Note: I've been working on this part of the memoir for several weeks, and I think it's finally ready to be posted here. I'm still not finished with it, but I'll get there. You'll notice it gets progressively more detailed as I go through the grades, because my memories get fresher and more vivid. And the parts that are boring are supposed to feel that way, because I was bored during those parts of my life. Also, it's very long, so I don't expect us to get through it all in just a few meetings. 

 

School has been my enemy almost since day one. Before 3rd grade, I was actually pretty excited about going to school. I attended school for only half of the day, from 8 AM until lunchtime, when I was in preschool and kindergarten, and then for a full day for most of the rest of grade school. I don’t really have many vivid memories of my life in elementary and early middle school. I have some, but not many. Most of my memories are fuzzy little clips of my life, which makes writing about my earlier childhood difficult.

I don’t exactly know why I only have a few memories here and there of my life before I turned 12 years old, but I have my theories, one of which being that my upbringing was too traumatic for my brain to want to remember. I’m not denying the fact that I have a large and deeply loving family, but they weren’t the ones making life difficult for me. I was going through hell in other ways, which is why my brain chose to forget most of my childhood.

Living with Cystic Fibrosis is already a challenge most people couldn’t handle. Living with divorced parents makes it harder. Dealing with hard-to-get-along-with family members is even harder. And to top it all off, I was bullied for most of my time at school, not just by the students, but by a few of my teachers as well.

School has been more of a giant black hole rather than a stepping stone to success, at least to me. I had to learn how to learn despite school. When I got sick, often for weeks at a time, I’d fall behind, and catching up fell onto my shoulders. I did end up catching up in knowledge, but I had to develop my own ways of thinking and learning to understand two or three weeks worth in material in a single class period. This drove many of my teachers crazy. Most of them decided to just deal with it, and brushed it under the rug.

During parent-teacher conferences, the teachers often brought it up to my parents, which actually prompted my mom to put me through a series of intelligence and psychological tests when I was around 7 or 8 years old. I don’t know exactly what came from those tests, but my mom told me I had a genius IQ in many places, which labeled me twice-exceptional in school. I was also diagnosed with something related to Hypoxia, which is something I had when I was a newborn. Hypoxia occurs when parts of the brain don’t get enough oxygen, and if the brain is deprived of oxygen for too long, connections within the brain start to die off. I don’t have brain damage per say, but something weird is definitely going on. However, that diagnosis has been challenged very recently, which I’ll get to.

Honestly, I don’t feel I’m twice-exceptional. My thinking and learning skills are not disabled in any way, shape, or form. I have anxiety. That’s it. That’s my stumbling block. When I get anxious, my mind goes blank. School gave me anxiety like nothing else. But going into online school in 11th grade (which I wish I did years before), solved that issue. Plus, even if I was anxious, when left alone, I could do the work almost better than most students. I’ve always been great at taking tests and solving problems, just as long as nobody tries to talk to me. Small-talk has never been my forte.

My main issue with school was my inability to be my own boss. I do great when I’m not bossed around. I hate rules when other people make them up and expect me to follow them. But at home, I have my own schedule I follow that I created, and I’m easy to predict. Of course, most of my schedule is just treatments and pills, then there’s school and sometimes work. The rest of the day is mine to do whatever I want. That’s when I can be unpredictable. But this is my schedule today, not the schedule I followed before I dropped out in the middle of 11th grade.

The schedule I followed before was very hard on me in a lot of ways. I’m certain it had a pretty big part in my failing health. I woke up at 5:30 AM every morning to make it to school on time between 7:45 and 8:00 AM. These very early mornings already had me tired and begging for an extra hour of sleep before I was even dressed. At school, the only reason I stayed awake was because I was running on anxiety-induced adrenaline. I was always anticipating an attack from my bullies, or some off-handed comment about my missing homework from ignorant teachers. I didn’t know what to do. I was just trapped and wanted nothing to do with anyone.

In elementary school, I only remember briefly attending a meeting in 4th grade, in which my teacher, principal, nurse, and a few other staff members expressed concern about me. I was very withdrawn and quiet. I spent most of my recesses inside in the library drawing, and if I was forced to go outside, I’d sit against the side of the building and draw while everyone else played. In the classroom, I definitely understood what was being taught, but I refused to raise my hand in class, and if I was ever called on, either I stuttered over my words or just refused to answer at all. I also complained about being bullied often, and I even remember one of the staff members (who would supervise recess), talking about how she saw students punch me and throw balls at me in an attempt to hurt and scare me. I’m glad I don’t actually remember anything like that, but it hurts to know that happened to me regardless if I remember it.

That was probably around the same time I realized I was actually different than everyone else. I had something no one else had, and no one else understood. Being a tomboy also made me different, but that wasn’t the reason I was bullied. In fact, in some ways, I’d argue that being a tomboy gave me an advantage. Back then, Wall Ball was the most popular game during recess. There were no rules other than throw the tennis ball as hard as you can against the school, so the people behind you had to chase it. The goal was to make the people chase it as far as possible. I had a damn good arm, even then, so I’d make the kids behind me chase that ball for almost a full minute. It helped that there was a hill just behind us. I only remember a few seconds worth of Wall Ball, but it’s a good memory from my childhood, and I cherish it.

Anyway, in 4th grade, kids noticed that I was different from them. I think they were jealous, because I was allowed to leave the classroom 5 minutes early to get my medication and lunch before everyone else. Also, I was allowed to eat snacks in the classroom at any time, while everyone else had to wait for lunch and snack time. I was even allowed to buy extra meals the first time around, which is something most kids could only dream of. But the most obvious difference, which went on between kindergarten and 3rd grade, was the fact I wasn’t allowed outside for recess until I finished all of my food. However, that ended before students cared to notice or question it.

Some kids noticed the weirdest things, such as my clubbed fingers. They wanted to know why my fingers were so big and round compared to theirs. I had no answer. Not even my doctors really knew why. I just shrugged it off. But that didn’t satisfy anyone. The kids thought I had all of the answers to everything about me, which I didn’t. And even if I did have the answers, I didn’t want to tell them much about it. I just wanted to continue being treated like everyone else, and hold my elite ranks in Dodge Ball and Wall Ball.

There was a time when people stopped asking those questions. Some kid was involved in a major car wreck, and came back to school in a wheelchair with two broken legs, a broken arm, and a broken orbital. He may have gone blind in that eye, because I remember he wore an eye-patch from that day on, even when he was able to walk and use his hand again. But suddenly everyone was drawn to him and wanted to know what happened, and everyone especially wanted to sign their names on his casts. While they harassed him for pretty much the whole school day, I was left alone to draw and sit on the swings undisturbed. But that kid healed within several months, and once he was back on his feet, all eyes were back on me.

Those are the only vivid memories I have. I don’t really remember the rest. The rest comes from what my family has told me. I know I refused to go to school many days and often made myself sick so I didn’t have to go. I became extremely introverted, and refused to talk to anyone as soon as school let out. I was just exhausted, and couldn’t wait to come home and relax. I never did my homework, and not because I was lazy. I was simply too exhausted to care. I had friends, but rarely did I see them outside of school. I never participated in any sleepovers. I only went to birthday parties if they were somewhere other than at someone’s house. And for the most part, I cherished my own company and loved it when I could just stay at home and do my own thing.

Later on, when we moved to northeast Denver and I began middle school, I quickly realized that I was very different from the rest of the students, and they knew this. Northeast Denver isn’t the nicest neighborhood to live in. Drive-by shootings, muggings, drug-use, and other crimes were not uncommon. I just learned to sleep through the gunshots that occasionally rang out from within a few blocks of my house in the middle of the night.

Our house was also cheaply built, with vinyl siding and cheap insulation. It would’ve been fine, only we lived in a noisy neighborhood in Colorado’s tornado alley. I struggled to sleep at night because I could hear a neighbor’s dog barking several blocks away, and the airport was just a few miles away, so I could hear every airplane coming in and out of DIA. Our vinyl siding didn’t last too long, and our garage door took a major beating one day when our house was hit by the outer winds of a small tornado that rushed through. We also lost a couple of windows to our tile shingles. I’m glad I wasn’t home for that, but I did come home from school to shovel 5 inches of hail and debris off our driveway while my mom surveyed the damage.

My mom got me into the nicest school in our area of town. It took a lottery to get into, and those who made it through middle and high school there got a guaranteed scholarship and spot in some of Denver’s most distinguished universities. This was very appealing to my mom. Clearly, that school took education very seriously. But there were multiple problems that I only found out once I started to attend the school.

For one, they were ridiculously strict, but I’m sure they had to be considering where the school was located. The uniforms they made students wear were very specific. You had to wear the school’s polo shirt. You had to wear black or khaki dress pants. You had to wear plain, black or brown dress shoes. You had to wear a black or brown belt. If you forgot to wear a belt, or wore something that was a shade too close to being red or grey, you were given detention.

You couldn’t talk in the hallways or step out of line. Any of that resulted in immediate detention. Cheating, talking in class, drawing, or even just coming to class without a pencil were also easy ways to get detention.

Finally, missing homework wasn’t an option, and there was a lot of homework. Every teacher assigned at least 20 minutes of homework per class, so I often came home with at least an hour and a half worth in homework, which I couldn’t even think about completing. There was even a part of my 504 plan that said teachers need to excuse excusable work such as homework for me, but that school didn’t listen to that.

I got used to getting detention every single day for not completing my homework. I’d be at school literally from sunrise to after sunset, and I’d be in tears by the time I was in my mom’s car. My anxiety was at an all-time high. I barely slept at night, and I barely ate during the day. I grew sicker and sicker as time slowly dragged on, however I barely realized it, because of how stressed and anxious I was. I beat myself up, because my teachers often complained about my inability to do homework or keep my desk clean, or how I was always drawing on the side, to the whole class.

Because of how teachers treated me, students saw that as a green light to bully me, even though the school often prided itself in not being tolerant of bullying. It started small, as it usually does, as students tested the waters. I was too small and weak compared to everyone else to really defend myself. If I tried to stand up for myself, the students just mocked me more. Eventually, I was being elbowed against lockers and water fountains, tripped in the hallways and between desks, and had doors slammed into my face. I got pretty good at bracing myself and falling so I wouldn't be in pain, and to be honest, I think that I've since saved myself from a lot of injuries, thanks to my bullies' attacks. The students knew that if they did anything that was more physical, it wouldn’t go under the teachers’ noses, and they’d get in trouble. Clearly, they knew what they were doing was wrong, but they did it anyway.

It wasn’t long before students started to notice that something was going on with me. I was sick often, and I went to the office everyday, 5 minutes before lunch to get my pills. Then I’d head over to the lunch room, which was in a separate building on campus, to get my food. I’d be the first person sitting at the lunch table. Kids noticed this because each class had their own assigned table. So, no matter what I did or where I went, I was stuck with my bullies. I couldn’t retreat to another table at the far end of the lunch room. I had to sit, shoulder to shoulder, with some of my worst enemies.

However, that all changed when the name of my condition suddenly made it to the other students. I’m not sure how, but it spread like wildfire, not just in my class, but throughout most of the school. Suddenly, I was labeled a biohazard, and most of the kids didn’t want to be anywhere near me. They were even wary about touching my stuff. I remember one student used a couple pencils to flip through my text book during a partner project in class, and she didn’t let me write anything down on the assignment paper. I was allowed to sign my name, only after she was done. Some kids turned this into a game, similar to the Cheese Touch in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid book series, which was very popular in school back then.

Everything that was happening to me was too much for me to really deal with. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I was stressed out, chewing my nails even when they bled, and crying everyday after school. I also kept getting sicker and sicker, though I barely noticed that I spent a lot more time curled up in the nurse’s office. I asked for help often, but I rarely got anything out of it. Nothing changed. No one but me seemed to get punished. I was at school for 9 hours a day, and because of how stressed and anxious I was, I didn’t get anything done. I’d just sit shivering in my seat, counting down the minutes to when I could finally go home. Minutes felt like hours, and an entire school day felt like years.

I ended up barely passing 6th grade, and I had to go to school for a month during the summer. Clearly, this just made things worse for me, but no one seemed to notice. I actually ended up only spending three weeks in summer school, because I was enjoying the white sand beaches of Destin, Florida for the first week of summer school. I think that saved me from going to a place of mind I would’ve never come out of.

7th grade wasn’t any easier. In fact, it was worse. My bullies were bigger, and much more vicious towards me. It was clear I wasn’t contagious, since no one else came back to school coughing like I was. My bullies felt like they could pick on me without suffering any consequences. Yet, I sensed that they were still scared of me. Many of the students were apprehensive about bullying me, and often looked to the ringleaders for guidance before they did anything.

By then, I had more or less accepted it, and stopped trying to change anything. I was successful only in failing almost every class. It was also pretty clear to everyone that my health was getting pretty bad. I had trouble staying out of the nurse’s office because my anxiety upset my stomach so much, that it was impossible for me to focus on anything else but my physical pain. I was also coughing a lot more too. But I’ve always been stubborn as a work horse, and I only left school when I was forced to.

My mom got more and more worried about me. She didn’t know what to do. She was in the process of looking for other schools around us, but found none that would be better for me. Meanwhile, I just did everything I could to persevere, but I was lost, alone, and depressed. My mom took me to therapy and often told me to pray, but I was having serious doubts about God, to the point I realized I was no longer a Christian. I was an atheist, and once I realized that, I almost went off the deep end into anti-religion. I decided that the Christian God couldn’t logically exist. After all, an all-loving and all-powerful God wouldn’t have done what He had done to me. He wouldn’t have given me CF or let my parents divorce. He would’ve kept my stepmom and stepbrother from hurting me in ways I should’ve never been hurt. The nail on the coffin of my faith was my middle school experience. I was convinced that if God existed, He was ultimately evil, and I was His prime target.

I continued to go through everyday on autopilot. Everyday, things got a little bit harder. I was a little more run-down. I just didn’t care about anything anymore. I feared death, but at the same time, I honestly hoped some freak accident would wipe me off the face of the earth. A month after 7th grade started, a girl in my grade jaywalked and got hit by an SUV. She didn’t die, but I found myself wishing that girl was me. At least then, I would be in the hospital watching movies and playing video games all day, sheltered from the world, rather than being forced to go to that godforsaken middle school.

However, at the same time, I was too afraid to do anything that would put me in danger or in pain. Like I said, I hoped some freak accident would happen completely out of the blue, because if I saw any danger coming, I knew I’d jump out of the way. Deep down inside, I wanted to live. But I wanted to live without the bullying and the suffering. I knew I’d be exponentially happier if my biggest bullies left the school. I’d still be pretty unhappy, since my teachers still didn’t know what to do with me and my health was getting worse. But at least I wouldn’t be crippled by fear everyday.

