Rising From the Ashes

It’s been a long time since I truly took time to write. Not just your average Twitter post or Facebook update. REALLY WRITE. Put my thoughts on a page, express myself in a more solid medium. I didn’t leave writing behind consciously, I just began to feel like I couldn’t anymore. I’m a published poet, but I haven’t written a poem in nearly 10 years. None of my ideas were “good enough” or “developed enough” in my head, so I quit putting pen to paper. That being said, this is a long post for a reason. I have a story to tell, but I understand if it’s a little heady or too intense, you don’t have to read this. I’d like you to. I’d like you all to know, to be in the loop, and to see the future I see. But I won’t be disappointed if you don’t or can’t. I understand.


Recently some very big changes have happened in my life. I’ve had a crazy 2016. I’m not putting this out here for sympathy. I don’t need to hear “I’m so sorry” because I’m not sorry at ALL. I’m putting this out here because maybe one of you will read this and realize I understand you in a way you never imagined. Maybe someone can draw strength from knowing I’ve been there and can reach out to me. Please do. I’m here. 24/7, 365. My phone is on, I do my best to always answer. I don’t care if it’s 3am and you need someone to talk to. I’m your girl, I’m here, I care, I WANT to listen, and no, you aren’t bothering me so stop thinking that and pick up the damn phone.


I spent the last 2 years angry. VERY angry. I’ve been negative and miserable to be around. I pushed people away in an attempt to make them hate me so that when I was gone it would be easier. Yes, I planned to be gone. For good. In April I finally gave up on ever hoping to be free of the debilitating chronic pain I’ve dealt with for 18 years, and I tried to take my own life. I weighed all the options, debated for weeks, wrote my suicide note over and over in my head. The “final straw” wasn’t anything memorable or important, I just woke up one morning and chose. I waited for my husband to go to work, I went to see my therapist, I came home. I stood in my bathroom and downed every prescription sleeping pill I had. Roughly 5 months supply. I took them with Gin and Orange Soda, cuz fuck Gin, that shit is NASTY. Whoever thought “Pine Tee” would make an excellent drink was crazier than me. I wrote my note, and a 3x5 index card explaining exactly what I’d done, and then I held the flowers I bought for Skyler, laid down in my bathtub and waited. The last thing I thought about was Wade and how sad he’d be, but I couldn’t stay on this Earth for anyone else anymore and I had no will to continue for myself. I never doubted my decision, I was never scared, I didn’t cry or call for help. Eventually, I fell asleep.


Skyler (my best friend from High School who had committed suicide our Junior year) and Alicia (my eldest sister who passed away when I was little) came to me. Skyler held my hands and Alicia touched my face, neither said a word. They looked at me with such love, knowing it wasn’t time for me to join them. I remember very little of the next 24 hours. I remember seeing Skyler’s flowers on the seat next to me, I remember Wade’s voice frantically talking to me, I remember an EMT asking questions, and then nothing. When I woke up, I was confused. Laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, and Wade staring at me intently. The first thing I said was “Apparently I didn’t take enough.” It wasn’t a joke, it was fact. When the doctor came in, he told me they considered my attempt to be serious, not a cry for help, as I had ingested what would normally be a lethal dose. I had been out for 4 hours before Wade found me, and by the time I’d gotten to the hospital there was nothing to do but wait. I had digested everything, they never pumped my stomach or gave me charcoal. I had no organ damage, no signs of complications. I simply metabolized everything and woke up.


