I rode in an ambulance!” But Mom told me it would take too long and that I needed to get to the ER right away. I actually tried to fight her on the subject, but I blacked out again. I woke up in the car. My uncle Phil had put me in the car and placed me on Mom’s lap. Magically, Mom pulled out a bag full of ice and placed it on my nose and head. It felt so good. I still don’t know how anyone had time to put ice cubes in a bag, but I was grateful for it.
The next part of my story always scares Mom and as I look back, it scares me too. I kept repeating the same sentence over and over: “I love you, Mommy.” I’d say it a dozen times and then black out, wake up, say it another dozen times, and black out. I repeated this process over and over, the whole twenty-four miles.
We got to the hospital at long last and my Dad took me out of the car. I didn’t remember this, but he was out getting ice cream for us kids and was coming back to the house as my aunt was driving away with Mom and me in the backseat. So he followed us to the hospital. I think he still had the ice cream in his truck, too. As soon as I saw him I felt more relief; knowing that both of my parents and my favorite aunt Maureen were there to make sure I was taken care of made me feel so much better.
After checking in at the ER, my Mom sat me down on my Dad’s lap and went off in search of a doctor. I blacked out and woke up to her yelling at nurses and doctors to come and help her daughter. She was speaking so quickly and spouting out medical jargon. Dad and I looked at each other and shared a quiet joke about Mom. Sadly I cannot remember the joke because – you guessed it – I blacked out yet again.
I’ll spare you further hospital details. I prefer to skip the details of sitting in a hospital room being poked and prodded and questioned. So I will share my diagnosis: a broken nose and gravel trapped under my skin. If I didn’t get the gravel out, it would permanently “tattoo” my face, hands, and knees. So the doctor told us that I had to have rhinoplasty. To phrase it better: I had to have a nose job. This is my favorite part of the story. No one thinks of an eight year old child having plastic surgery. When I tell people this now, they’re grossed out, and yet intrigued at the same time.
As an eight year old, I was scared out of my mind! The only word I understood was “surgery.” That was enough to put me in a panic. So the doctor sent us home, only to come back the very next morning for my operation.
Mom and I got to the hospital around seven in the morning. I wasn’t nervous about it all. I wasn’t even nervous when they were sticking needles in me. What did make me nervous was the nurse who took me into the OR – he called me Kimberley! I freaked! I wanted to scream “I’m not Kimberley! I’m Bridget!” I didn’t want them performing the wrong surgery. But the anesthesia had started to take effect and I couldn’t speak. When the surgeon told me to start counting down from 100, I took my own direction and repeated my name until I was out. I woke up three hours later with a nurse next to my bed. Oh wait. It was Mom. She assured me that everything went well and that I could go back to sleep for a little while. When I woke up, we drove back to the house and finished the worst vacation ever.
At long last we packed up and drove home. Looking back now, the best thing that came out of this trip was on my first day of third grade and the teacher asked what we did over the summer. I had the best story to tell.
Sometime in August of 1996, I thought I died. At least, that’s what my cousin Micah screamed to my parents when he found me lying in the middle of the street, bleeding, and tangled up with my bike. For a split second, I believed him.
We, my cousins, my aunt and uncle, my parents, my big brother, and I, were staying at the Pocono Mountains for a week. We all piled into my aunt’s station wagon and drove what seemed like all day. To pass the time, my cousins, my brother, and I all talked about going swimming in the lake, riding our bikes, and staying up late every night. It was going to be an adventure for the Grosses and Kellys.
The first few days were filled with swimming in the cold lake with dead catfish, bike races, and lying on the dock soaking up the sun. Until the day it rained. It rained so hard that we were banned from all outdoor activities for the day. I couldn’t believe it! What good was a summer vacation if you couldn’t go outside? So the five of us kids devised a plan to take over the living room and build a giant fort, and then spend the day eating junk food and watching movies. After all the excitement of being allowed to watch movies all day, we fell asleep in our fort.
Later we woke up to a sunny afternoon! Immediately we decided to ride our bikes down to the lake. My brother got on his bike first and put Michaela, the youngest, on his lap. Micah followed them and they raced down the long, steep driveway. Misha and I took a slower approach to admire a family of deer we found a few yards away. I started to pedal faster in an attempt to race down the driveway and my bike stopped. My bike stopped, but I didn’t. I kept going. I went right over the handle bars. I flew head first into the wet street. I quickly sat up; I was in total shock! I had just flown off my bike! Misha didn’t say anything. Was I okay?
I turned around to look for Misha – that was when the screaming started. I couldn’t figure out why she was screaming. Yeah, I fell off my bike. I had done that a million times. It wasn’t until I looked down at my hands and knees that I realized this fall was different from the rest: the blood was everywhere. I could feel it pumping and racing through my veins. When I put my hand to my face this sound erupted from me. I don’t think you could call it a scream; it was more a shriek of pain and a cry for help. My face had never hurt like that before: it was like a Mack truck had come and driven across my face. There was more blood on my nose than on my hands and knees. There was so much! My heart started racing and my adrenaline was pumping, but the pain was beginning to push through the shock. Everything hurt so badly; everything hurt worse than the time my brother pushed me down the stairs to see what would happen (and that hurt pretty bad).