Eventually, my mom did find a new school to get me to. Unfortunately, it was 20 miles away in downtown Denver, but I was so desperate, that I did not care. I needed out of my current situation. So, my mom found a few more students in our neighborhood who also attended that school, and we set up a carpool to and from that school.

The new school was an all girls school in Denver, centered around athletics and empowerment. They paid a lot of attention to mental and physical health. In fact, the mental and physical health of the students came first, rather than actual school. Actual school was still very important, but the school knew that only healthy kids could make it through.

When I went to that school the first day, I had no idea how to react. Suddenly, everyone was incredibly nice to me, and couldn’t wait to get to know me. At the same time, they were confused as to why I was so quiet, and why I only had basic answers to their questions. A few of them were even a little offended when I denied their hugs. Most of the girls assumed I was just shy, which I was, and I’d warm up. But for the most part, I was just terrified. Once again, I was the new kid, and I worried about what would happen if my differences came to light. The school definitely had its fair share of quirky students, but I brought a lot more than just a few quirks.

I spent the first month simply observing everyone else. Over time, I felt myself relaxing quite a lot. I still didn’t tell anyone about my condition, and made sure to use the back door in the classrooms when I left to get my medication before lunch. Most classrooms were large and had two different doors. I also refused to use the bathroom at that school, which brought a new set of problems, but I adapted.

I also started taking Tae Kwon Do classes at my local dojo twice a week. I didn’t want to be helpless in case someone wanted to pick on me again. I wanted to be able to protect myself in case anything happened. At the time, I saw Tae Kwon Do as a chore, but it was a chore I was willing to do. It gave me some confidence, though I hated how strict and repetitive it was.

I thought I was doing pretty well when it came to hiding Cystic Fibrosis from everyone else. No one asked why I left for lunch five minutes early, or why I had such a bad cough. No one actually seemed to notice. They just wanted to be my friend. I pushed people away though, because I had no trust. I offered to just be friends at school, but no one was allowed at my house. I was afraid of what they might think if they saw the pills and treatments I did to keep myself alive.

Because I was still sick, I went to the doctors’ for a routine check-up, and found that my lung function had dipped over a dozen percent, and I tested positive for a severe MRSA lung infection. So, in January, less than two months after I transferred schools, I was in the hospital for two weeks.

It was a traumatic experience, to say the very least. I had an IV that needed to be replaced every couple of days, which pumped toxic antibiotics directly into my bloodstream. I had some nasty reactions to those antibiotics, including Red Man’s syndrome, which is where my entire body turned bright red and itched so badly I felt like I was literally on fire. Other antibiotics just made me really cold and tired, which still sucked, but was much better than Red Man's syndrome.

By day three, I was literally as white as snow, with dark, sunken eyes. My cheekbones were visible, and my lips were blue, but my veins were neither of those things, which made replacing IVs that much harder. Eventually, my doctors ran out of places to put IVs, and in a last attempt to get one in me, they found a vein just above my elbow. They missed the vein, and ended up jabbing the needle into my elbow where several bones and tendons are. It took six doctors and my parents to hold me still, while I kicked and bawled in pain. Eventually, they stopped trying, and I was left in a fetal position in my bed, nursing my elbow for almost an hour, which was wrapped in gauze and felt like I had just slammed it against a table.

In reality, hospitals aren’t where you go to play video games and watch movies everyday for a few weeks. I would much rather spend two weeks at my first middle school, than spend another week in the hospital.

There was a silver lining to all of this. My classmates contributed to a large gift basket for me, which included chocolates and cards wishing for a quick recovery. Also, my math teacher got my mom’s phone number from the school and called her, asking if he could pay me a visit one evening to make sure I had an easy transition back into his class. He knew I hated math, and struggled to understand the conventional ways of learning math. At the same time, he knew that if I just understood the core concepts, I could teach myself the rest.

For two hours one Friday evening, my 7th grade math teacher patiently taught me two weeks worth in material. I couldn’t hold a pencil because my right arm had an IV right next to my wrist, which made it painfully stiff and cold, but I tried my best to write down a few numbers with my left hand. I also used my iPad to type down a few notes. At that moment, I realized that not every teacher and student was against me. There were some damn good people in this world, and I wish I did more than just say a timid, “Thank you”, to my teacher as he disappeared down the long hospital hallway. Both my mom and I cried for a good hour that night, but not from pain or sadness.

A week later, I was out of the hospital, and a few days later, I was back at school. I was welcomed back with literal open arms. The girls there couldn’t wait to see me again. However, they also wanted to know why I was in the hospital for so long if I hadn’t been injured. They could tell my cough was gone, and connected the dots. I was sick with something, and after I assured them I wasn’t contagious, I finally found the courage to give them a brief rundown of Cystic Fibrosis. A lot of the girls were confused, but they understood the words “Chronic Illness” easy enough. But a few girls wanted to know more. They were genuinely curious. I didn’t tell them very much though. I just told them I need medication to digest my food, and I got sicker easier.

Eventually, people stopped asking questions, and I was able to get on with life. I attended therapy once a week to try and solve my anxiety issues. In hindsight, I don’t think therapy really helped. They tried a lot of different EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) techniques to deal with my PTSD, but I wasn’t responsive to any of it. For the most part, just getting in shape and learning how to fight gave me back some confidence, and I slowly got over my fears I had since childhood. I realized I wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. I was tough, and the more I went to Tae Kwon Do, the stronger I got. The process was long, and the classes were strict, but I did it anyway for the sake of my health.

Around the same time, I got into weekend horse riding lessons, and occasionally volunteered at horse rescues to feed and clean up after the horses. The riding lessons took most of my Saturdays though. They were English riding lessons, and therefore a lot more disciplined than the western riding I was used to. But, I needed to be around horses, and more importantly, I had to work with and on them. It was healing, and there’s not much that’s more empowering than holding the reins of a 1,500 pound prey animal.

I learned a lot of valuable lessons just from working with and on horses. I learned how to lift things such as bales and shovels with my legs, rather than my back. I learned how to pick gravel out of horses’ hooves, how to brush out burs and pick out cactus needles without hurting the horses, and just how to interact with horses in a calm way, even if the situation itself was stressful. There’s nothing more dangerous than a scared and cornered horse, and I had to learn how to read the body language of horses, as well as control my own anxiety and body language, so I wouldn’t find myself at the receiving end of a horse’s hoof.

Overall, working with horses gave me more physical strength, and taught me with experience how to stay calm even if I didn’t feel like it. And I carried those lessons with me back to school every weekday.

Eventually, I selected a few people I knew in school who I thought were more trustworthy than the others. Out of them, Fiona stuck out to me. Fiona had Dyslexia, which made it easier for her to understand my challenges. While CF and Dyslexia have almost nothing in common symptom-wise, Fiona still needed special accommodations at school, such as special glasses and blue tinted paper, so she could read.

Fiona was also a hardcore tomboy like me. She was into hockey, and was also not afraid to break a few bones along the way. She often invited me to the skating rink, but I admitted that I couldn’t skate to save my life, and I was afraid of hurting myself. She then suggested skiing, arguing that the snow was as soft as a down feather mattress, and there was no way I could hurt myself while skiing. I told her my dad taught me how to ski when I was younger, but then my grandpa broke his leg after colliding with a snowboarder a few years later, and scared me out of skiing.

My friend was slightly disappointed in me, until I told her I did Tae Kwon Do, and I could spar once I got to the senior belts. After that, we found some more common ground. Tae Kwon Do and Hockey are two different sports, but they’re both combat sports. The difference was, one was a team sport that didn’t always encourage fighting, and the other was a fighting combat sport, that required you to fight later on to get through the senior belts. I’ve never been good at team sports or ball sports, but I could break a few boards in Tae Kwon Do.

I was never as physically fit as Fiona or the other elite athletes in the school, but I did my best. At least I started to get a little muscular, and my run times got shorter. I still sucked at ball sports, but I eventually accepted that I just wasn’t meant to do those sports. I was a fighter. I didn’t need to be able to protect a basketball to have dignity in sports. If anything, I did one of the most honorable and respected sports in the world. I didn’t get my belts with just my fists alone. I had to prove to my masters that I was worthy enough to have my belts, by completing written tests and essays before getting a new belt, so that I fully understood the consequences if I ever decided to dishonorably use my skills outside of the dojo.

Getting into a smaller group of friends helped with my socially anxiety, however I still didn’t fit in too well. Unlike Fiona and the others, I really didn’t enjoy my chosen sport. Tae Kwon Do was way too strict for me to do with a passion and a smile on my face. I did it just to keep my lungs strong and learn how to fight against anyone if I ever needed to. But deep down inside, I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to become a lethal weapon. I just wanted to settle down and relax, but I couldn’t do it. I had an opportunity to become my own hero for once, and I took it.

While my friends always talked my ears off about how awesome their sports were, and how much fun they had, I rarely talked about Tae Kwon Do, or any sport for that matter. I hadn’t found any sports that set my soul on fire. In fact, I didn’t find anything that I was passionate about at the time. I was just in survival mode. I decided that with time, I’d eventually find something to obsess over. But the first step was getting out into the world, and at that time, I was too much of a coward to take my dog for a walk around the block.

I knew the only way to really cure my cowardice was to learn how to fight. The world was never butterflies and rainbows. It will never be butterflies and rainbows. Sometimes fighting is the only way to solve a problem, because a hug isn’t gonna change a criminal’s mind. I learned, the hard way, that the best way to stand up for myself was to become much more dangerous than my bullies. The only way to do that was to build muscle and teach that muscle how to react to certain things without the brain consciously telling it what to do. Tae Kwon Do had to become instinct, so if I ever had to stop a fight, I could.

8th grade came and went pretty fast. I don’t remember a lot of it, except for my math teacher, who had an issue with the way I did my work in his class. He wasn’t the most liked teacher in the school, mostly because he had a very strict, “my way or the highway” sort of attitude, and didn’t tolerate students who went against his ways. I drove him up the wall, and not even intentionally. I was very well behaved in his class, I just didn’t do my work the way he wanted it to be done.

My 8th grade algebra teacher convinced me I was bad at math, even though I usually got the correct answers. I just did my math differently than everyone else. I got frustrated very quickly, because I got consistent Cs on all of my assignments, along with little notes in the corner of my papers saying things like, “Do questions 1-4 correctly next time”, or, “You didn’t write your work down in order”. I kept trying, but the harder I tried, the harder I failed. So I just stopped caring. I figured I just needed to accept that I terrible at solving equations and dealing with proofs, and instead focus more on the things I could do, which at the time, was kicking and punching rubber dummies in Tae Kwon Do.

I felt myself slipping into depression. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was growing distant from everyone else, I was exhausted, and I didn’t look forward to anything. I just wanted to lay on the couch and watch movies at home over the weekends, and once again I started hating school. I wasn’t being bullied, but my life was boring, which was almost just as bad to me. I needed something to shake things up, but there was nothing. I was stuck in an endless loop of school, martial arts, treatments, food, and sleep. There was nothing else happening. I knew I had a lot going for me, but I didn’t know where I was going. In fact, I felt like I was going nowhere.

I told my family that I felt empty inside, and my grandpa suggested I gave God another shot. I still didn’t consider myself religious in any way, but my grandpa assured me that if I prayed again, God would know how to fill the void in my life. So, I did. It was a very simple prayer. I don’t actually remember anything I said in it, but in my heart I hoped that something exciting would happen. I didn’t really believe anything would happen, but I assumed that if something did happen, I would definitely know.

Weeks went by. Christmas came and went, as did January, and then I got a phone call from my dad on Valentines Day. He told me he was packing up my bedroom at his house, and I wouldn’t be staying at his house anymore over our weekends together. My stepmom got full custody of my stepbrother, and our fights were so bad that the tension in the house was unbearable. My dad did his best to convince me it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my stepmom’s custody of my stepbrother. Still, it felt like my heart got ripped out of my chest. I told my dad that I understood, and we both said, “I love you”, before I hung up the phone and curled up in a fetal position on my bed, and cried myself to sleep.

I was pretty depressed and resentful for months after that. I was pissed at God. He had proven His existence to me, not just through that, but through several medical miracles as well. However, I felt like He was taking my dad away from me, and I once again believed God was more evil than He was loving. I was also upset at my dad, since he didn’t stand up for me. Instead, he just bowed down at my stepmom’s feet, and agreed to take me out of the household.

I lost a lot of weight and was more exhausted than ever. I was depressed and full of grief. But, slowly things started to make more sense. I still got to see my dad every other weekend. We just stayed at friends’ houses or hotels, which means I got to spend a lot more time with my dad. Plus, we went on a lot of adventures together, especially when summer arrived, that lasted longer than a couple short days.

When summer came, I looked back on what happened, and realized God did something amazing for me. He wasn’t taking away my dad. Instead, He was protecting me. Sure, it was very painful to lose something like that so suddenly, but it was for my own good, and for the good of my relationship with my dad. In hindsight, my dad and I were growing distant while I was around my stepmom. He didn’t hear what my stepmom would tell me when we were alone, and had no idea who to believe. I stopped blaming my dad for being unable to protect me, because he was never around to see or hear my stepmom go after me. Instead, I was just glad I was able to get away from such a toxic environment and still keep the people in my life I’ll always love the most.

When I returned to school for 9th grade after the summer, everything was much different. To be honest, I did shelter myself from everyone over the summer, so I didn’t see any changes going on because I wasn’t around anyone. I spent most of the summer by myself, just trying to recharge after going through such a difficult year. I really didn’t want to go back to school, and when I did, it felt like I was throwing on a pair of crusty gym socks.

My school managed to screw up my electives, and put me in performing arts rather than regular art. I immediately let the school know, because there was no way in hell I was gonna do well in that class. I’ve always had severe stage fright, and I’ve always struggled with memorizing things word-for-word. So, I was put in engineering instead, which seemed like an equally bad idea, considering I hated math, and believed I couldn’t do it. However, I had no other options except for track, and I hated running more than I hated math.

I also found myself growing more and more distant from my peers. One of my classes was about politics, and I often stood alone on a lot of issues. I didn’t see eye-to-eye with most of my peers, because I just experienced the world differently than them. No one was really wrong, but no one was very right either. I just had different experiences than them, which made it difficult for me to relate to them, and vise versa. Also, Fiona decided that she wasn’t a girl anymore, which really confused me at the time since I didn’t really know much about transgenderism. However, I didn’t really care in the end. I was perfectly ok with it, since my friend seemed a lot happier when she became he.

Still, I hated school. I was bored, tired, and lonely. I just wanted things in my life to change, but in a way that didn’t plunge me into depression again. I prayed almost every night, asking God for another good change in my life to make it more bearable. I wanted to break out of my endless loop of school, martial arts, and sleep.