The next 5 days I detoxed. I wasn’t allowed to have any of the medication I’d been on except for allergies. When I entered the hospital I was taking roughly 20 pills a day, a dangerous cocktail of anti-psychotics and pain killers which I was taking exactly as prescribed. I’m not going to sugar coat this, it was terrible. I could smell the chemicals leaving my body, I shook and had lucid dreams. I didn’t eat for 4 days. I threw up, I was constantly nauseous. My first “meal” was tapioca pudding and apple juice. Eventually they released me to a mental hospital for further evaluation and another 6 days. When I got to the mental facility I was terrified. I hid in a corner and panicked. My first 24 hours there were the most intense rollercoaster of emotions I’ve ever experienced. I had forgotten what it was like to feel anything but pain and anger. I didn’t sleep the first night, it was freezing cold and I couldn’t calm down. The next morning I sat with the other patients and participated in the classes they offered. We did yoga and I bawled the entire time. It was an immense flood of emotions, sheer relief and amazement. Afterward, I went in my room and cried some more. Not because I was sad, or lonely, or scared, or angry, but because I was HAPPY. I couldn’t remember the last time I had truly felt sustained JOY. The next 5 days were great. I made some awesome friends, I met with a new psychiatrist who re-diagnosed me and put me on a reasonable amount of medication. Lo and behold, I’m not Bi-Polar after all, I should never have been on anti-psychotics, my physical pain is caused by events from my childhood causing PTSD. I’m not crazy. I’m curable. I’m OKAY.


I went home early May, and began the process of starting my life over. I could think clearly again, I wasn’t angry or irrational, I had finally come out the other side of “crazy” a totally new person. By July I had realized I couldn’t stay in my marriage anymore. Wade is my friend, one of my best. I care for him deeply, I want good things for him, and I will be forever thankful to have shared part of my life with him. But at the end of the day, we’re just friends. We aren’t partners anymore. I couldn’t have asked for a truer friend through everything I’ve been through this year. He was at my bedside every day in the hospital, and he visited for every hour he could in the mental facility. He never judged me or treated me with malice. But I’m not in love with him. I haven’t been for a while. We both deserve to be with people who don’t just care for us, but who are IN love with us. So I asked for a divorce. He’s been phenomenal, more than just cordial, and an amazing help. We still talk and laugh, and I still help him find things in the apartment we once shared. I’m back in Spokane now, with my parents, and I’m happy. I hurt less, I panic less, and I’ve found someone new.


Yes, it seems fast, but I’ve been ready for more than a year to do this. My heart has been my own for awhile now, and I’m ready to share it again. I’m blessed enough to be able to do this with an amazing man who I’ve known for a few years. We just became “Facebook Official” now that I’ve met his family and passed the “Sister Test” (a test I usual GIVE, not TAKE!) Chris understands me in a way I didn’t think anyone could. Since Skyler’s death, I had resigned myself to believing no one could connect with me like he did. Once again, Skyler visited me, he took my hand and put it in Chris’ then smiled and hugged us both.


I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m not worried. All will happen as it should, and I’m not going to fret anymore. I’ve got new doctors, and a new outlook on life. I’m surrounded by friends and family. I’m hardly medicated and in the next 6 months I may not be at all anymore. I’m HAPPY. Truly, exquisitely, beautifully, happy. Nothing is going to get in my way, I’ve been born anew, rising from the ashes, a bright, glorious jet of Phoenix Fire.

New Journey, New Directions

Celebration

In light of one of my favorite bloggers, Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half, returning to the bloggosphere, I decided it's time to talk about my 9 months of hell. There is much to be said about a person's worst fear(s), but mine is nothing special. Above all, I am terrified of being trapped/held down/tied up. This isn't something I ever really thought I'd face, the likelihood of being kidnapped, tied up, and trapped in a small room are fairly minimal based on where I live, my job, and the company I keep. However, I did not anticipate all the possibilities that this may include. Being trapped within yourself is equally terrifying, especially when you realize the only person keeping you there is YOU.

In August of 2012 I quit my job at Chess-4-Life. I was on many medications, and in considerable pain. One day, during a particularly busy day, I fell asleep at work. We had a building full of kids, exactly enough adults to supervise, and no one could wake me up. I slept for 2 hours, waking up groggy and confused. My supervisor was livid. Not only had I fallen asleep on the job, I'd unintentionally endangered our students. Amazingly enough, they didn't fire me on the spot, they didn't even reprimand me, they just sent me home. The next day, I set up a meeting with my supervisor. I told him I wasn't reliable, I wasn't able to promise it wouldn't happen again, and most importantly, I couldn't guarantee I could protect our students. I had to quit, so they would have time to replace me before the school season started. He understood, he said he was sad to see me go, but glad I saw the danger without him needing to show me. I then went to our boss, the owner of Chess-4-Life, and told him the same. He had similar sentiments, and even went so far as to say I would always be welcome back. Truly an amazing company full of amazing people. Doing amazing things for kids and chess!

