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.