I did get a small break from everything when my dad took me to see Nitro Circus Live at the Pepsi Center downtown. My dad and I sat together high above most of the stadium, looking down at the performers in the center of the stadium, as they backflipped dirtbikes and launched themselves over jumps in various other objects, such as chairs on skates and even a rocking horse on wheels.

I loved every second of it, especially the tricks that involved the dirtbikes. In fact, Nitro Circus is what inspired me to get into motocross. While that sounds about as smart as watching Jackass and being inspired to ride a shopping cart into a bush, this was something different. The stunts Nitro Circus was performing were clearly well planned out and practiced. Of course there were fails, but Nitro Circus was more focused on the successes, and those successes drew me into motocross.

Meanwhile, my mom was looking for a new house on the west side of the Denver metro. She hated where we lived, though she didn’t ever admit it to me until later. But, I especially hated where we lived, and constantly expressed my opinions every chance I had. My mom didn’t appreciate my rants nearly as much as I did, but I still think they helped pressure my mom to find a new house sooner than later. Our neighborhood crime rate was increasing, my mom’s best friend was moving away, and the storms that hit our house seemed to be getting worse. We used to stay with my grandparents’ across town if severe weather was in the next day’s forecast, and when everything passed, we came back home, counted the damages, and repaired the things that needed to be repaired. Thankfully, we never lost our house, but we had our close calls.  

My mom ended up buying a house in a decent neighborhood just west of Littleton, Colorado, just a few miles away from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. But it needed some serious renovations before we could move in. It was a split-level home built in the early 1970s that didn’t have any renovations before we bought it. The garden level basement was unfinished, while the upstairs had neon purple and green wallpaper, salmon colored bedroom walls, scratched wood paneling, and a dining table fixture in the center of the small kitchen. The back deck also rotten, and had to be completely rebuilt, and the backyard was nothing but weeds. But, being a real estate agent with plenty of connections, my mom knew she could get it beautifully renovated within several months for a reasonable price.

By the time I got to see the house a month before we moved in, most of the renovations were already done. The house had two bedrooms in the basement, even though my mom asked for three. Apparently, the construction crew couldn’t build three because three bedrooms wouldn’t fit. Instead, they converted one third of the basement into one large bedroom, so of course I claimed that room as my own. Upstairs, they had gotten rid of the nasty wallpaper, wood paneling, and salmon painted walls, except for the wood paneling near the front entrance, because it wasn’t damaged and my mom didn’t want to get rid of it. They also knocked out a wall in the kitchen and built a bar there, which became our dining table.

As soon as I saw our renovated house, I couldn’t wait to leave Denver and move just a few short miles from the front range of Colorado. I knew when I moved houses, I’d also change schools, and I’d leave my dojo behind. But I didn’t care! I wanted out of northeast Denver, and I was gonna sacrifice my black belt and athletic school if it meant I got to move into a much nicer house, closer to the mountains, in a neighborhood I could sleep in without being woken up by airplanes and/or gunshots!

I was worried about school though. The only high schools I knew of around Littleton were huge public high schools, and I knew I wouldn’t do very well in high schools like Columbine where there were well over 2,000 students. However, my mom found a tiny Christian school just a few blocks away from our new house, which was a k-12 school. Jack (my little half-brother) would attend the school with me. That school only had 60 students in it, 8 of which made up the entire high school.

I left my downtown school a few days before the last day to help load our boxes into the Uhaul truck and get settled in my new house. I didn’t realize just how big my new bedroom was until I had most of my boxes unpacked and realized just how much space there was. My grandma had an old gaming desk for me, which made my room feel a little less large once we got it set up, and I had the whole summer to get settled before starting 10th grade at my new school.

That summer went by pretty fast. My mom bought a kayak, so I spent a lot of time on the lake at Chatfield state park. I also spent a lot of time in the mountains with my dad, riding (and crashing) my pitbike, exploring tiny mountain towns I never even knew existed, and getting lost on the endless miles of historic 4x4 trails that crisscrossed the mountains on both sides of the Continental Divide.

Up until then, trips to the mountains were rare for me. I grew up on the windswept plains of Colorado, almost 40 miles away from the foothills. I didn’t know the mountains very well. But, as soon as I moved to Littleton, that quickly changed. Thanks to my adventures with my dad, I quickly learned the names and locations of pretty much every little town in Colorado’s central mountains, and also discovered some pretty awesome off-road trails. I never enjoyed camping, especially after my dad and I stayed in a friends’ dilapidated and spider-infested camper, surrounded by coyotes and cougars, but I enjoyed everything else the mountains had to offer.

When summer ended, I started 10th grade at my tiny new school, which was held at an old church building on a plateau, overlooking the surrounding suburbs. I quickly discovered that this school also had its flaws that were hard to deal with, which got increasingly difficult.

For one, my social life there was very limited. A lot of the students had been raised in that school their whole lives, and were very naive for their age. This didn’t bother me very much, just as long as I didn’t have to talk to them. But I didn’t want to be rude, so if someone started talking to me, I would talk to them too. Talking to many of the students was hard, because they had been sheltered from a lot of the world, and only knew suffering in terms of how the bible described it. They really didn’t understand what it was like to suffer more than an inconvenience. Plus, I brought a lot of stories from the city most of the teachers didn’t approve of, so I kept those stories to myself.

I was labeled a rebel by some of the students and teachers, because I had a lot of questions. I was a Christian, but I had a lot of questions most of my teachers couldn’t answer, and I was also very scientifically and logically oriented. I wanted to know if and how the bible could fit with modern science and morality. No teacher could answer it without showing off their creationist views on the world, which is something I couldn’t buy into. Evolution seemed a lot more valid to me than a bible story that had basically no evidence to back it up. I expressed this concern, and it was quickly shot down by the teachers. Evolution, in their eyes, came from flawed humans, and Genesis came from a perfect God.

A lot of the students and teachers were very traditionalist when it came to how boys and girls ought to be like. Some of them completely chucked out books like Judges, Ruth, Romans, and Timothy, just so they could argue that it was a sin for a woman to dress masculine and a man to dress feminine. That made me physically cringe, especially since I came to school everyday in a camo hoodie, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, except on Wednesdays. However, my homeroom teacher wasn't like this. She grew up in the outdoors, and understood that in the eyes of God, men and women were equal in every way. Sure, if you take a man and a woman with the same physical exercise experience, then man will almost always be physically stronger than the woman, but that does not mean only guys ought to take on the rough, physical work. My homeroom teacher was very adamant about protecting and exercising her second amendment rights, and while I never found out for sure, she occasionally hinted that she had a revolver in her desk just in case the unthinkable happened.

And, when one of my friend's distant grandpa passed away, she went with her family to her grandpa's house (where she almost never visited), where they found boxes upon boxes of weapons, from firearms to machetes, stored in several bedrooms in the house. When she came home and announced she had at least 150 extra knives laying around and didn't know what to do with them, my homeroom teacher invited her to bring some in to give to the class. My homeroom teacher negotiated with the other teachers to make that happen.

The next day, my friend brought in about 30 knives, which during math class (the class my homeroom teacher taught that happened just before lunch), were distributed among the high schoolers who wanted them. That's where I got my favorite hunting knife, among about 7 other cool collector knives I've sworn to never use out in the field. I have to say, that's one hell of a perk that only comes with going to a private Christian school. They may be nuts, but sometimes that craziness is for the better. 

Wednesday was church day, and girls had to wear skirts, while guys had to wear dress shirts and khakis. I managed to sort of get around this rule, by wearing just a very simple black skirt over a pair of leggings during the school day, and rushing to the bathroom at the end of the day to pull off the skirt and pull on a pair of jeans I carried in my backpack. I was still allowed to wear my hoodies and T shirts, especially since I was always cold, and my teachers felt bad for me. But, I hated wearing that skirt, and I definitely didn’t try to hide my perpetual scowl over it.

What made things worse was when my teachers announced every student was required to give a sermon at least once that year, and were also required to participate in their annual school play. I threw a fit over this, but not to my teachers. I bottled it up until I got into my mom’s car, and then I broke down. I told my mom through my tears about my severe anxiety, which she knew about, and she told me that she’d get me out of the play no matter what. I still had to do a sermon, since it would only take up 45 minutes of my life, but my mom didn’t want me to go through the torture of memorizing and performing a play in front of a bunch of parents, teachers, and church-goers.

I agreed to do my sermon in the late spring just to put it off for as long as possible, while my teachers scrambled to find all of the students needed to complete the play. It was already a middle/high school play, but since I was exempt from it, they had to go to the elementary classes to find some students to fill my spot. Turns out, pretty much everyone in the elementary school, including and especially my brother, wanted to participate. So, they had the school play writer, who was a middle school student’s mom, re-write the play so my part would be left out and replaced with a choir of elementary students.

Instead, I was given the best job I could ask for. I had to paint the backdrop for the play. The teachers thought this would be punishing for me, but they quickly learned otherwise when I could hardly contain my excitement. They told me that the play was based on the Chariots of Fire, and the backdrop needed to represent a few scenes from that, and then just let me think about some ideas for a few months before I was actually asked to do anything.

Meanwhile, I got more and more frustrated with the students and teachers when it came to dealing with God and science. Another Christian school in Littleton invited my class to a science symposium they were holding, where a creationist scientist and evolutionary biologist would have a debate. Both scientists were Christians, but I already knew who won the debate long before I saw it.

But before the debate, we had a few hours of classes to go through. There were 9, half-hour classes to pick from in total, and we were allowed to pick 6 of them. I got to choose whatever classes I wanted, so I chose the classes dealing with biology, such as evolution, wildlife, cells, and more. In those classes, the teachers also talked about theology, and I found out that evolutionary Christianity was a pretty popular idea. Those classes diminished my frustrations regarding science and God, and the best part was, it made a lot more sense to me than just evolution or just Genesis. Science and God were actually very united, and I realized that it was the church’s fault, not God’s, for making it seem as though science was an attack against God, rather than a study of His natural creation.

This idea was further validated throughout the live debate between the evolutionary biologist and creationist “scientist”. The creationist scientist’s personality was very likable compared to the much older biologist, but he really struggled to counter the old man’s undeniable evidence for evolution. I was having a lot of fun watching the creationist continuously stumble over the biologist’s claims, but when I glanced over at my other classmates from time to time, they seemed very uncomfortable and upset. A few of my peers even seemed angry, including the guy sitting next to me who was glaring and had his fists clenched, while the biologist was talking about how the church had it all wrong, and evolution did fit with God, because Genesis was much more metaphorical rather than literal. I couldn’t really blame my classmate. He did spend a lot of time trying to convince me that evolution was a load of BS, and was very passionate about the creationism. His anger was understandable, but I still struggled to stifle my laughter.

After that, I went home for the weekend and relaxed. I felt a lot better knowing that science and faith weren’t at odds, and I spent some time trying to understand a little bit more about how God and science were interconnected. I knew bible study at school would start off talking about the symposium, and I wanted to be able to defend my stance without being shot down. Of course, when I returned to school on Monday, those hopes immediately diminished when my arguments were quickly dismissed by the teachers and students. At least I tried, but I quickly gave up and just listened to the students and teachers attempt (and fail) to put down the biologist’s views.

Through all of this, I attempted to hide my Cystic Fibrosis from everyone. Everyone knew I had it, since I took pills with my meals and ate a lot of food, but no one ever saw how it actually affected me… Until they did. My PE teacher wasn’t great at coordinating indoor/outdoor activities with the weather. In his eyes, as long as no one was at risk of dying, we were going outside. The problem was, our school was located on a very exposed plateau, and I wasn’t prepared for Littleton’s unpredictable weather. Sure, it wasn’t much different than what I experienced on the plains, but I couldn’t see it coming because of how close we were to the mountains.

On one particularly gusty day, I inhaled a mouthful of dust the minute we went outside, and I found myself in an uncontrollable coughing fit. Nobody else was affected, but I could barely breathe. My gym teacher asked if I was ok. I told him I was, but that the dust in the air was really messing with me. He had me go inside, and I watched from the gym windows, coughing and wheezing, as everyone else carelessly played kickball outside.

This became a pretty regular pattern, especially as seasons changed. I also struggled to play outside in cold weather. While we had gym inside when there was snow on the ground, we still had it outside if it was warmer than 30 degrees and the blacktop was clear of snow. But, I struggled to stay warm in weather that was colder than 40 degrees, and I’d shiver so violently that I ended up staying inside, sitting with my back against the radiator, while everyone else easily dealt with the cold.

I had a lot of time to think about why I was inside while everyone else was outside. I knew why, as far as the facts. But mentally, I felt ostracised and weak. I didn’t see myself as being strong if gusty winds and cold weather could practically strangle me to death, while everyone else was just fine. I especially struggled if the two were mixed together, and I garnered a lot of unwanted pity from my peers when they came inside and I was still curled up by the radiator, coughing and wheezing.

Many of the students asked me why I had such a hard time, but I didn’t want to explain it to them. I didn’t really know how to put it into terms most of them would understand. I didn’t know how to tell them my heart condition, Pulmonary Atresia, was technically cured, but I still had circulation issues. Or how to explain why every speck of dust that got into my airways bothered me so much.

I thought about bringing a bandanna to school I could wear if it was windy, or wearing an extra down feather coat if it was cold, but it just felt wrong to me to do that at school. I knew it would be much more uncomfortable for me to basically advertise my CF to everyone else, rather than just sit inside by the warm radiator or walk around the perimeter of the gym, where I could have 45 minutes of alone time to recharge for the last 45 minutes of school. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t eventually enjoy having 45 minutes to myself when the weather sucked.

Other than that, I avoided being sick for long periods of time. Since my school was so small and so widespread throughout the building, I didn’t need to worry so much about getting sick. That was actually tremendously helpful. It took away much of my daily anxiety which allowed me to actually keep up with everyone else. The only time I truly felt anxious was in chemistry, because I didn't learn the way my teacher taught it, so I really struggled to understand the concepts and felt a lot of pressure from my peers, who seemed to be understanding it just fine. I was still cautious about keeping myself away from people who seemed sick and making sure to wash my hands before lunch, but getting sick didn’t worry me. I was only sick for one week out of the year, which got me out of the mandatory science fair. It turns out my homeroom teacher was also out that whole week. She lived in Georgetown, which is a little Colorado mountain town. She got snowed in, and high winds also blew over large trees and semi-trucks, so she couldn’t leave her house until the damage and snow were cleared, which took all week. Since she was gone, I didn’t miss much at all.

While my health didn’t worry me, my social life did. I only made a couple of friends at the school, who were two girls in the grade above me that weren’t sheltered from the world like everyone else. We got along very well, and I’m glad to say we still talk sometimes. My friends were also worried about my social life, since I didn’t do much outside of the house. They didn’t tell me then, but later on they admitted they conspired with my mom to force me on a girls’ day out to the mall, complete with shopping and pedicures. However, I never liked either of those things. I don’t like pedicures, and the only shopping I look forward to is a day at Cabela’s, which is where I get all of my hunting gear and bison jerky.

