This is Reality?
**Part of this is flashback ( from a confirmation retreat),
and part is the thoughts running through my head. I just
wrote this offline, and the copy/paste thing didn't work
very well... formatting problems. I'm going to try to fix
it, athough I'm not promising anything... This is all true,
by the way. No names are changed, no places made-up, pardon
me if anybody cares.**
I am home now, and am free to cry unbridled. But I can't.
The tears are so close, and I am so practiced with holding
them back, now that I am free to cry, I cannot. Throughout
yesterday, I sat in the bathroom with my head in my hands,
choking back emotions. I would emerge, wash my hands while
blindly looking at myself in the mirror, analyzing the dark
circles under my eyes, and the small creases at the edges
of my eyes. My dark eyes contrasting so sharply to my pale,
slightly yellow-ish skin from lack of relaxation and proper
I yawn unconsciously, and wonder again why I am bothering
to write anything. All I want to do is curl up in bed and
cry myself to sleep, but I don't have the energy to go
downstairs and use the bathroom, change, and get ready for
My mind wanders to last night. At about this time, we were
finishing up our taco salads, and doling out cake, while
Sara debated about whether or not to smash her face into
the birthday cake. An hour later, we were roaming the
church in the dark, looking for hiding spaces. We knew all
the nooks and crannies in the church, where the back stairs
led to, which doors had to remain open a little bit so as
to not set off the fire alarm, which closets had enough
space to stay in, where all the trap doors were (and where
they led), and whose offices were absolutely off-limits.
My shoes were making too much noise, so I slipped them off
on the stairs, and began wandering in my white socks. Bad
idea, but at the time I didn't care. I can't even bleach
them because there are little embroidered water-skiers on
the socks everywhere, but even now I don't care very much.
In the dark silence, I felt the stitches in the cotton
socks under my feet, and heard every little rustle of
fabric my clothes made.
I take a bite of the chocolate and caramel rabbit left-over
from Easter. It had to be at least 75 degrees up here.
Frowning at the melted chocolate on my fingertips, I go to
wash my hands in the bathroom.
Under the bright lights, I again analyze my appearance. My
hair curly and unruly from a shower earlier in the evening,
an old oversized pink t-shirt from dance class about six
years ago. Face pale, dark circles under my eyes from going
to sleep at two in the morning. Lips light pink, and hazel
eyes more green than brown. I let my eyes unfocus, and when
they finally do refocus, my gaze lands on a piece
of paper taped to the wall.
I rise each day to rain or shine and start my busy day.
So much to do, do much to be, so much to think and say.
I'm grateful Lord, for all I have; Family, friends, and
Faith and hope together Lord, convince me of my wealth.
And should I stop and help someone I meet along the way,
That chain of love will start anew and make that person's
We all must do the things we can for people on this earth;
Being there for all who need, reminders of their worth.
So share a smile, a hug or poem with someone on your way.
You never know when you may have a stranger make your day!
(Received from Zalome's Bridge to the World)
I find myself thinking, "What if I lose my hope? What if I
don't have anyone to convince me of my wealth? There's
nobody I can trust- everyone I've trusted has turned their
back on me, betrayed me, or I've done something wrong in
the friendship. It's my fault. I should be more wary, more
distrustful. I place my trust too easily, and get hurt far
too much, too quickly."
Somehow, I know that I haven't lost my hope for good, but
right now, that doesn't do much to alleviate me out of
where I am stuck.
A quick spell-check and I am ready to continue. Sometimes
the smallest distraction can do wonders.
My mind wanders to this morning. A "body" was taped to the
floor in the church meeting hall, with the words "This is
Bob. We got sick of him." written on masking tape above his
I tried so hard this weekend. I really did try to be
involved and give everybody a fair chance. And I did. I
just can't stand it when those private school brats
complain about their new donated library. Why doesn't
anybody ever donate anything to public schools? Is it
that we're not good enough? That our test scores suck? I
Without warning, my reverie is broken my a peircing scream
from downstairs. I sigh, knowing exactly what has happened.