September was hard. I missed working, I wasn't in school, and I had no prospects of getting better. Hopelessness started to set in. Wade was at DigiPen most days for long hours, and I spent every day sleeping for hours on end.

October came, and I got accepted into Western Governors University. I was ecstatic, but as soon as I jumped into my studies, I found I was in too much pain to think. Previously, I had used studying and reading to distract me, but now I couldn't read a single sentence and comprehend it. It was like looking at a blank page or lines of gibberish. I tried for weeks, but to no avail. Eventually I just gave up and spent more time asleep on our couch.

I told Wade I didn't want to live anymore. I told him I was in too much pain, and that my friends and family would understand and be relieved that I wasn't in pain anymore, even if it meant losing me forever. Like assisted suicide for terminal patients. I was trapped within my body, which betrayed me at every turn. I didn't feel like myself anymore, I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. I quit looking at mirrors. The sound of my own voice annoyed me to no end. I resolved to speak as little as possible. I felt ugly and gross, I didn't want to shower or change clothes. I didn't care if people were coming over, I just hid in our room. If Wade drug me out of the house I wore many layers so no one would be able to see what I looked like. I shaved my head again because my psoriasis was so bad I couldn't take care of it. I wore stocking caps all the time. I looked like I was dying. I felt like I was obligated to off myself so no one would have to deal with me anymore. Wade wasn't having it. He made me promise that I wouldn't go through with it without first talking to my parents and siblings in person. I agreed. He offered to quit school, but I didn't want him to become as miserable as I was. Also, I figured there was no point in him delaying his degree when he'd need that environment and support even more after I was gone.

November came, and with it, my brother, Paul. I was coming back from another unsuccessful, seemingly pointless doctor appointment with a doctor I didn't like; when I opened our door, the dogs didn't come to greet me, they were hanging out in Paul's lap. On one hand, it was nice to see him, on the other hand, I was tired and didn't really feel like being sociable. Wade had alerted him to my plight, so he got on the next train he could to come see me. Usually, nothing is so terrible that I wouldn't be overjoyed to see him, but things were more terrible than I could have explained. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't sad either. I existed and nothing else. 3 days later, Paul went back home. It was as if he hadn't even come. I had slept through a good portion of his visit, and nothing he said seemed to really matter. He talked about naturopathy and getting off my medications, both of which I'd tried before. Nothing mattered. We went home for Thanksgiving, I slept. Everyone else played games, stayed up late, and had fun.

As December rolled in, I started a new medication and thought about suicide less. I was still hopeless. I was still in too much pain to work or study. I still slept all day. But I was convinced I wasn't depressed anymore. Christmas came, I locked myself in our room at my parents' house multiple times in order to have panic attacks. I couldn't handle being around certain people, and I couldn't hide it anymore. Everything enraged me, I spent much of the time curled up in bed. We went to Miami for New Years to visit Wade's family, it was worse. They saw right through my fake laughter and 5-day "jet-lag". I took pictures, I pretended to have fun, but mostly I got offended and stared at the ground. They called me out one night at dinner. Insisting that I'd keep Wade from having a life if I kept being depressed and mopey. We screamed and yelled. In public. At a nice restaurant. In a well-traveled part of Miami. My whole life story got shared, I was mortified. As angry as I was at being attacked, even at the time, I knew none of the people around me were intending to attack me. They all truly thought their actions were the only choice in that moment. They cared enough to get angry, and that meant something to me.

January was rough, I realized my doctors were not helping me. My rheumatologist, because she only wanted me to try more medications. My psychiatrist, because I had not been honest with him until Wade begged me to. And my dermatologist because he was severely out of date with new options. So, in light of this, I began seeking out another new batch of doctors. I kept my psychiatrist, he adjusted my medications, keeping in mind that I wanted low-doses and no side-effects. He's still one of my favorite doctors ever, he pushed for me to try EMDR therapy and I'll be forever grateful that he did. I found a new dermatologist who immediately diagnosed me with Psoriasis, and gave me a whole list of options. Then began my search for help with Fibromyalgia. I found it. 