My friends could also tell I had a lot of issues with the students around me, that I couldn’t voice since the school was so small. They watched me as I struggled to talk to most of the students, since they were far too sheltered and uneducated about the world for me to easily deal with. Even when I put complex issues, such as my CF, in overly-simplified explanations, many of the students didn’t get it. Plus, there were a lot of forbidden subjects my teachers warned me not to talk about, from the dark side of the city life, to the adventures I participated in outside of school, to my health issues in general. Those weren’t “Christian friendly” topics apparently.

One teacher in particular liked to harass me about being “rebellious” and “vulgar”. Truth is, I didn’t do anything that would typically put me in either of those categories. But, because we were at a private Christian school in a very conservative part of town, I very easily fell in those categories in that teacher’s eyes. He was otherwise a very friendly teacher, but he always had something to say about me.

I did my best to stay under the radar. I didn’t disrupt the class or argue with the teachers, but my very existence was rebellious because I was different. By then, I had come to terms with it, but I was lonely. There weren’t a lot of people to talk to who understood my experiences, and if I got caught talking to my friends over lunch about my more graphic experiences growing up, I was immediately told to shut up. Of course, I wanted to try and follow the rules the best I could, so I did. But, I felt even more alone.

What made things harder, was that most of my questions regarding Christianity were silenced by the teachers. Many of them blew them off as thoughts from the devil, which drove me nuts. I asked those tough questions out of genuine curiosity, not because I wanted to somehow disprove Christianity or was being influenced by Satan. Unfortunately, I had to wait for when I saw my grandpa Lyle to ask those questions.

Thankfully, my grandpa has always encouraged questions and discussions, especially regarding God and Christianity. So, when I went to his house for a few weekends after long and frustrating weeks at school, it was nice to sit down for a few hours and straighten out some of my questions. Some questions were left unanswered, either because my grandpa didn’t talk about it in terms I understood, or we went off-topic and both forgot the question completely. However, those hard questions always came back, and sometimes it took a few weeks, but my grandpa usually had an answer for me eventually. My grandpa saved me from completely losing my faith, and to this day, he still tells me not to judge Christianity (or any religion) by the people who practice it, because people are fallible but God is not. That was the only “God is perfect, people are not” argument I could ever get behind that I had heard of, because it was otherwise used against me to shoot down my questions.

I didn’t really tell anyone at school about my discussions I had with my grandpa, because I knew it would attract the censor police to me like moths to a flame. Plus, I really didn’t know how to dumb his answers down so some of the other students could understand it, or even how to clean up those discussions so they were “school appropriate”.

Whenever my grandpa and I discuss things like suffering, strife, human relationships, and other things like that, we don’t shy away from topics such as Hitler’s atrocities or the graphic details of war, abuse, and disease. My grandpa thinks it’s very important to understand things like that, so we could interpret the bible more accurately, and hopefully understand what God is really trying to teach us. My grandpa is always reading books about history, spirituality, and other heavy non-fiction topics, and he’s really the only guy in my life who can get me to read a book just to read it. More often than not though, I have to read the book before we can continue our discussions on certain topics, so there’s my motivation.

While these discussions are always interesting and productive, they are hardly ever cleaner than R-rated. This was especially true during 10th grade, when I was really struggling with the “good God, evil world” paradox. My grandpa had long since solved Epicurus’ God Paradox, but he struggled to get me to understand it. He never told me this, since he knew I would just get upset, but I needed to learn and grow more before I could understand what my grandpa was trying to teach me, and just reading a couple of books wasn’t gonna cut it. I needed life experience. We eventually got there, but it wasn’t until late last year that the solution to the problem of evil finally clicked in my mind.

Because of how complex and graphic my discussions with my grandpa often were, I kept them to myself at school. As much as I wanted to share my grandpa’s answers to difficult theological questions, I knew I’d be met with blank stares and an angry teacher. So, I just sat down and shut up, and turned to writing essays based on our conversations instead. At least then, I could get the gist and my understanding of the discussion out of my mind, and saved on an internet document.

When we came back from Christmas break, the school started to prepare for the Chariots of Fire school play, which was set to happen the night before Spring Break. I pretty much forgot about it until they brought it up shortly after Christmas break. My teacher asked if I had any idea what I wanted to paint the backdrop for the play, and I admitted I didn’t, but I’d quickly find some ideas. At school, we did watch the movie Chariots of Fire, and I planned on painting the university town Chariots of Fire was set in, because I knew I had at least 70 full hours to paint on four huge cardboard panels that were 6 feet tall and 4 feet wide. I had way more than enough time to paint a detailed picture of Cambridge University in the middle of the British countryside in the background, with a running track in the foreground, especially since the main character’s life was centered around those places in the movie.

But that idea was almost immediately shot down by the teacher I talked to. She thought it was way too ambitious, and argued 70 hours were barely enough to paint one panel like that. I tried to convince her that I was an artist and could do it in half that time, not that I needed to explain that though. She had a habit of slamming my notebooks on my knuckles if she caught me sketching mindlessly in class. She was having none of it. She told me she’d think about it (which I knew she didn’t actually mean), and then come back to me the next day to tell me what to do.

The next day came, which was the first day of painting, and she wanted me to paint trees. Not a landscape with trees on it, but just some branches across the panels. I was close to snapping at her for that. I refrained from turning our conversation into a shouting match, but as soon as she left me alone in the art room with my painting supplies, I shut the door and growled obscenities under my breath.

“Trees?” I growled to myself as I paced around the room with my fists clenched, “I have 70 goddamn hours to paint a few damn branches! She doesn’t even want them to have leaves on them! She just wants a few flower pedals here and there! There’s basically no room for me to be creative! What the actual hell?!”

I almost punched the wall, but it was brick, and I didn’t want to break my hand and have to explain to everyone why did such a dumb thing. Instead, I just sat down in an old wooden chair and rubbed my sweaty forehead with my cold hands, taking deep breaths and trying to think only positive thoughts.

In hindsight, I think my anger was a little over the top, but I understand why I was that mad. That teacher always ripped on me for drawing in class, which is something I still often do to keep my mind from wandering when I’m trying to concentrate, which made her class that much harder for me. I hated it when she slammed my notebook on my hands and barked, “Pay attention!” with a smug smile. I never actually reacted when she did that. I just stared at her blankly until she was back at the front of the class, reading from the bible. That’s where my anger was really coming from, and I still get angry whenever I think about her wide, toothy grin.

I decided to lay down the base color on the panels, which for some equally stupid reason was beige and not blue. I figured I had a chance to change my teacher’s mind if the base color was sky blue, but since it was a dusty red beige, I was stuck with branches. I eventually got over the anger and frustration of having to abandon my landscape and replace it with a few ragged branches. Well, kind of.

I was still pissed off and I hated those stupid trees from the very beginning, but I controlled my emotions and decided my school didn’t deserve my artistic skills anyway. If they wanted some stupid barren trees, they were gonna get some stupid barren trees! I could save my artistic skills for some place a lot more appreciative. I thought about half-assing the project, but then I realized I had 70 hours to kill, so I figured it was better that I used all 70 of those hours, and produced something that wasn’t an embarrassment. I knew my family was gonna be at the play to watch my brother perform, and they knew what I was capable of creating, so I decided to paint those stupid branches as detailed and beautifully as possible to make my family proud. My school still didn’t deserve them, but my family did.

I did enjoy painting those panels. Sometimes I painted them in the loft above the stage as my peers rehearsed their lines and discussed costumes, music, and other things like that, so I could make sure the panels were perfectly aligned. I had several huge tarps laid out under the panels, and I was actually surprised my teachers didn’t come to try and micromanage me. I was worried they would be paranoid about me getting paint on the carpets in the loft, but I think my teachers saw just how careful I was when I was working in the art room, especially since I didn’t paint with an apron or old clothes on. I wore my same jeans and hoodies every single day, and never got any paint on them.

One teacher, my French teacher, often visited me while I was painting. She was my favorite teacher there, especially since she had serious issues with how conservative the school was. She often ranted about it in French class, especially during the warmer months, when it got exceptionally warm in there. My French teacher had tattoos on her forearms, which was strongly against the school code. But, she didn't care. If it was warm in her classroom, she rolled up her sleeves to expose her tattoos to the class regardless of what the head teachers thought. She was only a part-time teacher, and home schooled her own kids. She only taught French at the Christian school, and after that class, she'd go home to take her daughter to piano lessons, and her son to whatever sports function he had. Thanks to her, I was actually able to speak pretty good French, and I could read a lot of it too. Only one kid, a witty 8th grader who was prone to getting big-headed, was better at French than me, but I always found a way to get that big-headedness out of him, mostly by joking back and forth with him until someone got stumped. Of course, as soon as I left the school, I forgot most of what I learned in French. I went to North Dakota where my family sometimes spoke in broken German, which is much different than broken French, but all of that’s besides the point.

My French teacher admired my rebellious spirit, and didn’t bother to censor me in her class (she encouraged it actually). She was especially impressed by how much time I was taking on those stupid tree branches. She loved the different shades of red, brown, and grey I used on them, and was impressed by just how artistically skilled I was. I thanked her, and I actually enjoyed her company sometimes, especially since the art room was secluded and lonely. Those stupid branches actually started growing on me by week two, partly because my French teacher couldn’t hide her admiration.

For the most part, I was extremely grateful to be alone with a paintbrush in my hand, rather than being forced to memorize my lines and dress up in a stupid costume that some kid’s mom custom made for everyone, except me of course. As much as I hated painting tree branches rather than a detailed landscape, I would’ve been much more resentful for the rest of my life if I was forced to participate in that play.

It only took me 40 hours to finish my project, painting an hour each school day. The branches were extremely detailed, right down to the individual scratch marks on the flakes of bark. I made sure to show that off to the teacher who said it couldn’t be done. She was blown away, but said I still had another 30 days to kill. Either I could kill those 30 hours doing chores around the church, or I could kill those 30 hours adding a few more flowers and details to the branches.

I picked up my paintbrush and paints, and continued working. I sketched things I wanted to draw in my sketchbooks while I waited for the paint to dry. My teachers assumed I was sketching rose bushes to use as references for the panels, when in reality, I was sketching scenes of wildlife and livestock for my personal paintings at home. They just never bothered to check, since I was easily startled when I was zoned into my project, and didn't want to accidentally ruin things for me.

In the end, one of my friends from class, the other artist who also got her notebook slammed on her hands regularly, got to help me out with final finishing touches the final week I was working on the panels. She only got to help me in the loft for a couple of hours though, before she was dragged back down into what she called the Pit of Hell, which was the stage a story below. I really appreciated her help, since she could look at my painting without knowing every single detail, and add in her own streaks of paint where it was needed. But, of course, she had to go back onto the stage to rehearse, kicking and screaming, while I helplessly watched from the loft above. I actually felt really bad for her, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

When the evening of the play finally came, I was made to go by my teachers. Just because I wasn’t in the play didn’t mean I got to ditch it. My little brother would also be in it, and he had his own role. Because I was his big sister, I was obligated to go. My teachers also reasoned that the family and friends of the students had to meet the artist who spent over 70 hours painting highly detailed tree branches across the panels. I wasn’t up for that, so I made a plan to sprint outside to my mom’s car as soon as the play was over. My mom had an issue with that though, and said I needed to stay inside afterwards and at least talk to someone, rather than just hide in her car. I took in a few deep breaths, and mentally prepared myself for what I was about to go through.

My grandparents met me at the school, and I stayed close to my grandpa Lyle because I hoped he could keep everyone from talking to me. He can talk to literally anyone, and I knew his charm and ability would keep people from talking to me. At least I hoped. The only problem was, I was (and still am) several inches taller than him, so I can’t hide behind my grandpa very easily.

At first, everything was too chaotic to really have any decent conversations with anyone. Everyone who was in the play was busy getting into their costumes, which were about as ugly as they were uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable just looking at my friend in her 1920s-era frilly, homemade dress, and she kept asking me if every little pin and bow was in place so it didn’t look even worse than it already did. I did my best to reassure her the dress was just fine for what it was, and she’d only be on stage for 10 minutes max, but I couldn’t hide my sympathy. She said something along the lines of, “I can’t wait to burn this dress!”, as she and the other play participants walked backstage just before the play.

My brother, on the other hand, thought he looked awesome in his suit and hat. Of course, he was in 2nd grade, so he wasn’t ashamed at all yet. But, I reassured him that one day, when he was my age, I’d show him the recordings on my family’s phones of his performance, and he’d be just as mortified about being in the play, as my friend was about being in her dress. He just shook his head, crossed his arms, gave me a rebellious smirk, and then darted backstage.

I joined my family in the second-to-first pew in front of the stage. My grandpa leaned over and whispered to me about just how amazing my panels were, and I should be very proud. Other people around us heard him, and agreed. In fact, a couple moms couldn’t even believe I was the one who painted those panels. I told them I was forced to paint those panels for over 70 total hours, so obviously I had plenty of time to pay attention to detail. They snickered at the word “forced”, but I stood by it, because it was true.

The lights dimmed, and the play began. A middle school student played the main character, and he was actually very good. Of course, he also loved being at the center of attention, and wanted to be an actor when he grew up, so he was just perfect for the role as the main character.

Everyone in the play did a great job actually, and I must admit, I teased my friend by holding my phone up and pretending to press “record” when she came up, but I didn’t actually film anything. She had a look of panic at first, but very quickly realized I was just kidding. I didn’t want a school play to take up any storage space on my phone. After her role though, I lost interest and let my mind wander. The rest of the play went by in a blur, and as soon as the curtain was drawn, everyone stood up for a standing ovation. I didn’t think the play was very entertaining, but I clapped just because my peers were much braver than I was.

The teachers directed everyone to the church cafeteria for cupcakes and drinks. As soon as my peers were out of their costumes and in the cafeteria with everyone else, a few couldn’t help but point out I had to give a sermon the first Wednesday after we got back from Spring Break. I nearly spat out my water, and instead inhaled it. My peers giggled at my suffering as I coughed and choked in a panic. All I could think to say during my coughing episode was, “Thanks for reminding me. Spring Break is ruined!”, which was stuttered between coughs and breaths. My peers put the words together though, and laughed even harder. My coughing turned into nervous chuckling, as I tried to go along with them and pretend I was just kidding about my ruined Spring Break. But we all knew it was true.

Even my teachers reminded me, including the teacher who labeled me rebellious. He came up behind me just as I was walking out to the parking lot with my grandpa, threw his arm across my shoulders, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I hope you come back with a sermon prepared that will convince Christ to literally come back down to earth the second you end it!”

