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10:10 p.m. - 09/07/02
|and yes, \"I've fallen and I can't get up\" did come to mind|\
When Frances Hodgson Burnett was not very old she was thrown from a horse and suffered a blow to the head. I know this because, when I was not very old myself, I did a major research project on The Woman Who Was Cool Enough to Write The Secret Garden, which culminated in me dressing up as her (bustle and all- oh, yes) and answering random people's questions about her life. If I forgot something, my plan was to tell them how I had this blow to the head from being thrown off said horse which sometimes led to my forgetting things, and they would be so amazed by such minutiae, that they'd drop their stupid, erroneous, answer-less questions.

This is relevant *because* (oh she will find a correlary, yes she will) many years from now, when little children who lose their right to research Louisa May Alcott to some cocky little fourth graders (who are already *taller* than these *fifth graders* are, and who obviously are too busy playing *basketball* and doing other *tall*-people things, to know *anything* about the *real* Louisa May) decide instead to research The Girl Who Wrote More About Therapy In Her Journal Than Freud Did In His Life, and they're worried about what they'll say if asked a question they can't answer, they will reference today. Today in my life is the equivalent of being thrown from a horse, despite the fact that I was once *actually* thrown from a horse. If nothing else, you're starting to get a good idea of how little sense I'm making. And that just proves my point. I've taken a few blows today, and the bruises won't be pretty, trust me. So I'm pointing out here that if tomorrow I'm journaling about the correlaries between this breed of monkey and that breed of duckle, which is making it hard for you, future person, to convince a teacher I'm worth writing a report on, just mention the blow to the head. Or maybe tell her some other random story and cite my incredible ability to come up with excuses. No, really I can. Was that not a good one? Oh, see, well the milk was spoiled, and not having any milk led to me being deficient in calcium, not to mention the effect it had on my protein count, which left me completely skewed exchanges-wise, so I was halfway into the woods to hunt down dinner, when I realized I'm a vegetarian pacifist, at which point I was too frustrated to do anything except sit down and cry, so of course I sat down in a poison ivy patch, which led to me completely rashing out, in this icky red color that so does not to justice to my wardrobe, so, erm, I broke out the washable markers, and that my dear friend, is why I'm covered in Crayola ink. Indeed.

Oh, dear. It's really really bad. If you give a girl an opening...

The truth: my parents had not been gone long. At all. If they'd been gone fifteen minutes, I'm surprised. I'm speechless. Which will make it hard to write the rest of this entry, so I'll say they were gone fourteen. Fourteen minutes out of the house. I was all prepared to fight The Fear of Repeating Friday and tackle my schoolwork. I mean, education is important. Sort of. So, in order to better approach my day (and buy myself some time, I admit) I hit the shower. Or actually, the shower hit me.

I know that at one point I was in the shower, and the water was on, but I had not yet had a chance to get anything one would call "wet." Which gives you an idea of how long I'd been in the shower in keeping with your idea of how long my parents had been out of the house (i.e. how long I, a supposedly capable adolescent kiddle, had been under self-supervision). Ok. One point, I am in the shower, the next point, one of my feet is slipping away and I am falling *into the shower curtain* which of course means I have no way to catch myself. Or would have had no way to catch myself, had I actually realized I was falling before I hit the ground. But, you know, I was too busy watching my life flash before my eyes to realize what was happening pre-impact.

I landed, tailbone first, on the small step next to the tub, and the shower curtain rod (pole, really- or perhaps club) landed on top of me. At which point I slid off the step and hit the tile *a second time* at its actual floor height. I knew I was screwed.

How screwed had not yet occurred to me. At this point, the water was still on, and I was still prepared to take a shower after, you know, gathering my bearings and moving the shower-club out of the way. But something was a little wrong.

I was sweating. Sweating? Barely-has-high-enough-blood-pressure-to-keep-above-32-degrees-celsius-me? Sweating. And things were beyond no-glasses blurry. Was it me or were there little yellow spots all over that door there? On top of which (and this is when I really knew it was over) I couldn't hear. I had an ocean between myself and the audible world, and my own voice when I tested it, seemed very far away. I knew I'd be best off to just give in now and let the universe wash me away.

But erm, I never take the obvious route, do I? So, yes. I didn't drown in my psyche-ocean, which I guess is a significant enough achievement for a girl with half-a-head.

