I don't even know where to start. So much has happened this school year. Well, basically my whole know. I feel angry and fustrated.
Today, my sister Trina was giving my mom the usual cold shoulder. I care about my mom, I don't like to see her being treated so unwelcome. I called out my sister, lectured her. She rolled her eyes and gave my mom a blunt forced bye. This made me furious. Lena, if you're reading this, please shut up this once about my post. Anyways, I told my sister what I thought about her. *knock on wood* What if my mom dies? How will Trina feel? I will never let Trina drop that feeling. I will tell her everyday of her life, I told you so. I teared up, I love my mom.
Lena is mature enough to treat my mother better now. She was a total bitch at my age. Lena, you did okay. Though sometimes, you are mean to mom.
I was scared for my mother. She has a weak body, but strength to endure so much. I prayed to God last night to not take her away from me. I told him, if he had to take someone, take me instead. I don't care about my life anyways. Just give my mom good health and fortune. Even as I am typing this, I am crying.
Another anger I feel is the My Lai incident I recently learned in History class. I did unnessecary research on it to find out more about it, even though I finished my assignment. I couldn't help but cry as I read the story. Even when Ms. Grover was talking about it in class, I had this bitter vibe.
You know what else is stressing me? The fact that I couldn't tell how much I loved my father before he passed away. Sure I said I love him, but I never got the chance to say it when he was in the hospital. He died Nov. 1 ; when I was in 5th grade. The stupid doctor dismissed my fathers symptoms. My mom suggested to take my father to the hospital when he was weak, but the doctor told my mother not to. Why? I do not know. Two days later, my mom couldn't take it anymore, my dad was cold and weak. I still remember the day I slept with my daddy on his last day at the house. We took him to the hospital. You know what the nurse said? "How come you didn't bring him in sooner? He could've been treated better and have a better chance of surviving." I was a selfish 5th grade whom wanted to play on the hospital elevator. He was talking about how his body hurts. I only asked him if he was in pain, and then I left, without a goodbye, to play. Oh how I regret it so much.
The next day, Halloween, my dad was in a coma. The doctors said he had a very slim chance of living. He had stomach bleeding, a heart attack, stroke, and does not remember anything. My dad looked so weak that day. I remember entering the room and seeing him attached to those machines. He was in the section of the hospital that contained patients that are near death. I remember my mom driving home while I looked out the window, seeing all the kids trick-or-treating.
The next day at 10am, my cousin visited my elemtary school during recess. I asked him why was he here. He looked forward, away from my contact, and told me my father passed away. I was baffled. To make sure, I asked what passed away meant, he did not answer me. My mom was in the office, and my mom looked lifeless, she told me he died. I cried so much that night with my mom.
The house we lived on, which is right next to Independence near Kohls, was haunted. After my fathers death, I got into the habit of playing games where you contact the spirit. Not the ouija board. I saw my first ghost, but that is a different story. A week later, another ghost visited me and watched me. Weeks more, another. Three more came month after month. Until my family moved out because of what I saw.
My mom has taken care of my sisters and I, and dealt with our stubborn self. I feel so bad.
Not only do I have to deal with that, I feel like crying at school sometimes. Please don't just assume I'm a emotional girl. I'm actually a heartless girl to be with.
My GPA has sunked deep. Do you want to know my GPA? It's 0.8 . You know what upsets me more? Hearing my friends tell me that even they can do bad and score a 3.0 or higher. Having friends tell me that they can help me, and when I ask for help, they don't. Hearing friends complain about how they have a B or a C, but not an A. You know how shitty I feel about my grades? Thanks.
Ms. Shea took me aside in front of the class and noticed how dramatically my marks dropped. She asked why I completely stopped doing homework. When I went back to my seat, I couldn't help but feel ashamed and tried to hold back my tears. I felt like shit.
Some of you may see this hyper happy Trisha, a very few of you see someone else. If you are ever going to have a talk with me about this, don't talk about it online. I prefer it if someone just say it to me in person.
Sit quietly with me. Just sit. You don't even need to talk, just sit and be there for me. Let me have some peace and quiet, with anyone, someone.
It would make me feel a lot better if someone give me a hug and said you did great, and mean it.
Monday, June 1
Return To Innocence
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4 WATCHING ME FALL:
soooooo longggg but good blog
trisha dear, i think if i lived in cali
we'd be good friends =.=
your blog made me sniffle.
i'd give you a sincere hug anyday
trish. this is so heart wrenching..
i honestly dunno what to say.
i hope everythings ok.
keep safe.
(Any little bit helps...)
END THEN by Pablo Banila
I was six years old when I woke up from that dream. It was still dark; I realized I barely slept at all, but I felt I just lived the fantasy of my life and I had to share it with someone else. I left the darkness of my room and ran towards a lamp light: my father was still awake, reading a newspaper. I sat down on the chair beside his. He looked undisturbed, in a way not unlike how my mother’s vases stand still on every corner of the house: he was asking to be nudged, to fall, that he may shatter; that he may hear my mother shatter ears, that he may multiply my tears on shards of broken glass — that bastard. That’s what I thought, as a kid, and as a kid I just had to disturb him, and that’s what I did.”I’ve just been through the sweetest dream I’ve ever had!”
“Mmm-hmm?” he purred, and marked the point in history where I started to hate cats. He didn’t stop reading; a faint shadow of a smirk started to look like a birthmark from the stillness of his face.
One breath told the whole story through an excited smile.
And then,
“And then?” the faint shadow of his smirk started to look like the bruise I fantasized to paint on his face.
“And then,” I replied, as if I wasn’t hurt being called a bore, as if there was more, other than “the end.”
And then I told my first lie.
“And then?”
And then I told my next.
No periods that didn’t grow tails to be commas. No exclamation points that weren’t bent to question marks.
We continued on through the night — or just I; the question was no longer his but mine. I stared at the darkness beyond our little world of light. It was the same darkness of my innerlids, that black canvass where I spatter light upon and weave my dreams in vivid colors.
I sat there, staring at my fantasies, trying to describe their details, trying to answer that goddam question to no end.
I’ve forgotten what happened the following day. I have no way of telling whether I eventually exhausted myself back then and finally slept, like all six year olds would, or my whole life since then has just been a product of a defensive child’s imagination.
I stand here before my father’s coffin. I’m now twenty-two; I guess I’m old enough to be the one asking him his own goddam question this time.
I look down, through the glass, at his face — still the same stillness of his smirk, still not looking back at me. Finally, I ask him,
“And then?”
I wish I could say those words through the same, mocking smile. I wish I could also not look at him. It’s harder to bend frowns and unwind tails of tears than punctuation marks.
“And then? Is this the end?”
I must not scream. I must not be explicit. He never did; he never was.
I must not scream. This is not the right time.
“Sweet dreams, old man. And when you wake up, make sure your story never ends.”
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