Teenage Hearts

We are teenage hearts. Forever young. We think we know it all, but we don't. No, we don't. And I heard you moved on, moved away, somewhere down the coast is what they say. I think that's great. . . . I . . . I am in love. So much in love. I am in love with you. - Teenage Hearts by Allstar Weekend

I didn't really listen to grown ups when I was little. They were just old children whose imagination had been eaten by society, creativity discouraged by teachers, and people that just plain out reeked of moth balls. (I was a very sassy 10 year old.)

I listened to my friends. While the old hags had been complaining about teenagers rampaging around in oversized jeans and always high and wasting money at the mall and inhaling any food they walked by, my friends and I couldn't wait.
Love. Privilages. Freedom, really.

No. Oh, hell no. That is not what it is.
I'm only fifteen and I've realized something: Those ancient baby boomers knew a thing or two. And that is coming from someone who didn't see the point of them. (This occured about the time I first read The Giver.)

This isn't going to be very interesting, but this blog is mostly about getting everything off my chest. So, I shall tell you about my recent 24 hours. But, mind you, a little background information is rather necessary.

In December, I fell in love with my best friend. Yes, I know, how stereotypical. And perhaps I haven't fallen in love, perhaps I don't know how amazing that feeling is, but I'm about as close to it as perceivable. Now, this kid, whom we shall call Joe, loved me. But, there's a little big twist: We live in different cities. It isn't but a 2.5 hour drive, but it's not like I can see him very often. I didn't want that. I thought distance would ruin us, you know, like it often does.

Come January, I realized how stupid I had been! As I worked up the courage to tell him that I love him and want to be with him, he texts me that, oh yeah, he has a girlfriend.
I was flipping the flip out.
I texted him and called him and skyped him for evermore to find out all about this girl. She was pretty. Not as pretty as me, he said himself. Not as funny as me. Basically like me, minus looks, humor, and the fact that Joe and I share moderate depression.
Okay. That's okay. I'd get over Joe. I'd be fine.
I tried making it work with a guy that left after I quit FWB.
I tried making it work with a guy that was so sweet. He, actually, was a lot like Joe. But, unfortunately, this kid liked someone. And I never had the same butterflies Joe gave me. This guy gave me more of moths. Something. But not everything.

I told Joe how it was. How much I loved him. No. He still had feelings for me, but he was going to stay with his girlfriend, Savannah (we will call her Savannah).
Anyhow, this was devasting. Basically, I was depressed. Basically, Joe was hurt as well. Basically, we didn't talk much for a good month.
This past week, Savannah left Joe. She didn't actually love him. While Joe is a wreck, I'm constantly telling him knock-knock jokes and calling him cute nicknames and making him chuckle. He likes me. He just needs time.

This really brings a whole new meaning to T Swift's Back to December.

How do I feel all these emotions in these photos?

Yesterday, a classmate asked what I have (why I'm sick and all that annoying jazz). I told her it's the way I perceive pain, I don't process it properly. She said, I quote, "Awh, that's so cool!" I nearly bitch slapped her in the middle of the silent library. How is this cool? How is being introverted in an extroverted world even remotely fascinating? How is being a patient at a hospital rather fancy? How is being sick during homecoming and a military ball (I was asked to for JROTC) joyful in the least? Teenagers. Teenagers don't think before they speak. That's why I'm so . . . alone, I guess. I can't relate to any teenager. No one writes; no one likes psychology; no one likes being doofy; no one gets excited when they see even a silly Smart car. No one is like me. Just that simplistic; I'm not average.

Tonight, we received a call about my blood work results (I had some run on Monday). My heart leaped from my chest. I was so faint, I barelt had the strength to reach out and catch the broken little thing before placing back behind my breast plate.

I have to have another pneumonia shot. I have to, subsequently, have more tests run. I could have something like streptococcus pneumoniae or haemophilus influenza. A couple others too. And, you know what? I could die. I could be pushing my experation date at this exact moment. Horrifying, isn't it!?

