You do not want my life.
I never update here anymore, I know. But can't you trust that when I do it will be epic? I decided to write this, so I will not have to explain it more than once. Here it goes in detail.
So how does a day end up with me crying in a police station bathroom while cleaning blood off my arms? Well, if anyone could know the sequence of events that explodes a crap day into an outright hell day, I’d like to learn it sometime as well.
I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t stressed. Maybe I can hide it, shove it away to the back of my mind so often that it never appears a problem to those I’m around. But I am overwhelmed. I am unhappy. Most of this comes from not knowing what to do with my life and feeling that my indecisiveness is ruining every path that would have been open to me. Everyone I see, anytime anywhere seems to have a passion for what they do -or at least acts like it- in a way I can’t understand. Myself on the other hand, drift through only doing enough to not appear an utter failure. There’s no satisfaction, there’s no desire. It’s like I’m always just waiting for something to happen. Like some divine strike to put me where I should be, because God I don’t know.
I don’t consider the front of a white SUV suddenly overwhelming my peripheral vision to be that divine strike. No, just more hell. He apparently never saw me in the crosswalk. I saw him originally but he wasn’t even in the turning lane yet when I started to walk across. He had all the time in the world to slow down like everyone else always has. But I didn’t have the time to move when he didn’t. The grill was the last thing I saw, and then I’m lying several feet away on my stomach. Adrenaline and I was back on my feet in seconds. I couldn’t feel anything yet. I just looked at him in a sort of angry amazement as he leapt out the car. “How did you not see me?” I said it several times, instead of answering him and the one other person to get out their car and ask if I was hurt or not.
I kept thinking I had to get to class. I can walk, please just let me go to class. We have a test, and my lab partner can’t do the experiment by herself. Just let me go. Idiot. For his merit he did try to argue with me, ask if I needed an ambulance. I know perfectly well about shock and denial, but just knowing didn’t help at that moment. Everyone was staring. He gave me his business card, he was an LSU employee of all things. I shoved it in my pocket and crossed the street to continue on to class. Now with my right knee moving oddly where I’d landed on it.
I didn’t want to ride in an ambulance again. Granted I have no memory of the last time I did, being an unconscious mess, but I didn’t want one regardless. I wanted to talk to someone though, so I grabbed my phone and started dialing Kelli, though I knew she wouldn’t answer. Then there was suddenly another guy at my side, asking me if I was alright. “Yes, yes.” He must have seen it, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Let me enjoy the shock while it lasts. My clothes weren’t torn somehow, and I still couldn’t feel much.
He was persistent and kept with me though, refusing to go to his own class. I told him I just landed hard on my knees and my left elbow. Or maybe that’s where the grill had hit, I didn’t know. He got me to roll my sleeves up so he could look, blood was starting to run out. We were only steps from the police station then. “You can go in the bathroom and wash it off at least, please come on.” He was getting through my denial at last and starting to make me upset. It didn’t take but a little more until he was walking me through the door. I hate talking to cops. And that wasn’t even the first time I’ve been crying in a police station. Looks like I wouldn’t be going to class. I gave them the guy who hit me’s business card. The boy with me was now the only one talking. I was still wearing my sunglasses so they wouldn’t see how red my eyes were. But I couldn’t stop my lips from doing that ugly quiver, so it was more than obvious.
They let me back through a locked door down a hall to the station’s bathroom -again on the boy’s insistence- so I could look under my clothes and wipe off the blood. A woman came with some antibiotic and an awkward square bandage for my elbow. I went back out and sat with the boy awhile (who would have easily been my type in any other circumstance), and kept apologizing because I was crying for no reason and it was more humiliation than I needed at the moment. He tried to be helpful and remind me that I just got hit by a fucking car. He seemed amazed, but I know it was nothing to my merit that I just got up and walked away. That is exactly the first thing I do whenever I’m hurt or scared. Deny, deny, deny.
A cop then came to talk to us again. My mind was completely elsewhere, I only wanted to leave as soon as possible. He finished the report on the incident, everyone then asking me if I still needed paramedics or a ride to class or home. I just had to get out. I knew class was already out of the question. Because once I do get upset, it doesn’t just turn off. Because I’m never crying about just one thing. It will be the one thing, and all the other ten billion things I refused to cry about before. A broken dam if you will.
I finally relented to ride in the cop car back to the parking lot I’d just come from. I didn’t want to walk across that street again. So I only got back in my car and drove myself home. I cried the entire way. There were lovely flashbacks to waking up in the hospital after my first car had been crushed by a drunk driver. I hate that helplessness. Everyone wondered how I lived through that, and now I suppose they’ll wonder why the SUV just slammed me back several feet, instead of rolling over me.
I now have about twenty minutes to regain myself before my dad gets home. I’m terrified. I don’t want to talk about this and be interrogated as to why I didn’t call the police or an ambulance. I don’t want to have to even think about it. I don’t want to be stressed by anything else. And I’m tired of going through every day on the verge of breaking, with surprises like this that ruin that composure. If I could lock myself up somewhere for a few years and not talk to or see anyone, I probably would.
Either there is something I have to do and that’s why I almost die a thousand times but never actually do…or I really am a bloody cockroach. Or my guardian angel is just a true professional at what he/she does. I don’t know. I don’t want to be fate’s plaything. I just want to curl up and have everything else go away. Rest for twenty years and check back with life some other time, when it isn’t hurling a shitstorm at me.
