Weakling
It's been a while since I wrote anything here and I guess now is good as ever.
My grandfather is growing weary, he's 83 and still working. We need money, I'm the only other person who could earn for this family but I haven't gotten my license yet. The second I get it I'm going to get a job so he won't have to work this hard. I feel this tremendous guilt whenever I see him walk through the door all winded and in pain. It's a constant reminder that of my burdening my family.
My dad's just realized that his father could pass away soon and it's causing him to break down every now and then. He has his own problems, the doctor found a polyp growing on his sinus and he's going to have to get it removed. His doctor, Dr. Angel, has lived up to his namesake in full. My father describes him as "obviously gay" but I think that's good since he's been pretty close minded about lifestyles other than his own. I think it was a shock to him that Dr. Angel was the only kind person in the doctor's office to help him when he was in pain. He even went out of his way to complain to the insurance company for not covering my dad. Dad even told me that this one nurse who he says was a lesbian with a shaved head and a rainbow necklace was so nice to him when everyone was unsympathetic to his pain, moved him so much he hugged her. I'm glad that he's opening his mind. He's had a 4 month headache, the polyp must be growing. His jaw is swelling as well, the sinus infection he had a year ago that caused him to go into surgery is starting up again. Hopefully Dr. Angel can help get rid of it.
Dr. Nash, the man who saved my father's life when he had that infection growing on his brain, was in the news. If you've heard about what happened to Gabrielle Gifford, then you might have heard of Dr. Nash. It was him who offered to help my dad with his recent infection - without payment. He's a great man. A great neuropsychologist.
I went to the doctor's office myself, today. I still go to a pediatrician, have to until I'm 21, but I don't mind. I've known Dr. Cohen all my life. I went in to ask if I had a hormone imbalance because recently I've started to grow some dark hair on my chin. Not the one or two strands women get occasionally but a thin patch that I have to pluck every week. Dr. Cohen is a kind woman, gentle but frank when she needs to be. It is not uncommon for her to give me a light verbal lashing for not achieving my potential.
She asked me to sit up on the paper covered, cushioned bench and started to check my ears. As she did, she asked how my home life was lately. I started to tell her about my grandfather while I stared at the rainbow fish mobile that hung just a few feet before my face. The next thing I knew my eyes were stinging and I knew that I was going to cry. Covering my face with my hands I told her how miserable I felt knowing that I was going to be soul breadwinner for the family soon. I told her how scared I was that I'd never get to be a kid again. Blathering, I told her that I knew I'd never be able to go out and act like someone my own age; that I'd have to be 40 before I was 25.
She grabbed my arm and squeezed it tight. She told me that I didn't have to put up with these things. I didn't tell her that I had to. Trying to laugh it off by calling myself a baby, she told me that she knew I was way too smart to think that I had to get a minimum wage job to pay for bills. Dr. Cohen told me it was alright to cry in front of her, "after all, I've known you since you were a little girl."
I said I wanted to be a little girl again so I wouldn't have to worry about things like this. She patted my arm, "you sound like you're in your thirties, wishing to be 16 again. You're depressed, hon."
She wrote down that she wanted me to get some labs done, checking for everything. I thanked her and left. I wish I had hugged her. I felt like I was disappointing her by not striving in psychology, she had offered once to get me an internship in the forensic psychology department and now I was so lost I couldn't possibly accomplish anything other than eating, sleeping, and reading. I'm sorry, Dr. Cohen.
When we left I asked my grandmother if we could go to the bookstore. I put on a happy face, and my spirits did lighten up a little when I had a small discussion on graphic novels with a boy no older than 10. He had been trying to grab a copy of Megaman from the top shelf and couldn't manage so I pulled the book down for him. He thanked me and watched as I bent down to check the lower shelf. Asking what comics he liked, he shrugged, "I liked the cartoon, so I wanna read the comic," he said holding up the book I had just handed him.
"That's good, just remember to stay away from Frank Miller." He shyly said he would without even asking why.
Children make me happy and sad at the same time.
After the boy ran off I met a very sweet older woman named Brooke by a stand devoted entirely to "Summer Reads." I was talking to myself, picking up a copy of "Atlas Shrugged," I let loose a breath and muttered, "I heard this was good but it's expensive."
She chuckled, "How many of these have you read?"
I went around the table and pointed to each of the books I owned, she made a comment to each one. She remarked about how well read I was and said how her grandchildren wouldn't read at all. I smiled, "I guess I can thank Harry Potter for making me love to read. I just wish I had more money, I'd buy all the books I've ever wanted to read and more."
Brooke beamed, "I wish I could just give you a thousand dollars right now and watch you go wild picking out books!"
Thanking her I said, "but then how would you pay for your books?"
She grabbed a couple and said, "you should get these, they're fantastic!" After a few moments she was leading me around the store while I wrote down names of books she said were must reads. That definitely made me feel better. Not to give myself a big head, but I tend to impress people older than I more than someone my own age. Now that I think about it, it's just more evidence that I'm growing older on the inside.
My grandmother didn't like paying for the books, she complained when we were in the car that I needed to get a job and quit smoking so I could pay for things like this. My eyes began to sting when she said that. It's selfish, I know. I stopped myself from crying by just agreeing with her and putting on my headphones.
I think I need to adjust my medication. Or get a new therapist. Why does life seem hard when I am more privileged than most? Why do I want to crawl into a ball under my blankets and just let life go by when I'm afraid of just that? I'm so sad all of a sudden.