It wasn't until April that I started to feel better. I realized slowly that I wasn't sleeping as much, I was having an easier time with being social, and I had stopped thinking about killing myself. I hadn't even been to the ER in a few months!

However, years of sweeping things under the carpet had led to my inability to be intimate, in any fashion, with anyone without hating it. I didn't even like to hug people anymore. Something I happen to kinda be known for as doing to every person I've ever met. I thought my mom was going to cry when I asked for a hug before she left my birthday party. This was the trigger. I realized people were no longer comfortable around me, they were on edge, because I had become a cactus. Prickly and unapproachable. I went to my therapist, beside myself that I'd become so pokey. I didn't want to deal with the past, I wanted to ignore it and wish it away. It was gone and unimportant in the large scale of things. So why was it still affecting me physically? I'd had enough. It was time to face the past head-on. I won't lie, it was rough. I went through a wide range of emotions and it took a few months and a good deal of time. Sometimes I'd come home in a wreck, able to do nothing but cry and sleep. Other days, I'd come home in a daze, introverted and uninterested in conversation of any kind. Wade wanted to know when I'd feel better. I didn't know if I'd ever feel better. I was starting to have anxiety attacks, caused by becoming worried that I'd never feel better, spiraling into an endless panic until I passed out from exhaustion. Things were getting worse again.

During the first week of May, I had a break-through. Like planets aligning, or walking out of a heavy fog, everything in my brain clicked. I was ok. For the first time since I reached adulthood, I began to feel like things were truly getting better. I went back to work, I wasn't angry or scared anymore, and my smile wasn't forced. 

Sometimes I still have bad days, and that might continue for awhile. I'm going to keep going to therapy, but less often. Hugs still feel a little weird, but more like I'm getting used to them, not that I don't like being touched. It's odd for me to re-learn intimacy cues, but it's fun too, like I got to start over and see the world differently. 

Seeing a healthy "me" within my grasp is exciting but it's also scary sometimes. I don't really remember what it's like to not feel crappy, so when I feel good, I over-do it usually. Thus making the next day a very sleepy one. I'll get used to it, I just have to remind myself to plan around the assumption that I'll feel good, instead of the opposite, like I have for so long. The road to recovery isn't quick. In fact, it's significantly slower than the arrival trip. Just because you did 60mph all the way to the breaking point, doesn't mean you get to do 60mph back. 15mph-20mph is more realistic I think... Slow and steady wins the race.

Seconds and Thirds

Over New Years, there was a fairly large debacle. Overall, family was upset at my depression (which I had yet to admit to myself existed) and I was fairly upset at the idea that people who don't see me on a weekly basis would have the audacity to say they knew anything about me. Turns out, we were both right and both hot-tempered to say the least. Remember how I said I was angry a lot? Yeah, I was DEFINITELY blind with rage during a fair portion of the holiday when I really shouldn't have been. Things got worked out in a hurry though, and it ended up being an overall positive experience for everyone. One of the more positive things (though I was not happy about it at the time) that came of all this was my Father-in-Law suggesting I get a second and third opinion about my Fibromyalgia diagnosis.

Near the end of January, I bit the bullet and began looking for a second and third opinion on my so-called Fibromyalgia. The meds weren't working anymore and I was tired of being doped up all the time. Something must have caused it, so why wasn't my doctor trying to figure it out? My second opinion confirmed the diagnosis, suggested the same medications I was on, and sent me on my way. But the third opinion was the kicker.

I made an appointment with Fibromyalgia Seattle, their website claims to be able to help most fibro patients without surgery or medication. I figure why not, it can't hurt to try. Wade was rather peeved, "Of COURSE they're going to tell you you have fibro! They're called FIBROMYALGIA Seattle!!" He was right. Sort of. They told us that fibro is just a fancy name for chronic pain. It's not a real diagnosis of anything, and doesn't really provide any information on what to do or how it was caused. So "Sure" she said, "you fit into the fibro group, but I want to figure out why". HOORAY!! Someone who wants a real answer!