All I could respond with was, “Uh… Yes! yes I will!” as I forced a smile and died inside.

I didn’t bother to tell my grandpa I was supposed to give a sermon. When he found out, he smiled and practically shouted, “Oh, you have to give a sermon! I’ll be here for that!”

My grandpa liked to join me at Wednesday church sometimes, and I didn’t want him to come the day I was supposed to give a sermon because I worried I’d fail spectacularly. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of someone in my life I loved and admired, and who was right at home preaching to room fulls of people.

As soon as I got home that night, I sat at the kitchen bar, taking small bites of my steak, and thinking about all of the ways I could embarrass myself on the stage in front of all of my peers. It was bad enough I had to wear a skirt every Wednesday and sit in the hardwood pews for an hour, but everything got exponentially worse when I knew I had to stand at the pulpit and give a sermon to 30-something people, including to the teachers who loved to put every student’s full sermon on the school’s Facebook page. My mom saw just how anxious I was, and told me no matter what, I would survive to tell the tale. I nodded, but didn’t take her words to heart. I just sat there, deep in thought, thinking about all of the ways I could screw up.

I didn't dwell on it for long though, because suddenly, the front door burst open, and Jack's dad and older half-siblings flooded in, dragging their luggage behind them. My little brother was quite literally bouncing off the walls since he was so excited to see his dad and Canadian siblings! We didn't expect Hannah, Ryder, and Clarke to come by. We knew they were flying in, but assumed they would just stay at Clarke's house in Elizabeth, Colorado, and meet us for a hockey game in a couple days. 

I've always considered Ryder and Hannah my siblings, just like I've always considered Jack my full brother, even he and I have different dads. So, I got up and greeted them, and then helped bring in their luggage. Within 5 minutes of everyone arriving, Clarke announced our plans for the next week and a half of Spring Break. We'd go to a hockey game Thursday nights, where the Edmonton Oilers would play against the Colorado Avalanches. Because Clarke bought the tickets and was born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, we were obligated to flip off the Avalanches and cheer on the Oilers. Clarke included me in this, and bought me an $80 Oilers jersey to rope me in. He also gave each of us kids $60 to spend on whatever we wanted at the game, which included food, souvenirs, etc. 

After the game, we'd go to Clarke's house for the weekend, where we'd play with the horses and dogs, and beat each other in Mario Kart. Then, for a few days the next week, we'd rent a cabin in Breckenridge, Colorado, where we'd go skiing, snowboarding, and snow tubing. Finally, after all of that was done, we'd return home where we'd hang out and relax until Hannah and Ryder had to fly home, and Clarke had to return to his oil rig near Greeley, Colorado. 

I was already exhausted by the time Clarke finished his speech, but I decided that was much better than staying home and doing absolutely nothing for the whole Spring Break. I still went to bed earlier than everyone else that night, hoping to catch up on some sleep so I'd be ready in a couple days for the hockey game. 

The family couldn't be more excited to drag me into their shenanigans, starting with the hockey game. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the game itself. I was looking forward to eating a bag of fried doughnuts and watching fights break out on the ice. I honestly had no idea what the rules in hockey were. I was only there for the fights and the food, and also because my family forced me into it. 

Clarke asked me if I had any Canadian things, such as flags, hats, or other clothes. I nodded. I had a small Canadian flag I bought in Niagara Falls several years before, as well as some Canadian mittens Clarke got me for Christmas one year. I didn't have a Canadian hat though, and I didn't want to wear one of Clarke's many Oilers beanies, so I settled for one of my hats that matched my outfit colors the best. It was a little big, but I liked it. The rest of the family was also decked out in Canadian gear, including matching Oilers jerseys. We all packed in Clarke's truck, except for my mom, because she had work. But she said she'd meet us at the game once she got off. Clarke wanted to get to the Pepsi center early, so we wouldn't be rushed. 

While my mom and Clarke hadn't been in a romantic relationship in years, they were still friendly towards each other. In fact, they're still good friends, which makes it much easier for Clarke to have a good relationship with Jack and me. While Clarke isn't really my stepdad, I still consider him my stepdad, since I've known him for so long, and he's my brother's dad. It's a unique family situation, and might be confusing to those on the outside looking in, but I consider Clarke and his kids family just like they consider me part of the family.

When we arrived at the Pepsi center, the parking lot was already very full. We had to park a half-mile away. I very quickly realized we were one of the few, if not, only people in Oilers jerseys. Everyone else we saw was in Avalanche jerseys. We got teased and insulted by Avalanche fans, as we walked to the Pepsi center, but it was all just for good fun. 

As I hoped, I got my fried powdered doughnuts as well as a huge bottle of Mountain Dew, before sitting down in the stands with everyone else. Clarke leaned over and explained some basic hockey rules to me so I wouldn't be completely lost. I still reminded him I was just there for the fights and the food, and he told me it was a very tense and important game, so chances are, I'd get to see some fights. 

The game started with the USA and Canadian national anthems, and as soon as the band left the ice, the hockey players quickly skated into position. The ref blew his whistle, and the game was on. At first, the Avalanches were winning. In fact, the Oilers were getting destroyed. I didn't really care what was going on, but the rest of my family did. 

My mom arrived sometime in the middle of the game, and I moved over so she could sit closer to my brother. Halftime was pretty uneventful, but at least it was quiet. My ears were ringing because of how excited the crowd around me was. Clarke reasoned that the Oilers still had a chance. They just needed to regroup during halftime, and then they'd be ready to beat the Avalanches. The Oilers were a really good team, and they were Canadian. Canadians are born with skates on their feet! It would be embarrassing and dishonorable to Canada if the Oilers lost to the Americans. 

Still, I didn't care. I was just tired. In fact, I was so tired that I didn't notice my entire family was put on the big screen during halftime for the entire stadium (and everyone watching the game at home) to see. Clarke quickly pointed it out, but I just shrugged and went back to staring blankly into space. 

The next half of the game was much more interesting. The Oilers came back on the ice with a vengeance, and while my family cheered because we were catching up to the Avalanches on the score board, I was cheering because I got to see some fights. Tae Kwon Do definitely made me a bit bloodthirsty. The fights on the ice weren't encouraged by the refs, but they weren't discouraged either. It's perfectly legal for professional hockey players to throw their gloves off and start swinging, just as long as it's on the ice.  

My mom wasn't particularly fond of my urge to encourage fights, but Clarke reassured her that it was normal, and Ryder was doing the same thing. During the last quarter of the game, my mom decided it was getting too late for her, and left. I would've gone home with her, but Clarke insisted that I stayed. He was gonna make me excited that the Oilers were winning more than just fights, so I sat down in my mom's spot. I was very cold and tired, but I figured I could stay an extra 20 minutes and be just fine. Hypothermia hadn't set in yet, and people around me were in T shirts and shorts, even though we were just several rows away from the ice. I scooted up close to Clarke with my coat draped across my lap and legs like a blanket and my mittens on my hands. I didn't complain about being cold though, since I chose to stay. 

The Oilers ended up winning the game 7-4, which was amazing since they were losing 1-4 during the first half of the game. We were safe from insults on the way back to the truck, but before we could go home, we just had to check out the gift shop. I still had about $40 left, but there wasn't anything I really wanted. Ryder pressured me to buy an Oilers hockey puck just because, so I did. Ryder also bought a couple of Oilers street hockey balls, and he couldn't resist throwing them at me once we were outside. 

It was cold, very windy, and snowing outside. I was already cold, but I was much colder and shivering by the time we got back to the truck. Everyone teased me for it, but I still got shotgun with the heated seats. I joked that I didn't have Canadian blood, and that's why I couldn't tolerate the cold like they could. Truth was, I just wasn't dressed for the weather. My hockey jersey and T shirt underneath it were anything but wind and waterproof.

The next morning, we set off from my house to Clarke's house in Elizabeth, Colorado. He rented and lived in the basement of his roommate's ranch house out in the country. His roommates had two horses, three dogs, and a cat at the time. Clarke's roommates were out of town for the weekend, and had taken the horses and dogs with them. I didn't load my dirtbike up to take to Clarke's, so the only real thing worth doing was playing Mario Kart. 

I hadn't played Mario Kart in several years up until that point, but I learned the ropes very quickly. Within just a few games, I had Mario Kart mastered, and kept beating my siblings. I played a lot of Mario Kart when I was younger, so I didn't have to take very much time to remember how to play it. Unfortunately, Ryder caught onto my strategies and started using them against me, which made it much harder for me to get 1st place every time.

In Mario Kart, there are boxes along the race course. In the original Mario games, those boxes had coins and power-ups in them. In Mario Kart, while there are still sometimes coins and power-ups in the boxes, there are also obstacle items to use against other players, such as banana peels and turtle shells, which would stop the other racers for a few seconds before they could get back into the race. I'd leave the banana peels behind in places they couldn't be seen until it was too late, such as just below ramps and around sharp corners, and I held onto the shells until I was just behind another player. Then, I'd throw that shell at them, and get ahead. Unfortunately, there is one shell in the game, the blue shell, that is programmed to only target the player in 1st place. 

Ryder would hang out behind me, even if he could get ahead of me, until he scored a blue shell from one of the boxes, just to piss me off. I'll admit, I did the same thing if I could, especially when we programmed the game so we'd only get shells from the boxes. But very quickly, I got sick of getting blue shelled and passed by Ryder just a few yards away from the finish line, and eventually I rage quit. I may have good strategies, but now that everyone knows them, I'm not the best Mario Kart player in the family anymore. However, I think I could beat Ryder at a real go kart race. 

I had a day to rest at home before we set off for the mountains. My mom and grandparents would join me and everyone else at the cabin. My grandparents wouldn't be skiing, and neither would my mom, but they wanted to see everyone and spend some quality family time with us at the cabin. I protested this a little bit, since I was told before that I'd get my own room, but now that three more people were staying with us, I wouldn't get my own space. I eventually just gave into it, and figured it would be good for me.

The cabin was just big enough to accommodate everyone, even though we had to share rooms. Ryder, Hannah, Jack, and Clarke all stayed in a room together with four bunk beds, my mom slept in the pullout loft bed, and I slept on a couch in my grandparents' room while they stayed in the king bed. It worked out, but I didn't get much alone time during the two days we were there, so I was pretty irritated and tired on the last day. 

I still had lots of fun though. The first night we were there, we stayed up very late playing cards. I won a few games, especially a game called Speed. We made Speed very fun. Usually, it's played with just two people, but since we had eight of us in total, we played with four decks of cards in one game. 

Speed is a pretty simple yet complicated game. Each player gets 6 stacks of cards, each stack containing 4 cards, facing down. In the center between the two players, there are 4 cards facing up. The goal of the game is to match each stack with all four cards of its value, which then you can get rid of. For instance, in order to get rid of a stack, you have to have all four queens, or all four aces, or all four 9's, etc, that are in a deck of 52 cards. The way you do that is by trading one card for another. Every card you trade must go through the neutral cards in the middle, even if you need to move a card from one of your stacks to another one of your stacks. Also, you can't hold more than one of your stacks at a time, and the stacks you aren't holding must be faced down. Jokers are not played in the game. You don't wait for your opponents to do anything. It's every man for himself in Speed, and only the players with the best and quickest strategies win. 

The game usually starts off pretty slow, but it gets very intense very fast, and with eight people playing with four decks of cards, it got even crazier. Everyone in my family is super competitive, including myself. While Speed is civilized between just me and my grandpa, it quickly devolved into a card game of sabotage with eight of us playing at once. I was glad that I had a spot at the end of the table between my grandparents, because otherwise I wouldn't have survived in the game as long as I did. 

I got some quiet time to myself after everyone got tried of Speed and we cleaned up (cards were pretty much everywhere but on the table). Everyone but me got in their swimsuits and hung out in the hot tub outside. I couldn't swim in the hot tub, since the warm, stale water was a perfect breeding ground for bacteria that could easily hurt me. However, I enjoyed having some time to myself in the cabin before everyone came charging back inside, steaming and soaking wet. 

The next morning, I was woken up early to go skiing. Clarke, Hannah, Ryder, and Jack all had snowboards, but I picked up some rental skis instead since that's what I was most familiar with. I hadn't skied in six years by then, so I honestly had no idea what I was doing. Clarke said he'd teach me, but he didn't teach me the way I thought he would. 

While Hannah and Ryder went to go snowboarding on a black diamond, Clarke took me and Jack on a moderate ski course. Unlike my dad, Clarke just gave me some ski poles and stuck me on the lift next to him, rather than making sure I knew I was doing on the bunny hill without poles before taking me up the mountain. All Clarke said to me on the ski lift was, "Remember! Use the pizza position to stop, and straighten your skis out to go, and never cross your skis. If you cross your skis, you'll skid down the mountain on your face! Also, to turn, lean left or right, but don't lean too hard or else you'll run into a tree! And make sure you put your skis in the pizza position while you're still on the mountain, or else you'll launch yourself into the parking lot! You understand?"

I just stared at him, slack-jawed. 

"Good!" Clarke nodded, "Don't worry. I'll be close by. It's not like I'm throwing you to the wolves yet!" 

We got off the ski lift, and I immediately forgot all of Clarke's instructions. I stopped just at the crest of the mountain and gazed down below. It was really busy and steep. The snow wasn't soft and fluffy. It was hard and icy, and it looked like it would really suck to crash on it. I started to question my decision to go skiing. I should've just stayed at the cabin with my mom and grandparents, rather than risking some broken bones. My grandpa broke his leg on a busy day on the slopes like that after all. But before I could think or say anything else, Clarke gave me a strong shove and I was off to the races. 

I picked up some pretty good speed, but then someone crashed ahead of me, and I immediately tried to slow down. I narrowly avoided the crashed skier, and Clarke snowboarded with my brother past me. I kept my skis in the pizza position, while Clarke slowly taught Jack how to lean from side to side on his snowboard. I was going slow, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop. I was too light to really dig my skis into the hardened snow so I could stop completely, and that scared me. Clarke occasionally looked back and tried to get me to go faster, but I didn't want to. The mountain was very busy, and I didn't know what to do or where to go. I knew there was a very real possibility that I would run into someone else. My legs were on fire, my mind was blank, everything else was freezing from the cold, and I was convinced I would go too fast if I straightened out my skis, and wouldn't be able to stop. I'd either crash into someone else, or I'd launch myself into the parking lot and get hit by a car. 

It took me much longer than it should've to get down the mountain. I was in a lot of pain by the time I got down. I couldn't feel my fingers or my face, even though I was dressed in tons of layers and wore the warmest ski helmet and goggles I could find. And my legs were so exhausted that I ended up falling over on my face when Clarke tried to help me get out of my skis. I couldn't even stand back up, and Clarke had to carry me to the nearest bench. I clearly wasn't meant for skiing. 

