Dog bite

Yesterday all signs led to "Stop running, Molly!", but did I listen? Of course not. I forgot my phone, I didn't turn around when my hammie hurt, and I decided to take a different, more difficult route. And what happened?
I turned the corner, pushing myself hard. There was one house on the right, with a large yard and a lot of trees. I could see a horse farm behind it. Then I noticed them. Three dogs came running from behind the house, two small tan collies, and a very, very big dog. She had long white hair and a deep growl in her throat.
I was so focused on running I thought nothing of it. Dogs often run out and smell me so I continued as I was. Before I realized what had happened, I was lying on the ground with the big dog on top of me, and I was screaming. No one came out of the house. I pulled myself up and sprinted. When I reached the bottom of the hill I stopped. I was breathing hard, sobbing, and shaking uncontrollably. I looked down to find blood flowing steadily down in two places on my calf. It actually wrapped it's mouth around the back of my leg! The dog's teeth had dug in deep enough to drag me to the ground. I was in such a state of shock but I couldn't feel the pain.
After about a half a mile of sobbing, limping, and feeling helpless, I found a house with someone home. I was able to contact home and was brought to the hospital. Yay, what an adventure! All is well now. It only hurts a little. I just hope the poor dog doesn't get put down. It's not her fault she's scared of runners.

Actual life..haha.

Maybe it's time to write about my actual life, instead of making parallels through writing. Well, I went to see a therapist today and I hated it. She made me talk about things I hate discussing, in front of my mom. I felt humiliated and disappointing. She then gave me a pamphlet for partial impatient care that I do NOT want to attend. I got so angry and embarrassed by it, I decided that I'm going to do everything in my power to get better by myself. I don't want to be special. I don't want to be like that, so I decided that I'm done. I'm going to be better no matter how hard it is.
I said goodbye to Austin.. again. I don't expect any type of reader to understand it fully. I'm sad and I feel like my heart's been savagely ripped apart. I knew it was time to let go. I don't think letting go is sudden, but it's a process that takes time. We've been broken up for over four months now, and sometimes it feels like jut yesterday he broke up with me. People tell me I'm dramatic and to just forget him, but they don't understand the kind of love I felt for him. I don't expect them to. Each love is individual. I think only he and I understood it. I still don't completely get why he let me go, but it's over now. A part of me is happy that I'm forcing myself to do this. It's all I can do. I know that if he can't love all of me, he's not the right person. It kills to say that.
School is going well. I am passing everything, and I work hard to get all my work done. I got approved to start nursing courses next semester and I'm terrified. One thing, I will feel AWESOME in those scrubs(: I also made some friends. I have two pretty close friends from Crouse, and met some pretty awesome people from Onondaga community college through my friend Kerry.
What else.. well I haven't run in about a week. During track I pulled my right glute/upper hammie area and I didn't stop running. It ended up being permanently damaged and I strained it again last week. It hurt terribly, so I've spent the past week thinking of different things to do. I've kept up with my yoga, biked, walked, jumped rope, and did lunges (which hurt).
I'm off to attempt running right now. Wish me luck!

SYMBOLISM.

She is standing on a withered path. A terror is slowly building inside her, and for now she holds it back; she suppresses it.
The sky above is navy, scattered with a thousand burning lights. It is like funeral boats pushed out to sea. Their fires are bright against dark waters.
She can see herself there. The sand is cold and damp between her toes, and a bitter wind is blowing to sea. The dead are laid among boughs of pine, their swords set honorably across their chests. All around her, she can hear the weeping of mothers, fathers, wives, as they say a final goodbye to a piece of their lives.
The boats are set aflame and pushed off. The villagers pull their cloaks closer and watch. Then they turn and leave.
She doesn't understand this parting. She doesn't understand how they can let go. But the girl is back at the path. Here there is darkness in both directions, and she knows the boats are simply a memory she held on to; the night she had bid farewell to her brother. Unlike the others, she had stood by the water until dawn, until she could no longer see her brother's boat.
A wind blows down the path, and a bare branch snags at her arm. She pulls away fearfully. Autumn has passed. The trees are naked and winter is fast approaching.
The girl bites her red lip. Her dark curls blow across her face. She knows which way home is. Home is safe, warm. But it is sad. She does not want to believe it, but inside, beneath that terror, she knows what home it is. It is that vicious cycle which refuses to change and love. She knows returning means only hurt and loneliness.
Now the girl looks to the other direction. She has never left home. The other way is a mystery, an adventure. She knows this, but a fear has welled within. She does not know what this new life wields. It may be the same sadness, and for that reason, she is standing in the dark among the trees.
Then the girl remembers her brother. He had hugged her before he left, and in that embrace, he had whispered in her ear.
"Don't be afraid of change. Letting go does not mean saying goodbye. Not forever."
She knows now what she must do. And with a determined set face, she steps into the unknown.

