Dread.

I've dreaded documenting my "transition" (or as I like to call it, upheaval) from the moment I set foot on Wisconsin turf. But after reading "Running With Scissors" I found that sticky situations can make excellent reads. So here goes...

My first day of school was faced with far too much optimism, even for an optimistic girl. I had put on glasses so tinted that they had ceased to be rose-colored and had begun to obscure my vision. I had spent the entire summer convincing myself that moving to Wisconsin would be the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Repeat after me: You WILL like Wisconsin. Repeat twice a day until the first day of school comes. Swallow with Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'."

-

I walked downstairs to recover that sinking feeling I get whenever I see the piles of empty boxes. Boxes, filled with Hemingway to "How to Raise Your Child from Birth to Five" swell and multiply like cancerous tumors. I ambled across the living room with the idea that my headphones were in my backpack; headphones needed to silence a quiet chorus of "Say whaaa?" 's being repeated in my head. I wondered if I would leave Virginia triumphant or with my tail between my legs. Collecting a pair of headphones, not of my own possession, I headed back upstairs before the thought that there was an unnamed person in the house could take my mind and run with it. Back upstairs, I realized that what I had picked up was not a pair of headphones, but a strange headpiece of sorts. I realized that I did not need music to sing me to sleep. Knowing that ignorance is bliss, I turn on my phone to face the tribunal. Nothing. I feel empty and plan to go back downstairs and find a pair of headphones as the screen on the phone turns off. I stare at its blank face and think "Give me truth."

-

I had created a fantastic outfit the night before; it was my armor, so to speak. An embroidered skirt paired with a red studded belt, a white tank top and red Vans. My mother made her suggestion under veils of fitting in. The outfit was no more.

The halls were bustling, the awful artificial school light shining, and I was smiling. Smiling with the promise of new friends and a second chance at anything I had ever wanted.

Wisconsin was all I had ever wanted: everyone was friendly, I was positive that half of the population were descended from hippies, the drama club put on five shows a year and people knew who Chris McCandless was.

Well, what better to do when skipping class than write a blog?

Perhaps it’s the thrill of skipping yet another pointless day of AP literature, or the erratic, thriving atmosphere that is the Middleton High School library, but I just can’t seem to settle down. I feel serrations in my spine, attacking my usually carefree disposition and shooking me into lucid frenzy.

Ow. Mrow. In short, my arm hurts and my back hurts. The state of my being is less than captivating but I tell you, the tale of how it came to be this way is much more engaging. I was eight years old, playing around with my adorable little brother, Sonny, outside. We wandered into the garage. At this time, as it always was when we were young, we were unsupervised. Lying against the back wall was a bright red structure reminiscent of a ladder. This was the piece to a bunk bed my parents had taken apart a few days earlier. Such a grand use of time and play, that bunk bed was. I felt drawn to it; I needed to amuse myself on it still. I climbed up said structure, Sonny urging me to come back down or else we’ll get in trouble. I didn’t listen, and…… I was fine. I climbed up and fooled around, headed back down. Easy enough.

Later that day I was playing with a neighborhood friend, Marie, and I felt compelled to climb the structure once more. I told her how cool and impressive it was, and she just had to see my climbing skills for herself. This time, as Marie urged me to discontinue, I grew cocky. As my hand reached for the highest bar, I lost my footing and fell on my shoulder. The pain… was indescribable (yet I’ll continue to describe it because every time anyone says something is indescribable they contradict that statement by supplying adjectives for that very thing a sentence later). It was the most severe feeling I’ve ever experienced, every nociceptor in that region of my body fully engaged. It felt like many blunt metal objects were consistently pounding into my arm. Mrow. Ow. Marie ran off, afraid of getting in trouble (pussy), and I was left lying in agony alone. I didn’t want my parents to find me for fear of being grounded. I walked out of my garage into sunlight and gazed upon my purple and yellow swollen upper arm. It was inflamed and sore, and I couldn’t fully lift my arm.

That whole summer, I wore long sleeves everyday. I never ever told my parents what I had done, and waiting for the bruising go away on its own. Unfortunately, the healing process didn’t go the way it should have. For two and a half months I had a severely swollen arm, for two and a half months more my parents didn’t pay enough attention to notice, and for two and a half months I let my body heal irregularly. Now, I’m dealing with that scar trauma and emotional trauma associated with my arm, and the connection that had with my back when I fell. Add some years of dance to that and you have a pretty dysfunctional body.

The moral of this tale should be to tell people when you need help, even if you’re afraid. However, I think it’s more along the lines of… people suck, do whatever the hell you want to do, but be ready to accept the consequences for it. I know that I should be developing as a person and growing from this experience, however, I don’t accept that my parents didn’t notice I couldn’t move my arm for so long. I don’t accept that my friend ran away from me instead of helping me when I needed her. And now I’m having a difficult time accepting that the only way to really survive in this world is to always think of you first. But was this climbing experience worth it? Oh fuck yeah, I had fun.