Jack still wanted to go for another snowboarding run, but I was done for. I just picked up my skis and poles, and limped to the nearest restaurant, while Clarke and Jack got on the ski lift again. I left my skis and poles on the ski rack inside the restaurant, bought myself some hot chocolate, and sat by the window. Clarke and Jack agreed to meet me there once they were down the mountain again, and we'd regroup. 

Clarke and Jack were back in almost no time. My hot chocolate was actually still too hot to drink when they came back. However, as soon as they found me at my table, Clarke got a phone call, and his smile immediately dropped. Hannah had been involved in a serious accident, and we needed to meet her at the ER right away! So, we gathered our stuff, and ran as fast as we could with our ski boots on, down to the ER that was just a block or so away. 

I stayed in the waiting room with my little brother while a nurse led Clarke to one of the back rooms. I texted my mom and grandparents about what was going on, and they said they'd meet us at the ER. 10 minutes later, they arrived, and another half-hour later, Clarke and Ryder emerged from the back room with Hannah between them.

She was ok, but could hardly walk. She launched herself into a tree with her snowboard going almost 40 miles per hour. Her snowboard was bent, but it saved her from breaking her leg. She sort of bounced off her board, grazed her body against the tree, and skidded to a stop at the edge of the woods. There, she screamed for help, and within 5 minutes, EMTs arrived on their snowmobiles. They loaded Hannah onto a sled, strapped her down, and brought her to the ER while Ryder snowboarded after them and called Clarke. She was bruised and shaken, but I knew she was just fine when I teased her, and she playfully punched me in my ribs when I refused to shut up. 

That was the end of our skiing/snowboarding adventure, and Hannah stayed on the couch surrounded by ice packs while everyone else went to dinner. She didn't mind being alone for awhile, just as long as we bought her something from the restaurant. Of course, I used her crash to justify why I refused to go any faster than 5 miles per hour down the mountain, and decided I'd never go skiing ever again. 

The next day, while Hannah went home with my mom, the rest of us went to a snow tubing center in Telluride. That was a lot more fun for me. We had an hour to do as many runs on our snow tubes as possible, before we'd get some lunch, and head home. I had a lot of fun flying down the hills on my snow tube, especially on the hills that had a few jumps, but it was a short day. Before I even knew it, we were on the way home. No one was hungry yet, but we picked up some lunch as soon as we got back to Littleton. By then, I was exhausted, and just wanted to relax. 

Hannah and Ryder left a couple days after we got back from Breckenridge, and Clarke had to go back to work. I recovered from all of the excitement I had with my Canadian siblings. The rest of Spring Break was very relaxing. In fact, I was so relaxed, that I totally forgot about my sermon until I was just going to bed Tuesday night, where it hit me. Instead of getting up and spending all night preparing and worrying about it, I just hoped God would intervene when I needed Him most and guided my sermon. I had no idea what I was gonna do, but I figured I'd do just fine if I just winged it. 

The next morning came faster than it should've, and I realized I was not ready to give my sermon in just a few short hours. However, while I did my treatments, I flipped through my bible and I suddenly had a brilliant idea. I flipped through my bible until I found Romans. I skimmed through it, and highlighted the passages and verses I thought would be the most relevant. I figured I'd talk about how we, as Christians, are not bound by the laws of sin and death, and we cannot win God's love or approval. 

At school, I was surrounded by self-righteous Christians who liked to give me crap about how I was doing this, that, and the other wrong. Also, I hated wearing skirts and being looked down upon for being a tomboy. Sure, I was, and still am, a sinner. But, so is everyone else, including and especially the self-righteous Christians. After all, doesn't the Bible say our good works are like filthy rags, and we are saved by the grace of God, not by our good works? Not only that, but isn't there a verse, Matthew 7:3-5 to be exact, that calls out people for judging others? For the record, I still know we are called to repent, and I hate prosperity gospels just as much as anyone else, but radical self-righteousness is just as bad, if not worse than prosperity gospels. I've noticed that people who follow prosperity gospels are just ignorant, but most of those who are self-righteous think they know everything and are much harder to convince. 

I had an ornery, ear-to-ear grin as I continued to think my sermon through. I was still absolutely terrified of standing up in front of pews of people, but at the same time, I was excited to stamp out some of the flames of self-righteousness in that school. I wanted to prove to them that I was just as Christian as they were, I just didn't show it off for the world to see. Maybe then, I'd get some genuine respect from some people, rather than being treated like the rebellious student I really wasn't. Sure, everyone was nice to me most of the time, but they changed their attitudes as soon as I started challenging their views. There's a difference between genuine respect and the false respect I was given by many of the people at the school. They merely tolerated me, and I was tired of being simply tolerated. 

I finished my treatments, inhaled whatever quick and easy food I could find for breakfast, and got in the car to go to school. I still had an ornery smirk on my face, and when my mom asked me what was so funny, I just told her I was thinking of a stupid joke. My mom never shared my sense of humor, so she didn't ask for the details of my "joke". 

I still had two class periods before I had to give my sermon. When one of my friends asked what I was gonna do, I simply told her, "You'll see.", and shot her a smile. She looked confused for a minute, but then smiled back and nodded her head. My friends heard my rants about the school's self-righteousness before, and already inferred long before I did, that my sermon would have something to do about that. I wasn't gonna call out anyone specifically, or even use the words "self-righteous" in my sermon, but I was gonna talk about Romans 6 and 7, which are the chapters that talk about God's law and how Christians are not bound to it. I was, however, gonna use the school's Wednesday dress code as something we aren't obligated to follow because God doesn't care what we look like. He only cares about our hearts. 

When the time finally came, I nervously stepped up to the pulpit. I glanced around the room. I didn't see my grandpa (he had some unexpected things to do, so he couldn't attend), and it really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Already, a couple teachers had their phones out and were filming. I hoped I could tell them later that I did not want to be up on Facebook, but I'd deal with it later. I had a sermon to give, and people patiently sat and waited for me to start talking. I took in a deep breath, and began by asking everyone to turn to Romans 6. 

They followed along as I read aloud Romans 6, and stopped every now and then to give some commentary. I kept my eyes down at my bible for the most part, only occasionally glancing up to make sure everyone was still with me. I talked about how we should strive to be perfect, but we'd never be perfect. I talked about how we shouldn't purposefully sin, but at the same time, we were not bound to God's law of the Old Testament, and could never be perfect. We were living in the New Testament times, after Christ died to revoke God's law. Therefore, we didn't need to follow God's old laws. We could eat pork and shellfish. We were not required to sacrifice animals or hold the Sabbath day. We could wear different clothing materials at a time, and it wasn't sinful for men to wear women's clothes or women to wear men's clothes. And, as I promised myself I'd do, I made sure that included wearing dress clothes to church. I got a few scowls from the congregation for that, but I just continued before anyone could say anything. 

I was getting increasingly nervous, and I was beginning to stutter more and more. I continued to talk about how we couldn't win our way to heaven by doing good deeds. We were still sinners, and thus our good works did not outweigh our bad works. In fact, our sin heavily outweighed our good works, and the only way we could get rid of our sin, was to follow and accept Christ into our hearts. Accepting Christ into our hearts requires no work, whatsoever. We only acted as though it did require work for the same reason we serve those who serve us; out of politeness and love, but not out of obligation. 

I explained that Christ's grace was offensive to us, because as humans, we expect good things to come from work, and we often look down upon those who get good things for free. God doesn't like it when we get so full of pride like that, and explained that's why pride is often called the deadliest sin. I even threw in Matthew 7:21 for good measure, which reads, "Not everyone who says to Me, "Lord, Lord", shall enter the kingdom of heaven."

Finally, to close my sermon, I said we still should repent when we know we have sinned, but we shouldn't expect to ever be perfect, or expect others to be perfect. And, to top things off, I ended with Luke 6:42, "How can you say to your brother, "Let me get rid of that speck from your eye", when you can't even see past the log that is in your own eye?"

When I was done, I simply closed my bible and got off the stage. A few people clapped, but not everyone did. I sat down in the pew behind everyone else, while a teacher stood up on stage and thanked me for my sermon, then dismissed us back to class. 

Fortunately, my sermon was fairly well-received, and while a few students said I missed a few minor things, the overall message was clear. I was just glad to get off that stage and back to my desk in the classroom. I didn't fail, but I'm not sure if I did a great job either. I didn't care though. I just wanted to forget about it, and during lunch, I made sure to let the teachers know I did not want to appear on Facebook. They said they already knew, and they only filmed me to show to other teachers around the school. 

Things didn't really change after that, but I felt a lot less anxious since I didn't have to go on stage anymore, and summer was less than two months away. People did seem to respect me more, in the sense they knew I knew the bible well. I just didn't bother to memorize verses or interpret it the same as they did, and I was probably coming off as annoying or even self-righteous myself. I was still often censored and labeled rebellious, but at least I was taken a little more seriously. However, that could've just been because summer wasn't far away, and everyone was more relaxed. I just learned to come to terms with the fact that not everyone's gonna like me, and just because some people don't like me, doesn't mean God doesn't like me. 

The last two months of school dragged by slower than ever. I was just tired all of the time, and ready for the school year to end. I wouldn't be returning to that private Christian school. My mom found me another school that was still small, but not so small that it needed only one classroom to accommodate the entire high school. It wasn't a Christian school either. I hoped to have more freedom to learn and more exposure to different ideas there, and maybe it would fit me best.

I did remember praying once, asking God to get me to someplace much better where I could be successful. Instantly, I felt a peace come over me, and a thought popped into my head, which I wrote down on a sticky note, "You will be taken care of, and you will end up someplace that works for you. Just be patient. It will be soon."

In my mind, "soon" meant the following school year after I left the Christian school, and I was actually excited. However, I was more excited for summer, because as soon as school let out, I'd be going to Clarke's for a weekend, and from there, my grandparents were taking me to my grandpa's childhood farm in North Dakota. We'd drive there, just me and them, and while they worked with their siblings to renovate the old farmhouse, I'd have the entire pasture to myself to ride my dirtbike. I could do whatever I wanted, and I couldn't wait to have 2 weeks on the farm, with just my grandparents and their siblings, to be free. 

The North Dakota trip was exactly what I needed. As soon as we arrived, after driving for over 12 hours, I started up my dirtbike and raised some hell as the sun sank below the western plains. I didn't ride for very long. I was hungry and needed to bring my luggage into my great uncle's new trailer house, which was built just a few dozen yards away from the old farmhouse. By the time I had settled down in my bedroom for the trip, and sat down for dinner, it was pitch dark outside and my dirtbike was parked in my great uncle's tractor shed. 

For the next two weeks, I woke up late, rode my dirtbike all day until sundown, only stopping to refill the gas tank and get some food, ate dinner with the family, and played cards with them until well after midnight. I'd go to bed, wake up sometime between noon and two in the afternoon, and the cycle continued. I was in heaven, though I was haunted by the still unanswered, and increasingly difficult questions I had about God and Christianity. 

I found myself entertaining those thoughts well after midnight. I'd sit on the back porch alone in the dark and stare up at the bright Milky Way, while listening to the crickets, frogs, and occasional coyote yips and howls, wondering if there was a God. If there was a God, was He a theistic God, or was He simply deistic, or maybe even just pantheistic? If God was theistic, was He the God of the bible? If He was the God of the bible, then why was the world so messed up? Why was God not obvious? Why didn't I feel His presence? Was I doing something wrong? Etc, etc, etc.

I had no answers to those questions. I didn't know if I should still consider myself a Christian, or if I was merely agnostic. All I knew was that I didn't know where to turn. I was lost, and in need of some serious guidance. 

For most of that summer after North Dakota, I honestly stopped thinking about God. I figured He'd reveal Himself to me when I was ready. I was open to God, but I wasn't spending much time thinking about Him. Even when I was 30,000 feet in the air, staring out the window over the snow-capped Rockies with nothing but music and a few games on my dying phone to entertain me, I still didn't ponder the existence of God. When I was kayaking in the Puget Sound near Seattle, Washington, surrounded by islands of magnificent, bright green rain forests, and dipping my paddle into swarms of thousands of moon jellyfish, I didn't think once about how God created all of that. When I was swimming on the surface of the ocean in Santa Monica, California, occasionally getting tangled up long ropes of slimy kelp, I still never thought about how awesome God's creation was.

The only time I really thought about God was when my dad and I were on the way to Minnesota, and we got caught on the very edge of a gnarly storm somewhere in Nebraska. It was really a fear response for me to pray, since the sky directly above us was pitch black, the rain and hail were coming down in extremely heavy sheets, and the wind was pushing my dad's Xterra towards the ditch. But, just as I asked God for protection, the storm passed and the sky was a pale white. We didn't have AC during the whole ride, because the AC belt snapped when we were still in Colorado, so I was glad it wasn't sunny. It was still uncomfortable, especially since my dad had all of the windows down and was pushing 100 miles per hour on some stretches of highway, but I was at least cool. Perhaps, that was also God's doing. 

Once we got to Minnesota and stumbled into my grandparents' house that night, I was surrounded by bible verses and cute little signs and notes that acknowledged God in some way. My grandparents on my dad's side were both very devout Lutherans, so reminders about God were everywhere. In fact, my grandpa was listening to the local Christian radio station, which was playing an old song by Gene Autry, which I sat down to listen to with my grandpa, while my grandma talked to my dad about our road trip. 

"Make your sins all skedaddle

Get old Satan outta your saddle

If you wanna clink your silver spurs upon the golden stairs."

 

I took God a little more into consideration during that trip. I was still mainly focused on riding my dirtbike, shooting guns, lighting bonfires, feeding the cows and calves, and most of all, spending time with family. However, whenever I walked into my grandparents' house, I was always reminded of God. And wherever I explored the farm, I was reminded of God's beautiful creation too. It's pretty hard to ignore Him when there's a church on a hill just across the road from the farm. 

On the final day of our trip, we were hit with a sudden, heavy summer thunderstorm. The sky was a dark grey-green color, and the wind howled through the trees as rain fell in heavy, blinding sheets. I watched from the sliding glass door to the porch with my dad, as the trees bowed violently and the rain fell sideways. We were fascinated by it. We hadn't seen something so strong in a long time, and we would continue watching it as long as it didn't turn too dangerous. As soon as it stopped raining, and the wind wasn't blowing so hard, I stepped out onto my uncle's back porch ahead of my dad. Right above us, stretching from my grandparents' farm to the rolling green hills to the northeast, was a huge and vibrant double rainbow. I wish I thought to take a picture before it started to fade (even though I couldn't fit the whole thing in just one picture), but I still got some pictures of it. A few final heavy gusts of wind blew against my back and pushed the storm eastward, as the rainbow was replaced by a deep blue afternoon sky. 