I haven't even been to Canada yet!!! Honestly, this smarter than the average bear over there says it all. Thanks, Teddy.

Other than that, I guess life isn't the worst. I mean, people being jealous of something you find a pain, love, and some ginormous burden sure fits the average teenage life, I do suppose.

"High school's the place where dreams go to die." - The Downtown Fiction

Anywho, I get to see Joe this weekend. I'm immensely hopeful it will change things. Truthfully, I just don't even know what to think of anything anymore.

I have to go eat and do some silly home work now. Have a tremendous night. If you read all the way down here, I'm super proud (for reals).

Please enjoy this text photo I created.

For Reals

I wake up. I take medication. I wonder why I'm supposed to live another day.

It was recently brought to my 15 year old attention that moments count tremendously. In my head, I'm always blogging. This sounds quite whacky, and I am aware, but it is the irrevocable truth.

I'm a writer. I write everything. Sometimes, fellow Homo sapiens like telling me they also write. It isn't until I really try conversing with them about it, that I notice they don't write. They story-tell. There's a difference. Honestly, when I talk, you can tell I'm just a little baby freshman. I say, "like", "legit", "dude", "whatever", "lame", "basically", all those habits of hormonal girls. When I write though, everything changes. I have this vocabulary of an old man. . . . That does not sound flattering. . . . I have the vocabulary of Ernest Hemingway. That sounds much more fitting.

So now, I'm writing out my thought train. It's not going to be easy to understand in the least, but perhaps you will find it amusing, insightful, and--unlikely--humorous. If you experience any similiar issues, I'm oh so happy to hear about them. There are many ways to contact me, but we shall get there later.


I am going to attempt telling my life. About me. Who I am. How I think. The thing is, it's not exactly easy. It's taken years to build up, so I don't know how easy an explanation will come.

See, I was the average third grader that was rather mature around adults and very childish with friends. I laughed harder than anyone should have at the Sunday Funnies.

 (I'm on the right.)

Then came Dr. Q, who I will now refer to as that due to the fact that his real last name cannot be pronounced by any human, not one I can imagine. He gave me a pill. A magic pill. They called it a steroid, something to destroy allergies.

But it didn't do that. It made me kick and scream and cry until my mouth couldn't function. I spent days on in, crying alone in the back corner of the nurse's office. They hit me. One lady, the assistant principle, smacked my hand.

I don't remember it. I remember the sterile smell of the clinic and the ugly glasses the nurse wore. Everything else is mostly told to me by my parents or a little diary I kept that year--when I was 10.

Until seventh grade, I switched schools every year. Eventually, finding a cool little UMS quite nice. However, once the calendar reached 2011's Feburary 14th, Valentines Day, I found my so incredibly ill, I had to drop out of 8th grade. I had all sorts of doctors and was a patient at Texas Children's Hospital.

I took nerly a year, but now I know what is wrong with me. Serotonin Deficiency Syndrome. (Here's a website for further reading. This is very basic, but it's the easiest understanding page.)

I also have fibromyalgia, a syndrome affecting the tissue around my joints. I'm still undergoing tests to find out more information about my complex immune system, which seems to be nonexistent these days!

I battle moderate depression, outbreaks similiar to mild bipolar disorder, mood swings, odd perception of pain in any form, and trouble understanding just about everything in this world.

This experience has caused me to see a level deeper than most. I see the sick greed hidden behind false smiles. I see the cold shoulder people want to display. I hear the thoughts of people that need help, but refuse to ask for it.

I believe in God. I know there is a reason, I just can't wrap my head around the possibility of real point to suffering. I'm ready to explore though. I'm ready to find out everything. I'm ready to find the reason.

Just because I believe it, does not mean I understand or am even capable of predicting the possibilities.

This has not seemed interesting in the least. But if you follow me for a gaurenteed funnier post, which I will probably fail to compose, I'll follow your blog.

This is me, now. So much better.

                        Please, please, please, have a super fantastic day.