I run downstairs, and sure enough, Patrick is clutching the
side of his neck while Jack screams stupidly about a wasp,
trying to distract Patrick and me. I roll my eyes and ask
Patrick what I already assume to be true. He confirms that
Jack picked him up, and grabbed his neck, putting him down
at the same time, possibly straining the muscles. I kick
Jack as savagely as I can with the woolen clogs I am
wearing, and sternly yell that his younger brother is not a
Just as severly, I tell Patrick not to play with Jack,
because his older brother is a jerk. He screams that he
doesn't play with him, but I counter, saying, "You run
after him when he says something to you! You're almost as
bad as he is!" I make sure that Patrick is okay before
going upstairs, kicking Jack once more, and going back into
My mind is silent for a few minutes, and I wait patiently
for thoughts to come. I know that they will, without me
trying at all.
I know that I should go downstairs and help Patrick with
his bedding situation, but right now I simply cannot deal
with a stubborn nine-year-old who will not listen. All I
want to do is curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep,
drifting away from the terrible pain of this newfound
headache. I know that it is from pressure, and that as soon
as I let everything out, I will feel better, but I simply
cannot do that yet.
Without realizing it, I am walking downstairs and enter the
bathroom, vowing to myself to pick up the glass of water
I'd previously left on the edge of the sink. I sit on the
unfeeling, cheap linoleum floor and just sit. No thoughts
filter through my head, I am simply quiet.
Going back upstairs, I am hit with the reality that once
again I have failed to do something for someone else that I
said I would. Sighing, I decide that the dishes can wait
until tomorrow. I sit down at my desk, and realize that I
have forgotten my glass of water downstairs.
Slipping inside the bathroom, we collaspe laughing, partly
from lack of breath. Taking turns with the one toilet, we
relieve ourselves. Funny how you never have to go to the
bathroom until you're in a quiet, dark room, and your
surroundings have to stay that way. The stall door won't
lock, so we rotate holding the door shut, gaurding the
bathoom door, using the toilet, and catching our breath.
Charlie's Angels style (plus one), we slip from the small
bathroom, and steal across Children's Chapel to the old
door in the darkness. There isn't even any moonlight coming
in through the windows. Someone hits a light switch, and
there is suddenly light in the stairwell before us.
Silently, we steal down the narrow stairway, and end up in
the basement acolyte room. Feeling in the dark, we find
another switch, cross the room, and hit another switch on
the way out. In the darkness, we join hands so as not to
lose another. A red "exit" sign lights the dim corridor. In
comfortable ease, we slip into the choir room, quickly
stealing to different places in the room, two of us
behind robes, one behind a door, another crouched behind a
cabinet. I halfheartedly wonder if I want to know what my
socks look like...
I rise, sighing, and go to get my water. I feel like
crying. Sipping the retrieved glass, I'm not sure I want to
drink the now-warm water.
My head pounds, reminding me of my self-committment to go
to bed early tonight. If I stop writing now, I just might
make it to sleep before 10:30. Maybe.
Sara and I crouch in the darkness in a classroom. "I'm so
scared," she whispers. "I'm convinced this place has
ghosts." I hear one footstep, and suddenly I have to go to
the bathroom. We draw in a quick breath, and listen for
more footsteps. I eye the door on the far side of the
classroom. I suddenly have the feeling that someone
is going to come flying through the door, scaring us to
death. I have no idea where the second door leads to. We
wait, and wait, trying to hear every motion outside our
hiding place. I stand up as quietly as possible, and peek
out the door. I don't see anything. "I don't think there's
anyone up here," I whisper over my shoulder. "Unless
there's someone in one of the other classrooms. You wanna
run for it, and hope there's nobody there?" I see her
getting up out of the corner of my eye, and step back from
the doorway so that she can see. She peeks, and turns to
nod. We walk as silently as is possible over a creaky wood
floor, and run down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to
check for anyone who might have been tagged. Running the
rest of the way to Lloyd hall, we arrive breathless, and
instatly we are asked if we know where two confirmands have
gone. Why would we know? We just scared the living
daylights our of ourselves by sitting in a dark, second-
story room above an organ loft!
I yawn, and look over at my bag, still packed. There's
always tomorrow. I can write my essay tomorrow, and do
laundry and the dishes. There's always time tomorrow. Or so
I keep telling myself.
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