I didn't know it then, but that storm was a metaphor for things to come. Huge, sudden changes were on my near horizon, and while it would feel dark and stormy for awhile, eventually it would pass, and I'd be rewarded with something beautiful. 

 

Three weeks after I returned home from Minnesota, I found myself stepping into my new school for 11th grade. I didn't feel as good about it as I thought I would. The students and teachers were very friendly, and the school was easy to navigate, but I wasn't feeling good. I was very tired, and lacked enthusiasm. I figured I was coming down with a minor cold, and it would quickly pass. 

I settled into a new routine. I had to take a bus to and from school everyday. It picked me up and dropped me off at school and home everyday. Sometimes it was late, and sometimes it was early, but I could usually count on it. I really didn't like it though. It was uncomfortable in a lot of ways. But at that time, I hardly liked anything anyway. 

Just a couple short weeks after I started school, what I'd thought was a cold was much worse than expected. I was weak, cold, snorting and sniffling, and losing weight, so my mom stepped in and forced me to stay home until I got well again. I went to the doctors for some tests a few days later, so they could determine what was wrong with me. They listened to my lungs, had me do a few PFTs, and stuck a cotton swab down my throat so they could wipe my sputum on a petri dish and see what grew.

A few days afterwards, the tests came back. My lung function was a few points lower than normal, and my lungs were a bit wheezy. The cultures confirmed that I had a Pseudomonas infection in my sinuses. Pseudomonas (pronounced: Sue-dough-mon-as), is a dangerous bacterial infection only people with Cystic Fibrosis can get. It thrives in warm, damp, stale places, and my lungs and sinuses were perfect for it. Pseudomonas is very hard to get rid of. It becomes antibiotic-resistant very quickly, and burrows deeply into my lungs and sinuses. It's a flesh-eating bacteria, and is often to blame for the quick deterioration and death of a good percentage of people with CF. 

Knowing this, as well as the fact that my infection was not responding to antibiotics, I was convinced I was finally nearing the end. After everything I had gone through, every pain I had suffered, every miracle I had encountered, every defeat and every victory, it was finally over with. This was the end, and there wasn't much I could do about it. To say I cried would be an understatement. I sobbed myself to sleep every night, as I slowly got sicker and sicker. I had no hope. I  had no faith. CF finally had the upper hand, and I couldn't fight back.

I was no longer attending school. Each week, my mom picked up more assignments for me and added them to the growing stack of papers on my desk, but I didn't have the will, or even the energy, to deal with them. My health deteriorated really fast. I went from wandering the school halls with almost no clue that I was sick, to being in the ER with dangerously low oxygen levels within just a couple short weeks. 

I was supposed to be hospitalized, but God had other plans. Months earlier, I had asked God for empirical evidence of His existence, and He answered. My oxygenation at home was 85% and decreasing. My oxygenation at the ER started at 94% and increased to 100% within an hour, and stayed there until I left. Because of my heart condition, my oxygenation is always in the low 90's. I never got my oxygenation above 95% in my life until that point, and with a oxygenation of 100% at the ER, over a mile above sea level when I was very sick, was nothing short of a miracle. It was so awesome, that every doctor and nurse in the ER just had to take a quick look, and I was hooked up to three different monitors throughout my time there, and all of them read the same 100%. 

After that, while I was still terrified and convinced I wasn't gonna live much longer, I had hope, and even better, I had faith. I still didn't trust God all that much, and I wasn't even sure if He existed yet, but I decided to stick to my faith and give God some time to reveal Himself further. 

Back at home, my mom and I looked at our little pulse-ox reader we'd bought off Amazon that sent me to the ER in the first place. She wanted to play with it, but I wasn't about to stretch my luck. I ended up taking it from my mom and throwing it into some random box in the basement guestroom closet, where I hoped it would remain undiscovered for years.

I still didn't feel like anything had changed during the ER visit or when I returned home afterwards. I was so tired, that all I wanted to do was sleep. My mom made huge batches of chicken soup for me every few days or so, that I could heat up in the microwave and eat while she was gone at work, instead of staying up to cook things on my little Foreman grill. I also got into a habit of drinking a lot of bone broth, which my mom bought from the store in little boxes. I'd pour a box of that stuff into a coffee mug, put it in the microwave for a couple minutes, dump a bunch of salt into it, and just chug it. It kept me warm and hydrated, which made my suffering just a little less harsh.

Sometimes, I had my good days. I'd still be very congested, but at least I had enough energy to venture outside for a walk around the block. As sick as I was, I knew moving around was still very important. I didn't want to remain entirely bed-bound, because that could give the Pseudomonas a chance to cause my lungs to fill up with even more mucus, resulting in a Pneumonia infection. Also, moving around helped me maintain the strength I needed to continue taking care of myself while my mom was away at work.

A couple weeks later, my mom came across an article about an ongoing study, in which scientists and doctors were using phage viruses to attack and destroy many bacterial infections, including and especially Pseudomonas. I qualified for the study, and while it required me to travel to Portland, Oregon to get it, I was desperate and willing to do anything scientifically credible to get rid of my infection and avoid spending any time in the hospital. 

My sinuses were extremely full and sore. I had extremely heavy nosebleeds nearly everyday, and I knew if I didn't get rid of the Pseudomonas in my sinuses, it would eventually spread to my lungs. I had been out of school for a month by that point, but I didn't care. I was in too much pain to worry about my school at all. While I did have a few days here and there where I felt perfectly ok and healthy, the infection always found a way to remind me that it was still there. I'd be just fine one hour, and the next I'd be curled up in bed, with bloody tissues around my face as I cried. It was a truly horrific infection, and it needed to be eradicated as soon as possible. 

Before I flew out to Portland, I went pronghorn hunting. It was a pretty easy hunt, especially since I went hunting on one of my good days. I had 30,000 acres of land to myself, and uncle Courtney drove me around in his truck. The only real walking we did was just a few yards away from the truck, so I could take a shot at the pronghorn. I missed the first doe I shot at, but I nailed my second. She was an average sized pronghorn, and gave me about 60 pounds of meat. My uncle Courtney processed the meat for me, and managed to make 40 pounds of burger from the pronghorn's neck meat. He mixed the pronghorn meat with organic ground beef, because pronghorn is too lean to be made into burger on its own. It was nice to have so much wild game, but I was often too sick to cook it. 

I wasn't looking forward to traveling to Portland, but I knew it needed to happen. My mom's boyfriend at the time, offered to come with us to just be some extra support for my mom. He knew she'd need some extra support, especially since I was so sick. My mom's boyfriend was squeamish and didn't want to help me all that much, but I didn't blame him. In fact, I didn't want him to help me out, especially since he didn't know very much about me or my condition. He was good company for both me and my mom, and the trip would have been much more emotionally exhausting if he wasn't there. 

We flew into Seattle first. We have family out there, and they offered to take care of Jack for a couple days, while my mom, her boyfriend, and myself drove down to Portland. I didn't enjoy the flight to Seattle or the drive to Portland, but I was honestly too tired to care. I just leaned my head against the window and watched the world go by. 

My mom managed to get an Airbnb house for us in some nice suburb near Portland, since she knew staying in a hotel would be very hard for everyone. I needed my privacy, especially since my illness made my already short fuse even shorter. If someone even breathed in my direction, I'd get upset at them. Then, later on when I was alone, I'd get mad at myself for snapping at people for the dumbest things. But who could blame me? My face was pale and swollen due to the worsening sinus infection, and I was losing a pound of weight by the week. I was scared, and when I get scared, my first instinct is usually to become hostile and aggressive. 

At home, I was very physically weak. I struggled to climb the stairs and hold heavy drinks steady, and I slept up to 20 hours a day. But at sea level, I actually gained back some strength. The salty, wet air rejuvenated my lungs so I could breathe like normal again. And since I could breathe normally, I had more energy to do things and stay awake, and had no issue climbing the stairs or carrying heavy things. Because of this, I almost wanted to stay on the northwest coast for the rest of my battle with Pseudomonas. However, at the same time, I was still exhausted and homesick. 

After spending a long couple of days in Portland, we packed into the car and headed north back towards Seattle. However, the drive would be too long for us that day. It was the late afternoon by the time we had packed our stuff in the car and got on the road again, and my mom's boyfriend wanted to take a little detour. He was adventurous, and wanted to stay on Cannon Beach in Oregon, where the famous Haystack rock is, for a night. I wasn't very thrilled about it, and tried to convince them that I was too sick for it and just wanted to get to Seattle, but my mom said it took much more energy to drive four hours, rather than drive an hour and stay in a nice hotel. 

My mom's boyfriend booked us a suite at a resort hotel right on Cannon Beach. It was actually more of a small apartment rather than just a simple hotel room. It had two private bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, a pullout couch, and a dining area right next to the couch. The dining table was right next to a large sliding glass door that led out onto a back porch, which faced the ocean. In fact, we had a perfectly clear view of Haystack rock from the back porch. 

My mom hoped it would be nice and sunny, so she could spend some time with her boyfriend on the beach. Instead, we were in the direct path of what was basically a hurricane, only Oregon didn't call it that because it was so cold. They called it a major bomb cyclone, which would bring sustained 70 mile per hour winds, with 100 mile per hour wind gusts, heavy rain and snow, and the tide would literally be at our back porch. Normally, this would've freaked me out, and I would've demanded that we stayed much further inland. But instead, I was too tired to care. I just wanted to get to the hotel, curl up on the couch, and fall asleep to a movie. 

When we got there, it was just starting to rain, but most of the storm was still west of us. My mom's boyfriend went to the hotel lobby to check in, and once he had the key, he drove our car down into the parking garage, and helped us carry our stuff to our hotel room. It took us awhile to find our room, as we struggled to navigate through the outdoor maze of doors and stairs. Thankfully, our room was on the first floor, which was very sheltered. I didn't even feel a breeze while I was following my mom and her boyfriend around as we tried to find our room. Once we got there, I immediately curled up on the couch and just stayed there for nearly an hour. 

Meanwhile, my mom and her boyfriend went back out to find some food. They said they'd be gone for a couple hours, since they wanted to go to a nice sit-down restaurant, and I was ok with it. I just wanted to rest. When my mom and her boyfriend left, I drew the blackout curtains in the dining room so I could sleep. I found some extra blankets in the bedroom closet, and made myself at home. I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow, and I didn't wake up until my mom yelled in my ear that she was back. Apparently, I slept so hard, that I didn't hear them come in, nor did I feel it when my mom grabbed and shook my leg.

When I opened my eyes, she was holding a soaked paper bag in front of me, which smelled delicious. She was also wearing a cheap plastic poncho that really didn't keep her dry. Her clothes were clearly soaked under it. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, while my mom's boyfriend scooted the little dining table over to me. He was also soaked to the bone. They bought me a large bowl of clam chowder, as well as several packets of hot chocolate mix. 

When I asked my mom why she and her boyfriend were so wet, my mom flung open the curtains to show me that the storm had arrived. High northbound winds and 10 to 15 foot rollers continuously battered the beach. The rain didn't seem to be falling. It shot across the sky in heavy white sheets along with the wind, and wet sand drifted across the beach, making it look more like a river than an actual beach. I had never seen such a storm before, and I couldn't take my eyes off it. 

Our back porch was sheltered from the storm, so I stepped out onto it and leaned against the railing. The air was thick with sea spray, and it felt and tasted just like my saline nebulizer treatment, only better. I decided to just pull up a chair so I could enjoy the weather. As long as that northern wind didn't shift east or south, I would be just fine sitting out there. My mom and her boyfriend left me alone again to go to the hotel's hot tub, which was in a building just across the deck from our room's front door, sheltered from the weather by the parking garage. 

I took in some of the deepest breaths I've ever taken, while I sat outside. I felt so good, that I almost forgot that I was sick! This excited me, since I was getting better even though I hadn't even tried my new Pseudomonas treatment yet! I wouldn't try it until I got home several days later, since the doctors warned that it would put me through an intense detoxing period. The last thing I wanted to do was get back on the plane while I was still being detoxed. 

After about an hour or so of sitting outside, I was ready to do something productive. I wasn't about to go outside beyond the porch though, especially since the storm got twice as strong within that hour. However, a large group of young adults went out onto the beach to attempt to brave the storm. Nature quickly reminded them that it was in charge, and going onto the beach was a very dumb idea.

I watched them sprint from the hotel's beach access door onto the beach, and while the larger adults were able to withstand it, the smaller adults hardly had a chance against the storm's raging wind. Many of them were knocked to the ground by stronger gusts, only to get a face full of sand. I shamelessly laughed at them, because it was their choice to go outside in that, and they were idiots for doing so. Only a couple people remained outside after about five minutes, but they eventually had enough too, and went back inside. 

I was also forced to go back inside when the wind began to shift towards the east. I wasn't feeling the wind yet, but I was getting wet. I quickly lost my good health when I went back inside, since I wasn't out in the salt anymore. But, the wind shifted sharply towards the east less than an hour later, just after dark, and violently rushed up against the sliding glass door.

My mom complained about the noise, saying it was one of the scariest sounds she's ever heard. To be fair, the wind did sound just like a woman screaming bloody murder from the pits of hell, and the sliding glass door rattled and bent from the force of the storm. However, I wasn't afraid. I knew what it was, and I trusted our building was sturdy enough to withstand the weather. The only thing I hated was when the "eye" of the storm passed over us, dropping the pressure, and inducing one of the most painful nosebleeds I ever had. It didn't help that when the other half of the storm arrived, the power got knocked out, so I had to take care of my nosebleed with just the light from my phone's flashlight. 

My mom checked on me often throughout the night. She was worried that I'd be kept awake by the storm. The bedroom she was sleeping in was sheltered from the storm, since it was on the eastern side of our suite. But I slept like a rock despite being right next to the sliding glass door. By the time I woke up early the next morning, the storm had passed, and the sky was a pale blue. 

My mom told me I should go for a walk while she and her boyfriend picked up some breakfast for us. My mom didn't want to eat in the hotel's dining room, because it was completely full. In fact, every room in our hotel had been booked, and everyone decided to go get breakfast at exactly the same time. My mom and her boyfriend went to get us a stack of waffles and bacon, while I ventured outside onto the beach. 

It was still windy, but the sand was too wet to get kicked up. Instead, the wind blew around a lot of sea spray, which had the same effect on me as caffeine. I kept my back to the wind for the most part so it didn't overwhelm my own breathing, while I stared out at the endless sea. The waves were still large near the beach, but beyond that the water was relatively calm. There weren't any boats or ships out at sea. It was just an endless, empty expanse of silvery, blue water to the west, which matched the cloudless sky above. I spent almost an hour roaming around on the beach, completely oblivious to my mom, who was on the porch staring at me and taking pictures. She sent about 20 pictures of myself to me, which all came in at once as soon as I was within range of the hotel's wifi. 