Eye roll.

I don't want to write anything here. I've been told I'm selfish and talk about myself too much.

Reflection Essay for English

Okay so I kinda lied and took the viewpoint of a sibling because I didn't want to be so blunt to my professor about my personal problems. It was just a good topic.

“She needs treatment,” my mother said from the kitchen. It was midnight. I was curled up in my favorite place to sit, the corner couch, trying to finish a paper. I don't think my parents ever realized when I was in the room listening to their conversation. I was surprised they were actually talking about getting my sister the help she needed.
It's not to say that my parents were bad at taking care of us. My mother loved every one of her sixteen children. She showed it openly in the way she managed us, packing lunch, making dinner, tucking us into bed through the years, reading stories. My father was more subtle in his affection. He was quiet, always busy with work, and he rarely spoke to us. I realized that he truly loved me when one night I left the house without a word. Upon returning some hours later, I found him crying with worry. It hurt to see him like that, and I haven't done it since.
No, my parents loved us, and they surely had good intentions. Unfortunately, sixteen kids is a heavy burden to manage, and I don't believe anyone can carry it without stumbling. Because of the sheer amount of children, my parents had trouble paying attention to us and giving us the individual time we needed to feel that we mattered. I can say this personally, and I can say this secondhand.
It was a chilly night in November when we discovered my sister's illness. It should have been two years before, but no one noticed the quiet sufferer she was. It saddens me to know that I realized all of the signs after the fact. For the sake of her, I will call her Ophelia.
Ophelia was tall. She had blond curls that stretched to the small of her back, and large green eyes shaded by dark lashes. She liked to talk, and was known for her extremely humorous side. Everyone in my house was a fan of her outrageous and inappropriate jokes. For one year we went to high school together, and I sincerely recall how the boys watched her come and go. She had the aura of a princess. My sister was the pursued in our small school, and I could tell she she loved it.
Things were different at home. No one noticed her come and go. I shared a room with her. Everyday she came home from school and set her books in a neat stack on the floor. They would be ignored for at least another two hours. Ophelia never cared to worry about school when she had to run. Running was her drug when things got stressful, or so I had thought. She would return an hour or so later and disappear until dinner.
Our dinner table was nothing of a quiet affair. It sounded like a thanksgiving dinner when the loud, irritating, extended family was invited. We had two long tables pushed together, two benches against the wall, and unmatched chairs along every other edge. There was barely enough room to walk. My mother would serve the plates. The younger kids fooled around and argued, and the elder engaged in drawing conversation of politics, such as the pros and cons of the health care bill. To top it off, there was always a baby crying and a dog barking. My sister was involved in all of this of course. She strongly believed in libertarianism if I remember correctly.
No one noticed when she disappeared after the cleanup. And no one noticed when they didn't see her for the rest of the night.
Ophelia began to quiet at home. She was easily stressed. I can say this confidently because I was not a clean roommate. I let my laundry fall behind and left wrappers and crumpled papers everywhere. I never made my bed or took out the trash. My sister would walk in from her shower and begin to pull on her face. I learned this was her sign of stress, or that something was wrong. She would put her hands to her cheeks as if to say, “oh no!”, and then pull. Her fingers left traces of red, and if things were very bad, scratches.
“Molly,” she would say, “this room is unacceptable. I am trying to be calm. Believe me, I am trying. Please, please take care of your shit. I can't take it! I have so much work. I can't.. I can't..” She would trail off and pull on her face some more.
That spring, Ophelia began track. She would come home at six o'clock, and have dinner, which she ate in unscrupulous amounts. Then she disappeared. Though she loved it, track added to her stress level. She barely talked to me or anyone else in the house, and still, my parents, my family, persisted in not taking notice. Sometimes I would walk into our room and find her crying for no particular reason. She would apologize and continue to cry. Things continued to digress throughout the summer. The colorful Ophelia was gone. She faded into someone else, like a painted house among wind and rain. She had dark circles under her eyes, lost weight, and cut she herself. My sister broke up with her boyfriend and found another guy. She was home less frequently and when she was, Ophelia closed herself off in our room.
I started my ninth grade year when she was a senior. She ran cross country that year, and for a while it appeared that her life had gone back to normal. She still attended dinner and disappeared, but Ophelia began to laugh again. She smiled and talked to me, and the messy room became less of a problem. It didn't last long. By the time we were halfway though the month of October, she had a relapse. The old girl was back. Stressed, angry, tired, depressed, and gone all the time.
November. It was snowing outside, and the angry, cold wind blew in across the yard. Cross country was over. Ophelia ended her season with a sprained ankle and an asthma attack. Dinner that night was roast beef, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. I decided I would slip away from the table early to avoid clean up. I was tired, cold, and there was food on the floor in which I would have to clean up. I abhorred sweeping.
The hallway was dark. The only light I could see was a thin strip under the bathroom door.
“Where's Molly,” I heard from the kitchen, “she's supposed to sweep tonight.” I quickened my step and unthinkingly reached for the door handle. And there I saw Ophelia.
I slammed the door, and sort of numbness fell over me as though I had just been punched in the stomach. Everything suddenly made so much sense to me, it was sickening. It made sense, her stress, her thinness, her depression. It made sense, the way she disappeared, and folded her arms to hide herself from the world. The way she cried.
No one had seen. They were too busy to see her come out the bathroom wiping her mouth on her sleeve, clearing her throat. My mother didn't see the large amounts she had for supper, and my father didn't notice how she compulsively ran. We didn't notice how much she put herself down. Ophelia busied herself so she could hide from the problem, from the world. She cried because she felt hopeless. She cried because we didn't see her slowly killing herself. She couldn't stop, and not one of us, for two and a half years, helped take the dagger out of her hand.
“..she's going to be fine, Della.” I came back through and glanced at the clock. Twelve thirty. My parents were still talking in the kitchen. My mother grabbed hold of another pan and began to scrub it.
“We don't know that. All I want is for her to make it through college. I tried to get her to make phone calls but she says she's too busy.”
“Why don't you make them,” my dad asked, leaning against the counter. He gasped and stepped away with a wet shirt.
“Why don't you?”
I left the room. I didn't know if my parents would ever come to a conclusion on who was going to make the damn phone call.
Ophelia was awake when I closed the door behind myself and crawled into bed. I told her of their conversation. She began to cry. My sister wiped at her face furiously.
“I'm sorry. It's so stupid. I'm so stupid. I'm tearing the family apart. It was okay until you found out. I don't blame you.. it's just that everything's worse. Even Austin broke up with me. He said he couldn't handle my mood swings. Do you believe that? I ruined everything,” she sobbed.
I did my best to reassure her that all she said was untrue. I even ventured to tell her not to flatter herself. She mattered, but her crisis was manageable and curable. She wasn't enough to ruin the family. I told her I would listen. She wasn't alone. I would be there every step of the way, because even I had problems that no one saw, and no one noticed. Perhaps they never will.