I knew I was in trouble because the one time I collapsed with the aid of hypochondria (for the record, I only collapsed one other time *with* the aid of hypochondria) I started spinning, lost my ability to hear, felt sweaty and cold, and saw spots. Media messages flashed through my head: "people with concussions go to sleep and don't wake up; you mustn't rest- you must get to a phone!" At this point, I still figured I'd be alive no problem, in a few minutes, and my biggest concern went something like, "If I have to get an x-ray of my tailbone, I am absolutely losing all faith in everything. Right before I grow a beard and go live with the rabbits in the woods. I am *not* going to the hospital. I need to take a shower! I need to do my schoolwork! I had plans for today!" (If I don't need cognitive therapy- *honestly,* thinking about schoolwork when I'm about to black out?- it's because I'm beyond help.)

So at this point, I still thought I was being *cautious* by dressing and going to the phone to call my parents. I mean, it's not like I actually *needed* them, and while "911" did cross my mind, it was a *completely* unnecessary step to take.

I thought. When I was still in the bathroom. When, in my first few steps toward the phone, I stumbled so violently into walls that I surely acquired a few bonus bruises, I started to feel doubtful. Hey, no big deal, just hold the wall like you're skating. Pick up the phone. Literally, as soon as I picked up the phone, I was dropping it. And my feet were dropping me. Once again, I don't remember falling, only having fell. I heard the phone hit the floor, break into pieces, and I realized that I, too, was on the tile. The tile that regularly shatters dishes, the tile I swore would shatter human flesh.

I felt beaten. I admit it. I thought, "I could just go to sleep here, and they'll come home and find me, and the nice people at the hospital will revive me from my coma before *too* long" et cetera. And then I got up and shook/stumbled my way to the second phone.

I was scared then. I was shaky, I was sweating, I was still really dizzy, (I'd just fallen *again!* With no slipperiness! What was that?) and I'd broken the good phone before I could use it. The second phone is the evil phone. It hates the number two (perhaps because it's been number two since the new phone arrived...perhaps for no logical reason whatsoever- something to do with pink elephants, no doubt) and since my dad's cell phone *requires* three simultaneous twos be dialed, I was obviously *even more* screwed. So, I stumble/leapt ("hey it's carpet; at least it'll be nicer to fall in there") to my parents bedroom, aware that if the third phone didn't work, I was completely out of luck. I'd be sucked into the carpet and they'd never find me, and the world would, of course be devastated.

No. I didn't think that. I wasn't thinking anything. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I was still focused on how I was going to do homework when I kept falling over.

But...the third phone dialed the number (twos and all) and my dad answered. "Hi." he said.

"Hi," I said. "I need someone to come home," I said. (Because they'd taken separate cars, and it's not like I need a whole posse, you know? Just a sidekick...)

"Ok..." he said.

"Because I fell," I said.

"Oh," he said.

"And then I got up to call you, and I got really dizzy, and I fell *again*," I said.

"Oh, my God," he said.

"So someone needs to come home," I said.

"Ok," he said. And as my mom screamed, "WHAT IS IT?" for the third time from the background, he clicked into a dial tone...

By the time they came back, I was literally only bruised and muscle-pulled. The dizziness had completely subsided to the point their caution bothered me. (Just as it did the first time, in seventh grade, when I had to see the school nurse despite the fact that I *knew* all my symptoms were completely gone.) But whatever. They were shaken, so I hugged them, and let them get me ice, and talked about all the reasons it was cool I didn't break my leg, and all the reasons your tailbone is the worst thing to hit, and "hey, it doesn't mean it's broken if [et cetera]", and so on.

It was swell. And then things proceeded really well, and I ended up talking to Sara! (eee! she called me! after whole weeks of loneliness!) for awhile, which I will certainly be able to more clearly elaborate on tomorrow, and went out with my mom for crafty-girl supplies. I am, at the moment, sore and bruised, a little nauseous, and absolutely terrified of/ dreading the schoolwork that returns to my life tomorrow. So so scared. But you know, I'm not in the hospital, I didn't go into all-out shock, I didn't black out, and no EMT's are examining my tailbone. So, relatively speaking, life is better than it could be.

Even if I have, apparently, lost all ability to write without the blatant explotation of the *asterisk.*

godspeed to the return of my remaining sanity
c.

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