I often compare my previous fibro doctors to a math teacher I once had. I asked why the Pythagorean Theorem works, to which she replied "Because somebody in Mathematics Land says so" That is NOT an answer. When I ask what to do about my Fibromyalgia, "Be on medication for the rest of your life" is NOT an answer either. Unfortunately that's the answer I had been getting.

Back to Fibro Seattle: after going over my extensive medical history, taking x-rays of my spine, and doing a variety of other tests, doc tells us that she thinks she's found the problem, but that she has no guarantees. Come to find out, after all those head/neck/spine/tailbone injuries, things didn't naturally go back in place like I assumed they would. I figured since I was growing and it didn't hurt, that my bones would go back to where they belong and it would be no big deal. Not like I played sports or anything, nothing was broken or fractured, I was achy sometimes, but who isn't? So, my neck curves backwards. posterior (toward my behind) instead of anterior (toward my front). This puts pressure on my spinal column. Which says "OW" and sends pain receptors through my whole body because the nerves are angry. 

Through many sessions of chiropractic adjustment, Fibro Seattle is also the Northwest Clinic of Chiropractic, and many more to go, I'm starting to feel a ton better. I'm roughly 6 weeks in and we've gone from adjusting every other vertebrae to adjusting an average of 4. Yeah, 16 to 4 in about 6 weeks of twice weekly visits. I'd seen other chiropractors for months with a tenth of those results. My overall pain is gone, I quit taking my fibro medicine a few months ago, I didn't think they were working so I told my old doc I was done taking them and done seeing her. My posture is much improved and I don't have a visible hump at my shoulders anymore. 

Even if this is not the 100% solution, I have come so far in the last few months that every step has been worth it. I went back to work (few hours, but still working), I passed my first online college class, I'm not tired all the time, I'm not depressed, I can go all day without a nap! (trust me, that's a HUGE accomplishment) I went from sleeping an average of 16 hours a day to about 9. I've even started to lose weight! A medication I took over a year ago made me gain 50lbs in 3 months, right after I'd bought my wedding dress. I still have about 45lbs to go, but now that I'm not in pain 24/7, the thought of exercise doesn't immediately tire me out. 

Now that we're up-to-date, I'll continue posting updates on how progress is coming for pain/weight/therapy hooray!

Diagnosis 2: PTSD

Diagnosis 2: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

I've never been in a fight of any kind. Never lived in a war zone. Not a veteran. However, I have had a few choice experiences do a number on my sub-conscious. 2 main things have gotten "stuck" in my emotional processing system; the first is that school, a place I love, a place I want to spend the rest of my life, was not safe for me growing up. The second is that a non-blood relative conditioned me as a child in some very unacceptable ways. I could name names, I could be specific, I could tell stories, but I won't. Retelling them to the world will not change the past, will not make me feel better, and will only cause more pain to those who were affected, intentionally or otherwise. That being said, I now deal with a number of sub-conscious fears and ideas that make parts of my life very difficult. 

On top of having little to no will to live due to physical pain, I was also very angry. Angry at everything, everyone, and eeeeeeveryone knew it. No one understood my pain, people said I should just get over it, that I should stop being depressed and live my life. Some said I'd never get better, and I started to believe them. I still struggle with that thought. It's what made me consider suicide in the first place. I wasn't going to get better anyway, why should I have to suffer? Wouldn't my family and friends understand and be glad that I didn't hurt anymore? Sure, dying would suck, but then I'd be free and no one would have to worry about me or feel bad that I was ill. Wouldn't that be better than this hellish prison I was calling life? If I hadn't gotten help when I had, I don't know if I would be here now. I understand medically assisted death so much better now. Not that any doctor in their right mind would have helped me do so, I'm not terminal or anything like that, but I know better now how it feels to want OUT. When your quality of life is so low that simply being awake is a painful chore, you really start to question the point in living. Even if someone had said "give me 2 months and you'll feel 50% better" I'd have called them a liar.