No words for so many

My mom is always telling me to be careful about what I write, but I don't care anymore. I don't care who will read this and exclaim, "Oh my, this girl has serious issues..", because they're just another person. We're all flawed. It's not like anyone really reads this anyway. I know of one person who does.
Sometimes I lay awake at night and cry. I cry about all the terrible mistakes I've made, and the many that are inevitable. I cry because I feel so desperate, so lost, so disgustingly pathetic. Some will argue otherwise, but I know in my heart of hearts (whatever that means) that it's true. I don't know where to begin.
The past year, minus summer, has been the best year of my life. I was with the kid of my dreams. I can't tell my mom that I still so desperately love him because I'm afraid of what she'll say. "Give it time, you're young, that was just a highschool relationship, he wasn't even a good person", etc., but she doesn't understand. He was so much more. He mean't so much more to me than a highschool relationship. What we went through together does not even qualify as that. Things that I cannot bring myself to write, or even say, for the matter.
so to be blunt, I love him to death. Moving on doesn't work. It's so painful to see how this summer unfolded. It was a wreck of me crying and abusing myself in any way possible. Now I'm crying as I recall striving to get him back. He didn't want to. He had to figure his life out. He told me my emotions were too much to handle, and that he could not make me happy. The truth is, he's the only thing that makes me happy.
Me unable to let go is a major contributor to my depression, which has steadily worsened over the past six to seven months. It's not just him that makes me hopeless, it is all the issues I deal with. And that nothingness. Sometimes I lack an explanation for my sadness. Those are the days when my body physically hurts and speaking is near impossible. I'm sorry to my family and friends that I can't be who they want me to on those days. I'm getting help now.
I hate smelling like puke after every meal. It's disgusting. And I hate the taste of food when it comes back up. I hate all the phlegm in my throat and the grittiness in my mouth. Sometimes it's in the shower, sometimes in the back field, but the majority is simply the toilet. I'm disgusting.
It's not even that I think I'm fat, it's that for two and a half years I've struggled with this and for a long time I've found the feat of recovering impossible. I do not think I am thin, nor beautiful, I'm afraid. It's difficult to articulate this fear and uncover it's origins. I suppose I fear if I do anything right, things will get worse. That's how it always is.
There are many more things I could write here. I could talk of losing friends, losing my hair, starting school, being stressed, the dreaded conversation I avoid. But I won't. Between the time I started this passage and now, my mood has steadily declined. All I know is that I'm crying, and now I must start the long ascent back to a state of stability.
All I can say is that things will get better. Because I force myself to hope.