I blacked out and came to with my Mom in my face. She was checking my pulse and my breathing and trying to assess how much blood I lost. She had that look on her face: what I call the “nurse” look. It’s an appropriate term since that’s what she is: a nurse. For once the look helped calm me down and I knew I wasn’t dead. She started asking me questions like “what day is it” and “what’s your full name?” I looked at her and asked “you don’t know who I am?!” I must have gotten my heart rate up really high, really fast because I blacked out a second time.
My brother Michael and our youngest cousin Michaela eventually came to the scene. Michaela saw everyone and thought it was a party in the driveway and began dancing around. Michael knew who was hurt immediately. He knew how much of a klutz I could be and didn’t need to ask who was hurt. He did come up to me and ask me what I did “this time” and question my character as an “accomplished bike rider.” He mercilessly made fun of me for have only learned how to ride a bike with two wheels that very summer. I guess that was the price I paid for not wearing my helmet or not having enough experience to ride on a wet, steep hill at “high speed.”
After Mom pushed Michael out of the way, my aunt Maureen pulled up in her old station wagon. We were headed to the hospital which was twenty-four miles away. I wanted to wait for an ambulance. I wanted to ride in the ambulance just so I could tell my friends “hey! I rode in an ambulance!” But Mom told me it would take too long and that I needed to get to the ER right away. I actually tried to fight her on the subject, but I blacked out again. I woke up in the car. My uncle Phil had put me in the car and placed me on Mom’s lap. Magically, Mom pulled out a bag full of ice and placed it on my nose and head. It felt so good. I still don’t know how anyone had time to put ice cubes in a bag, but I was grateful for it.
The next part of my story always scares Mom and as I look back, it scares me too. I kept repeating the same sentence over and over: “I love you, Mommy.” I’d say it a dozen times and then black out, wake up, say it another dozen times, and black out. I repeated this process over and over, the whole twenty-four miles.
We got to the hospital at long last and my Dad took me out of the car. I didn’t remember this, but he was out getting ice cream for us kids and was coming back to the house as my aunt was driving away with Mom and me in the backseat. So he followed us to the hospital. I think he still had the ice cream in his truck, too. As soon as I saw him I felt more relief; knowing that both of my parents and my favorite aunt Maureen were there to make sure I was taken care of made me feel so much better.
After checking in at the ER, my Mom sat me down on my Dad’s lap and went off in search of a doctor. I blacked out and woke up to her yelling at nurses and doctors to come and help her daughter. She was speaking so quickly and spouting out medical jargon. Dad and I looked at each other and shared a quiet joke about Mom. Sadly I cannot remember the joke because – you guessed it – I blacked out yet again.
I’ll spare you further hospital details. I prefer to skip the details of sitting in a hospital room being poked and prodded and questioned. So I will share my diagnosis: a broken nose and gravel trapped under my skin. If I didn’t get the gravel out, it would permanently “tattoo” my face, hands, and knees. So the doctor told us that I had to have rhinoplasty. To phrase it better: I had to have a nose job. This is my favorite part of the story. No one thinks of an eight year old child having plastic surgery. When I tell people this now, they’re grossed out, and yet intrigued at the same time.
As an eight year old, I was scared out of my mind! The only word I understood was “surgery.” That was enough to put me in a panic. So the doctor sent us home, only to come back the very next morning for my operation.
Mom and I got to the hospital around seven in the morning. I wasn’t nervous about it all. I wasn’t even nervous when they were sticking needles in me. What did make me nervous was the nurse who took me into the OR – he called me Kimberley! I freaked! I wanted to scream “I’m not Kimberley! I’m Bridget!” I didn’t want them performing the wrong surgery. But the anesthesia had started to take effect and I couldn’t speak. When the surgeon told me to start counting down from 100, I took my own direction and repeated my name until I was out. I woke up three hours later with a nurse next to my bed. Oh wait. It was Mom. She assured me that everything went well and that I could go back to sleep for a little while. When I woke up, we drove back to the house and finished the worst vacation ever.
At long last we packed up and drove home. Looking back now, the best thing that came out of this trip was on my first day of third grade and the teacher asked what we did over the summer. I had the best story to tell.
11.17.2008
about me, through my brother's perspective, written by me
i'll be the first to tell anyone that my sister can be a real pain in the ass. she's stubborn & really knows how to push my buttons. but, come on, she's Bridge - my kid sister! i love her...now. she's doing the "college thing" & it's scary to think of Bridge becoming a "grown-up." Bridge is my best friend & i love her - but this whole "grown-up" thing is throwing me off. she's turning into this strong...i hate to use the word...woman & i couldn't be more proud of her.
11.16.2008
hi there
so, i'm a writer by desire. i'm not published or anything, but i hope to be many times over in the future. i love photography. i take pictures of the most candid and random things looking for the perfect shot.
so stay tuned for my scribblings & i love getting feedback!
i hope you enjoy!
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