Once I started EMDR therapy, I started to feel better after a few weeks. Honestly, I'm positive it had more to do with the pills they had me on than anything else. We didn't really start the hand-wavey part until about a month in. I started to be less angry, Wade and I didn't argue so much, I didn't see everyone as combative anymore. We started an argument we'd had before, probably along the lines of why dishes and/or laundry hadn't been done in an eternity (my words, not his). I stayed calm the whole time, I didn't throw petty insults and it stayed a discussion instead of exploding into a screaming match. I apologized, I needed to get better about doing my share around the apartment, I wasn't going to feel better if I truly did nothing all day. I agreed that I should probably start looking at going back to work, I also agreed that I had been majorly slacking on my school-work. I'd gotten into an online college months prior, and not done a single assignment. Conversations stopped going the route of yelling, we started to TALK to each other again. Though there were only a few months where things were very terse and my depression was really bad, it had still taken its toll. 

I don't share every little thing with my therapist. I don't need to. I know how to manage most of my life mentally. He's there to help me through my sub-conscious, the things I wasn't aware were affecting me. Some days are harder than others, and I fully intend on there being a day when I don't need to go back. In the mean time, there's no shame in getting help. Therapy can be like a GPS for your brain, warning you of potholes and road closures so you can arrive at those locations expecting delays and work instead of running into them by surprise and being caught off guard. I'm very proud to say that after about 6 months of therapy, I'm off almost all my mental-medications. No more anti-depressants, no more sleep aids, I'm not having nightmares anymore and I'm not suicidal. Sometimes I get anxious, and we're working on that, but my medication amounts are at about an eighth of what they were 6 months ago. 

Diagnosis 1: Fibromyalgia

Instead of cataloging all the minute details of every injury or illness I've experienced, which would be an utter waste of both your time and mine, I'm only going to go into further detail when it's necessary to understand the fuller scope of things. That being said, lets start with my diagnosis of Fibromyalgia...

In late 2012 I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, a relatively new issue with a lot of buzz around it. The Department of Social Security has recently listed it as a viable disability IF you can prove you have it. Now, fibro doesn't really have a specific test, it doesn't some up in blood work or x-rays. Wikipedia says that to diagnose Fibromyalgia, these 2 things must occur: "1. A history of widespread pain lasting more than three months—affecting all four quadrants of the body, i.e., both sides, and above and below the waist. 2. Tender points—there are 18 designated possible tender points (although a person with the disorder may feel pain in other areas as well). The patient must feel pain at 11 or more of these points for fibromyalgia to be considered."

So, fibro is pain. Everywhere. All the time. AKA a fancy name for Chronic Pain. But WHY and HOW are the big unknowns. There is much speculation on why or how how it's caused, but very little about how to fix it other than with medications. So when I was diagnosed, my Rheumatologist prescribed a variety of medications specifically for fibro. I took them as directed and after a few weeks I could function a little more regularly, but I was by no means pain free. 

Being in that much pain for as long as I had ended up taking it's toll. I quit working, I stopped trying to get into college for my Masters program, I gave up on trying to live any semblance of a normal life. Eventually I told my husband, Wade, that I didn't want to live. I had thought of all the ways I could possibly kill myself, narrowing it down to the ones that were the least messy, most possible, and least traumatic for others. Thankfully, I still had the desire to not bother anybody with my death, or at least as little as possible, this left very few options. Once I told my husband, he conspired with my big brother to come visit me, hoping to cheer me up. Even then, I slept most of his visit and wasn't interested in going anywhere or doing anything. At this point, Wade made a deal with me: I could only end it all if I agreed to talk to my parents and siblings face-to-face about it first. I had to tell them why, and I was not allowed to do it without him present. I agreed. This prevented me from driving across the state without him and claiming I had spoken with them when likely I hadn't. This also made it possible for him to continue going to school though he did offer to drop out until I was better. I didn't want him to drop out and he didn't want me to die. We had an understanding. 

He also went with me to see my psychiatrist, ensuring that I told him how I was feeling. My psych suggested I try therapy again, which would be my third attempt and something I had no hope of having help. Not that I'm anti-therapy, quite the contrary, but I'd never been to one that had helped me. They were nice, they listened, they said all the things I would say if someone came to me with similar issues, all things I knew and had told myself already. However, the therapy he suggested was one I'd never heard of, EMDR.

