never has a journal post created such a flurry of activity. people are reading - many people - even the ones I thought had slipped away in the cold dark night forever (or at least for a long time).
so, my mom's doing better. all that stuff, her heart stuff, she was so short of breath she couldn't even walk down the driveway without getting winded - apparently it's not her heart, or her lungs, it's some kind of fluid causing pressure in her abodmen that will dissipate (sp?) on its own. so for right this second, the panic button is not being perpetually hovered over.
my days are all blurring together - especially with christmas and the end of the semester all at once. every free moment is write your paper, call your mom, order those pictures, all the while with the morning shift looming when the alarm goes off at 4:45. raf and I call it "everything all the time" - I took that from cheryl's myspace page.
so I sat down this morning, fresh off my email, with all these things to say and now my head's gone blank. nine days till christmas, seven days till the paper is due, lots of people to see and lots of brownies to make. work and words pound into my brain, which is so conditioned to getting up now that I sprung awake at 6:45. I'm just tired of wasting time. I'm also now fully on soy (conversational A.D.D., sorry). we're moving in about a month, and then florida after that, and then seattle after that (if we can pull it together!). like we talked about in class - I don't want to become a parody of my own life.
class - class. a guy that served in iraq came to talk to us yesterday, and it's singlehandedly been one of the heaviest days I can remember of late. he was twenty five at best, and - I almost don't want to write it all out right now because it's just so much and I feel like I left a part of it in yesterday that I don't want to disturb. I did my research paper on ptsd in vietnam veterans, and to see this guy - eric - to watch what happened to his face when he talked about the first time he had to shoot somebody; to hear him talk about how every time he goes up the stairs at night in his quiet dark house, his hands take the shape of his weapon; how he went to fight for a cause - and did - but sat in front of us broken... it was a lot. I think I'm going to start shifting my school towards counseling, maybe with a concentration in ptsd and then a minor in photography.
I can't think of any other way to do my dad justice.
eight a.m., and I'm off to the races. xo