Sorry if this is depressing. I just have to get it out.
My grandfather is growing weary, he's 83 and still working. We need money, I'm the only other person who could earn for this family but I haven't gotten my license yet. The second I get it I'm going to get a job so he won't have to work this hard. I feel this tremendous guilt whenever I see him walk through the door all winded and in pain. It's a constant reminder that of my burdening my family.
My dad's just realized that his father could pass away soon and it's causing him to break down every now and then. He has his own problems, the doctor found a polyp growing on his sinus and he's going to have to get it removed. His doctor, Dr. Angel, has lived up to his namesake in full. My father describes him as "obviously gay" but I think that's good since he's been pretty close minded about lifestyles other than his own. I think it was a shock to him that Dr. Angel was the only kind person in the doctor's office to help him when he was in pain. He even went out of his way to complain to the insurance company for not covering my dad. Dad even told me that this one nurse who he says was a lesbian with a shaved head and a rainbow necklace was so nice to him when everyone was unsympathetic to his pain, moved him so much he hugged her. I'm glad that he's opening his mind. He's had a 4 month headache, the polyp must be growing. His jaw is swelling as well, the sinus infection he had a year ago that caused him to go into surgery is starting up again. Hopefully Dr. Angel can help get rid of it.
Dr. Nash, the man who saved my father's life when he had that infection growing on his brain, was in the news. If you've heard about what happened to Gabrielle Gifford, then you might have heard of Dr. Nash. It was him who offered to help my dad with his recent infection - without payment. He's a great man. A great neuropsychologist.
I went to the doctor's office myself, today. I still go to a pediatrician, have to until I'm 21, but I don't mind. I've known Dr. Cohen all my life. I went in to ask if I had a hormone imbalance because recently I've started to grow some dark hair on my chin. Not the one or two strands women get occasionally but a thin patch that I have to pluck every week. Dr. Cohen is a kind woman, gentle but frank when she needs to be. It is not uncommon for her to give me a light verbal lashing for not achieving my potential.
She asked me to sit up on the paper covered, cushioned bench and started to check my ears. As she did, she asked how my home life was lately. I started to tell her about my grandfather while I stared at the rainbow fish mobile that hung just a few feet before my face. The next thing I knew my eyes were stinging and I knew that I was going to cry. Covering my face with my hands I told her how miserable I felt knowing that I was going to be soul breadwinner for the family soon. I told her how scared I was that I'd never get to be a kid again. Blathering, I told her that I knew I'd never be able to go out and act like someone my own age; that I'd have to be 40 before I was 25.
She grabbed my arm and squeezed it tight. She told me that I didn't have to put up with these things. I didn't tell her that I had to. Trying to laugh it off by calling myself a baby, she told me that she knew I was way too smart to think that I had to get a minimum wage job to pay for bills. Dr. Cohen told me it was alright to cry in front of her, "after all, I've known you since you were a little girl."
I said I wanted to be a little girl again so I wouldn't have to worry about things like this. She patted my arm, "you sound like you're in your thirties, wishing to be 16 again. You're depressed, hon."
She wrote down that she wanted me to get some labs done, checking for everything. I thanked her and left. I wish I had hugged her. I felt like I was disappointing her by not striving in psychology, she had offered once to get me an internship in the forensic psychology department and now I was so lost I couldn't possibly accomplish anything other than eating, sleeping, and reading. I'm sorry, Dr. Cohen.
When we left I asked my grandmother if we could go to the bookstore. I put on a happy face, and my spirits did lighten up a little when I had a small discussion on graphic novels with a boy no older than 10. He had been trying to grab a copy of Megaman from the top shelf and couldn't manage so I pulled the book down for him. He thanked me and watched as I bent down to check the lower shelf. Asking what comics he liked, he shrugged, "I liked the cartoon, so I wanna read the comic," he said holding up the book I had just handed him.
"That's good, just remember to stay away from Frank Miller." He shyly said he would without even asking why.
Children make me happy and sad at the same time.
After the boy ran off I met a very sweet older woman named Brooke by a stand devoted entirely to "Summer Reads." I was talking to myself, picking up a copy of "Atlas Shrugged," I let loose a breath and muttered, "I heard this was good but it's expensive."
She chuckled, "How many of these have you read?"
I went around the table and pointed to each of the books I owned, she made a comment to each one. She remarked about how well read I was and said how her grandchildren wouldn't read at all. I smiled, "I guess I can thank Harry Potter for making me love to read. I just wish I had more money, I'd buy all the books I've ever wanted to read and more."
Brooke beamed, "I wish I could just give you a thousand dollars right now and watch you go wild picking out books!"
Thanking her I said, "but then how would you pay for your books?"
She grabbed a couple and said, "you should get these, they're fantastic!" After a few moments she was leading me around the store while I wrote down names of books she said were must reads. That definitely made me feel better. Not to give myself a big head, but I tend to impress people older than I more than someone my own age. Now that I think about it, it's just more evidence that I'm growing older on the inside.
My grandmother didn't like paying for the books, she complained when we were in the car that I needed to get a job and quit smoking so I could pay for things like this. My eyes began to sting when she said that. It's selfish, I know. I stopped myself from crying by just agreeing with her and putting on my headphones.
I think I need to adjust my medication. Or get a new therapist. Why does life seem hard when I am more privileged than most? Why do I want to crawl into a ball under my blankets and just let life go by when I'm afraid of just that? I'm so sad all of a sudden.
Sorry if this is depressing. I just have to get it out.