EMDR sounds ridiculous. It really does. Here's how it works: you talk about what's bothering you, therapist waves his/her hand back and forth in front of your face, you focus on hand-waiving, after 20 or so seconds they stop, you then say the first feeling/thought that comes to your mind, repeat. REALLY!? Sounds amazingly silly and not at all productive. Crazy thing is, it works. Now, it's not for everyone, and the science behind it isn't clear yet, but for whatever reason, it seems to help people with PTSD, like myself. 

Prior Information for the Purposes of Reference

Ok, so, time for some back-story...

Between the ages of 12 and 18, I had some rather traumatic mental & physical things happen to me. 

 - 6th Grade: Metal fence post hit me in the head (total accident) & had my appendix removed on Christmas. 

 - 7th Grade: Lost all my friends (no, really, none of them would speak to or be seen with me because I was "too annoying"). Classmates would cheer on days I missed school. The 2 people I invited to my 13th birthday party asked to go home early. Had my face shoved into a rotten banana creme pie. Got suspended for falling down an icy hill.

 - 8th Grade: Pushed down a hill - likely injuring my tailbone. Got suspended for a fight involving 2 other people that I wasn't aware was happening. Got suspended again for asking fellow student to stop petting me. 

 - 9th Grade: Freshman Year was actually pretty awesome though I did get suspended for being throw in the bushes. Apparently I "deserved it" according to the teacher who suspended me.

 - 10th Grade: Became seriously ill out of nowhere, never did figure out how/why/what was wrong - 3 weeks of complete bed-rest, suddenly better, no idea why, never happened again. Received a death threat for standing up for a friend wrongly accused of rape. Had a fellow student throw me down a hallway for yelling in his ear (he picked me up while I was wearing a miniskirt) thus causing the top 3 vertebrae in my neck to compact and landing me in the hospital for 4 days for my 16th birthday. I got in suspended for yelling (cursing I think was the larger problem), the thrower received no repercussions. These things together almost caused me to fail 10th Grade.

 - 11th Grade: Pushed down a flight of stairs (accidentally). Had a chair yanked out from under me causing me to hit my head twice and land twisted - got in trouble for yelling but chair-puller got off scotch-free. Best friend committed suicide (at school) right before Christmas. Expelled illegally 10 days before end of the school year as a political move to convince my father to quit working for our school district. It worked.

 - Summer between 11th and 12th Grades: Traveled to the UK and France, was almost killed twice in 3 weeks. Lost 15 pounds in 3 weeks (going from 110lbs to 95lbs). Got locked in a woolen mill in Edinburgh during the Edinburgh riots. Left Heathrow Airport 20 minutes before it was closed due to a bomb threat. All-in-all, I had an AMAZING time! :D Let it never be said that I dislike adventure, danger, or thrill-seeking.

 - 12th Grade: Expulsion erased, I got to finish Primary & Secondary School with my friends. Attacked by ex-boyfriend the weekend prior to school starting, landing me in the hospital for my first day of Senior year, injured tailbone, kidneys, and bottom 3 vertebrae. Suspended again, but I don't remember what for.

 - Summer between HS ending and first year of college: First job goes terribly, Brother-in-Law dies suddenly in car accident, & best female friend leaves for college across the country, beginning the year from hell.

 - Freshman Year of College:  I get chickenpox (FINALLY), diagnosed with arthritis in my spine, take medical leave from school, brother and his wife split up, live-in boyfriend tries to cheat on me, best male friend leaves for the military on my birthday, worst break-up ever, new roommates all quit their jobs leaving the whole rent to me. BUT... I meet my husband <3 :D thus ending the year from hell.


WHEW! So, there's the rough (truly) back-story of how I got so messed up. During those years, I had no idea it would all stack to create problems. All I saw were individual incidents that I could deal with later. I had a great home life, a supportive family, and pretty amazing friends. Everyone struggles in Jr High, no one escapes High School unscathed, and I didn't feel particularly singled out most of the time. I still have no ill-will toward any students I went to school with. If anything, I have issue with the many adults that failed to make school a safe environment. I also never felt "alone" I knew I wasn't the only person to get picked on, or to have teachers I didn't like, or to have to deal with crappy situations sometimes. I figured all these things were just helping me be a better, more relatable, and understanding person. Unfortunately my sub-conscious did not share the same sentiments.