So how does a day end up with me crying in a police station bathroom while cleaning blood off my arms? Well, if anyone could know the sequence of events that explodes a crap day into an outright hell day, I’d like to learn it sometime as well.
I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t stressed. Maybe I can hide it, shove it away to the back of my mind so often that it never appears a problem to those I’m around. But I am overwhelmed. I am unhappy. Most of this comes from not knowing what to do with my life and feeling that my indecisiveness is ruining every path that would have been open to me. Everyone I see, anytime anywhere seems to have a passion for what they do -or at least acts like it- in a way I can’t understand. Myself on the other hand, drift through only doing enough to not appear an utter failure. There’s no satisfaction, there’s no desire. It’s like I’m always just waiting for something to happen. Like some divine strike to put me where I should be, because God I don’t know.
I don’t consider the front of a white SUV suddenly overwhelming my peripheral vision to be that divine strike. No, just more hell. He apparently never saw me in the crosswalk. I saw him originally but he wasn’t even in the turning lane yet when I started to walk across. He had all the time in the world to slow down like everyone else always has. But I didn’t have the time to move when he didn’t. The grill was the last thing I saw, and then I’m lying several feet away on my stomach. Adrenaline and I was back on my feet in seconds. I couldn’t feel anything yet. I just looked at him in a sort of angry amazement as he leapt out the car. “How did you not see me?” I said it several times, instead of answering him and the one other person to get out their car and ask if I was hurt or not.
I kept thinking I had to get to class. I can walk, please just let me go to class. We have a test, and my lab partner can’t do the experiment by herself. Just let me go. Idiot. For his merit he did try to argue with me, ask if I needed an ambulance. I know perfectly well about shock and denial, but just knowing didn’t help at that moment. Everyone was staring. He gave me his business card, he was an LSU employee of all things. I shoved it in my pocket and crossed the street to continue on to class. Now with my right knee moving oddly where I’d landed on it.
I didn’t want to ride in an ambulance again. Granted I have no memory of the last time I did, being an unconscious mess, but I didn’t want one regardless. I wanted to talk to someone though, so I grabbed my phone and started dialing Kelli, though I knew she wouldn’t answer. Then there was suddenly another guy at my side, asking me if I was alright. “Yes, yes.” He must have seen it, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Let me enjoy the shock while it lasts. My clothes weren’t torn somehow, and I still couldn’t feel much.
He was persistent and kept with me though, refusing to go to his own class. I told him I just landed hard on my knees and my left elbow. Or maybe that’s where the grill had hit, I didn’t know. He got me to roll my sleeves up so he could look, blood was starting to run out. We were only steps from the police station then. “You can go in the bathroom and wash it off at least, please come on.” He was getting through my denial at last and starting to make me upset. It didn’t take but a little more until he was walking me through the door. I hate talking to cops. And that wasn’t even the first time I’ve been crying in a police station. Looks like I wouldn’t be going to class. I gave them the guy who hit me’s business card. The boy with me was now the only one talking. I was still wearing my sunglasses so they wouldn’t see how red my eyes were. But I couldn’t stop my lips from doing that ugly quiver, so it was more than obvious.
They let me back through a locked door down a hall to the station’s bathroom -again on the boy’s insistence- so I could look under my clothes and wipe off the blood. A woman came with some antibiotic and an awkward square bandage for my elbow. I went back out and sat with the boy awhile (who would have easily been my type in any other circumstance), and kept apologizing because I was crying for no reason and it was more humiliation than I needed at the moment. He tried to be helpful and remind me that I just got hit by a fucking car. He seemed amazed, but I know it was nothing to my merit that I just got up and walked away. That is exactly the first thing I do whenever I’m hurt or scared. Deny, deny, deny.
A cop then came to talk to us again. My mind was completely elsewhere, I only wanted to leave as soon as possible. He finished the report on the incident, everyone then asking me if I still needed paramedics or a ride to class or home. I just had to get out. I knew class was already out of the question. Because once I do get upset, it doesn’t just turn off. Because I’m never crying about just one thing. It will be the one thing, and all the other ten billion things I refused to cry about before. A broken dam if you will.
I finally relented to ride in the cop car back to the parking lot I’d just come from. I didn’t want to walk across that street again. So I only got back in my car and drove myself home. I cried the entire way. There were lovely flashbacks to waking up in the hospital after my first car had been crushed by a drunk driver. I hate that helplessness. Everyone wondered how I lived through that, and now I suppose they’ll wonder why the SUV just slammed me back several feet, instead of rolling over me.
I now have about twenty minutes to regain myself before my dad gets home. I’m terrified. I don’t want to talk about this and be interrogated as to why I didn’t call the police or an ambulance. I don’t want to have to even think about it. I don’t want to be stressed by anything else. And I’m tired of going through every day on the verge of breaking, with surprises like this that ruin that composure. If I could lock myself up somewhere for a few years and not talk to or see anyone, I probably would.
Either there is something I have to do and that’s why I almost die a thousand times but never actually do…or I really am a bloody cockroach. Or my guardian angel is just a true professional at what he/she does. I don’t know. I don’t want to be fate’s plaything. I just want to curl up and have everything else go away. Rest for twenty years and check back with life some other time, when it isn’t hurling a shitstorm at me.