When I came back inside, my mom told me my bacon and waffles were cold, and asked why I had been out there for so long. I explained to her that the sea spray made me feel normal again, and I couldn't get enough of it. "I figured that's why you were out there for so long." she smiled. 

Before long, we were back on the road again headed towards Seattle. I slept for most of the car ride back to my mom's cousin's house, and once again I crashed onto the guest bed and stayed there for the rest of the night. I couldn't wait to go back home so I could finally try out the phages. I was nervous, but excited to try them. There were risks involved, such as the miniscule possibility that there could be a corrupted phage virus that could wreak even more havoc on my body, but it was a risk I was willing to take. Either I took the phage, and risked a one in a million chance of getting a corrupted phage and dying sooner, or I would be dead within the next 5 to 10 years anyway. 

Back home, I laid down on the couch while my mom took a small dropper full of saline containing the phages. She put a dropper full of it in each of my nostrils, and I snorted it up. It stung a little bit, but it wasn't unbearable. I stayed on the couch for an hour or so afterwards, just to make sure the phage solution could settle and start working. 

Phage viruses are amazing "creatures". They aren't technically life, since they lack the ability to adapt and evolve, and don't have DNA, but they are still intelligent enough to target specific cells and bacteria. Under a microscope, a phage looks a little like a robot. It has a large diamond shaped head, which is where it keeps its RNA (the stuff it uses to replicate itself), attached to a long, screw shaped body. It has 8 spidery legs, which it digs into the targeted bacteria. Once it finds its target bacteria, it latches onto it, and uses a small, needle like appendage to inject its RNA into the bacteria. The RNA hijacks the bacteria's reproductive system, and replicates the phage virus instead. A single phage virus can replicate itself within the bacteria 40,000 times in under an hour, before the bacteria itself gets so full of phage viruses that it explodes, releasing 40,000 new phage viruses. The new phage viruses go looking for more bacteria to hijack so they can multiply themselves another 40,000 times each. Phages are practically indestructible, and they only die when they run out of bacteria to hijack. 

My body was infested with these Pseudomonas-destroying phage viruses within an hour or so of the first treatment. That night, my sinuses started to drip, which was a good sign. By the next day, I had a constant stream of snot and blood flowing down the back of my throat and out of my nostrils. I was in intense pain, but I was so glad to get rid of my Pseudomonas infection. I didn't care how painful or nasty it was. Pseudomonas was finally dying and leaving my system, and I was gonna survive.

A week after I tried my first phage treatment, I was back at school, excited to finally get on with life as usual. I didn't bother to tell anyone about my CF until I came back. Apparently, a rumor had spread that I had died, and no one really bothered to look into it. In fact, when I followed a student into an empty class room before everyone else arrived, her face turned white when she turned around and saw me standing on the other side of the room. She stuttered something I didn't hear, and when I asked her to repeat herself, she stuttered, "I-I thought you died."

I told her I just got really sick, but I lived, and then went back to unpacking my stuff for class. I must admit, I did look a bit startling when I first returned to school. I was still very pale, and I lost about 10 pounds, so my cheekbones were visible and I had to pull up my pants every 5 minutes because they sagged, even with a belt. My legs also trembled as I stumbled up the stairs. I lost a lot of strength while I was sick, and it would take a month or two for me to regain some of what I lost. 

A few class periods later, I went into Anatomy and sat down. Shortly after class began, my Anatomy teacher started talking about the probability of passing on genetic diseases, and then looked at me with a grin and declared, "Maya knows exactly what it's like to live with a genetic disease!"

I felt my blood run cold as I quickly sucked in a breath and recoiled as all 20 students in the class turned to stare at me. I just wanted to skitter away and never return. Instead of running away screaming, I sunk in my seat, awkwardly chuckled, and mumbled something like, "Yeah, I guess so."

I went on to explain to 20 students that I had Cystic Fibrosis, and that's why I was sick for so long. I made sure to stress the fact that I wasn't contagious, and would never be contagious, but that I was prone to getting everyone else's colds and flus, which is why I was gone for 8 weeks. I didn't bother to tell them that it was Pseudomonas, not the flu, that kept me sick at home. I also told them that I was just as healthy as everyone else. I just had to take extra care of myself. I finally explained why I had to leave a few minutes early before lunch. A couple girls commented that I was lucky I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and not get fat. But I told them it wasn't worth it, for reasons I didn't bother to explain. They understood what that meant. 

To my surprise, nobody really cared that I had CF. Sure, they had questions, but for the most part they saw me as one of them. I was just a normal person in everyone's eyes, which made me relax. In fact, some people thought I was a total badass, and had a lot more respect for me. A few boys even asked me out, saying things like, "If I get my truck fixed, can I take you to the motocross track? I also have a couple of horses if you ever want to go for a ride." and, "The Winter Ball is coming up. I know you said you don't like parties, but we could always do something else."

I quickly declined. I wasn't ready to date yet. I had too much to worry about before I considered going out. I felt bad for friend-zoning those boys, but they eventually got over it, and we remained friends.

I quickly became popular within the school. Pretty much everyone in the middle and high school knew my name, and even if they didn't, they knew my face. I don't know why I got so popular. Was it because I had CF? Was it because I was interested in hunting and motocross? Was it because I was just friendly towards everyone else? I didn't care to find out the answers to those questions. I just felt good knowing people weren't gonna ostracize or bully me. 

Time seemed to fly by once I returned to school. Thanksgiving, then Christmas, came and went. I had a lot of good friends at school, and all of my teachers loved having me around. I don't know what I was doing right, but I guess I was just glad to be alive, and my victory over Pseudomonas temporarily turned me into an outgoing extrovert. I felt invincible, and like I could take on the world! My grades were decent, even in algebra, and my health was good, except for I slowly but surely started to deteriorate once again shortly after Christmas break. 

My friends noticed my illness before I did. They asked why I had such dark circles under my eyes and why my skin was so pale. I wasn't sure, since I felt just fine. But within a few weeks, I started to notice other things. I had a worsening cough, and my sinuses were swollen again. By the last few days of January, I was miserable, but I always hid my pain behind a reassuring smile at school. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I was afraid to admit it, and I didn't want to alarm anyone at school. 

Finally, one Sunday night in early February, my mom decided it was best I stayed home. I was very sick and needed to go to the hospital for tests. I argued against this, telling her I had already missed two months of school the previous semester, and couldn't afford to miss any more school. If I did, I told my mom I'd have to repeat a year of high school, which was the last thing we needed. But, my mom simply replied sternly, "You can't go to school if you're dead!"

I had nothing else to say, so I just sighed and went to bed. I stayed awake, staring at the wall, hoping I just had a bad cold. However, I knew it was something much worse, as much as I hated to admit it. 

My mom got me into the doctor's early the next day, and as usual, they ran some tests and took some samples. My lungs sounded very rattly, and the doctor could barely see anything when she looked into my nostrils through the otoscope. She said I probably had a Staph infection, and we'd know for sure in a few days when my culture tests showed up. She just ordered me to go home and stay home until then. 

A few days later, my mom found out the results from my culture tests. Pseudomonas was back with a vengeance. Immediately, my mom had me lay down while she put some more of the phage solution in my nostrils. She also put some of it in a nebulizer so I could inhale it deep into my lungs. At first, I was pretty confident that the phage would do its job like it did before, but when my health only deteriorated, I couldn't hide my fear. 

Within two weeks, I was bedridden. I wasn't sick enough to be admitted to the hospital, so instead, my house turned into a hospital. My grandparents often came over to help my mom take care of me, and keep me company while she went to work. I hated being so sick. I was even sicker than I was the last time, because the infection had burrowed deep into my lungs and was literally turning them into mush. I often coughed up tiny bloody bits of lung matter, though I hid that from my mom because I didn't want to scare her more than she already was. 

The phage did its job though. A few weeks after we started it, I went to the hospital to be tested for Pseudomonas again, and the test came back negative. It was the aftermath of the infection that crippled me. The phage had effectively nuked Pseudomonas to death, but it left behind a wasteland of mucus and scabs within my system that I had to fight to get rid of. I was also 12 pounds underweight, and didn't have an appetite. I just wanted to sleep all day, which I did, but my doctors urged my mom to get me up and moving around. I could easily develop Pneumonia if I didn't get up and move around. 

As much as I hated it, I forced myself to go for a walk everyday, starting in March. At first, I just walked up and down my street, but then I decided to walk to the creek, which was just a few yards further. When I felt like I could do that easily, I started walking laps around my block. My mom also got me a bunch of art supplies because she said if I did something I enjoyed, that would also help me feel better. Finally, I went with my brother to Clarke's house every weekend to get out of my house and get some fresh air. But, it was usually way too cold and windy for me to really enjoy the outdoors at Clarke's house, so I just stayed inside and watched movies.

I discovered that laughter was the best medicine when it came to getting rid of the excess mucus left behind by Pseudomonas. Laughter forced the mucus into my windpipe and out of my system, so I often spent entire days watching my favorite comedies, from Dumb and Dumber to Jackass, coughing and wheezing as I fought to clear out my lungs. My mom didn't appreciate my evening movie choices, but she tolerated it anyway. On the other hand, Clarke loved those movies, and laughed along with me. We'd also jump on Youtube and watch some of the most ridiculous videos we could find. To this day, I'll still giggle uncontrollably whenever I think about some of the videos we came across. 

For a time, school was a thing of the distant past. My mom got me off the roster at my previous school, only after my school sent us a letter threatening to sue us for truency, and told me life wasn't a race. I just needed to focus on getting better. I was doing a really good job getting well again, but I still had a long way to go. Every time I brought up school, my mom just shut me down. She made it clear that my health was the most important thing, and I should only feel guilty about not listening to her advice, which was to just stop thinking about it. 

As the weather got warmer, I did start thinking less about school, and more about getting my dirtbike up and running again. I desperately needed to go for another ride. I just had no idea when I could. I was still too weak to ride, but everyday, I worked hard to get stronger. 

Near the end of March, my doctors called me to the hospital once again. Instead of giving me bad news, they gave me good news. A new medication, called Symdeko, had finally been cleared by the FDA, and I could start taking it. Symdeko was developed to help try and fix the root cause of Cystic Fibrosis, which is my body's inability to process salt. Symdeko helps my cells out by untangling the salt chambers within my cells just a little bit, and helping my cells produce the chemicals needed to break down the sodium as well. Symdeko was three times better at its job than the previous drug, Orkambi. Orkambi basically did the same thing, but Symdeko was a major upgrade. 

One of the few but most major thing I had to worry about when I took Symdeko were the intense side effects I'd go through during the first week I took it. I was told to expect migraines and mucus plugs, but that those were all good signs, since it meant Symdeko was doing its job. Other than that, I was told to just look out for any other reported side effects, such as deteriorating vision and possible liver damage. But, if any of those things came up, there were treatments out there that could help me. I thanked them, and headed home with my box of the new medication. 

I was bed bound once again during the first week I was taking Symdeko. I had energy, but the migraine I had was so bad that I was seeing spots. So, I just laid in bed with the curtains drawn and a blanket over my head until after sunset, when I could get up and move around the house without being blinded by sunlight. My mom and brother avoided me for most of the week, since every little sound drove me nuts. I became nocturnal, and my family really only saw me a few minutes at night before they went to bed. 

After that first week, my health drastically improved, and so did my mood. Since I was almost back to my old self, my mom started seeing if I could go back to school. Unfortunately, my previous school had mold in the air ducts, which is probably where the Pseudomonas came from. The teachers who ran my 10th grade Christian school were retiring, so it made no sense to put me in that school for just two months and then have nowhere to graduate. I also had to make up two months of missed school, so it really looked like I'd be held back. The only schools my mom knew of were the huge public high schools we both know I'd fail in. So, for awhile, we were stuck. 

Near the middle of April, my mom was contacted by Jefferson county public schools. They had a program, called the Homebound program, where students who couldn't attend school in person would attend school online with a tutor. I qualified for it, and while my mom wasn't sure if I could attend it all the way through my senior year, she knew I needed it to catch up so I wasn't held back. 

I was pretty much left in the dark for the next couple weeks when it came to school. In the meantime, I worked to get back to my old self. Emotionally, I was back to my old self, but my body hadn't caught up yet. I lost a lot of weight and a lot of strength while I was sick, and getting that back would take months, if not years. I had a severe case of cabin fever, so to counter it, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents', where my grandpa took me skeet shooting and hiking. I also went for a lot of long walks around my neighborhood at home, and sometimes I set up old tin cans in my backyard and shot them with my BB gun. I was getting more and more eager to get out of my house and go live my life. I had been pent up for far too long! 

Near the end of April, the trails in the mountains were finally dry enough for me to get back on the dirtbike. I was still weaker than I once was, but I was determined to get back to riding. With my dad's help, we tuned up the dirtbike so it would be ready to go. It hadn't been ridden in months, so I wasn't quite sure how it would do. But, while I hadn't ridden in a long time, I trusted myself. I still knew how to ride, and my dirtbike was still the same as it had always been, albeit just a little more squirrelly than usual. But all two strokes are like that, so it wasn't anything I didn't know how to handle. 

Together, my dad and I lifted my dirtbike onto the back hitch, strapped it down, and then headed deep into the mountains. I was dressed as warmly as possible, and had plenty of protective gear as well. I'll never ride my dirtbike without a helmet and goggles, and I'll never go on the mountain trails without wearing shin guards and gloves. There are a lot of rocks and loose tree branches that get kicked up along the way. 

On the way there, I chugged down a large bottle of Mountain Dew and talked to my dad about my new school plan. The ride needed to be quick, because I had to be home to meet my tutor who would help me finish 11th grade. My dad was skeptical of the online school program. He believed it wasn't as good as regular school, but I assured him the online school curriculum was exactly the same as the regular school curriculum.

My dad asked me how much time I'd spend doing online school everyday. I didn't know, but I assumed I'd spent at least a few hours everyday doing school. My dad asked if I knew who my tutor was, and I said I had no idea, but I'd meet them later that evening. Finally, my dad asked if I was excited to meet my new tutor and get back to school. I had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I was excited to get back to normal life, but I was very nervous. I was nervous about meeting my tutor and plunging myself back into school where I left off two months before. The last thing I wanted to do was jump back in and get overwhelmed. In some ways, just thinking about school overwhelmed me. I had a lot of ground to cover and a lot of information to review to see where I stood. I wasn't sure how long it would take me to catch up to where I was, and get to where I needed to be to finish 11th grade.

My dad appreciated my honest response and told me to not worry about it. No matter what happened, I would survive. If Homebound went well, great! If Homebound turned out to be a complete disaster, so be it! But no matter what happened, I'd come out alive. My dad told me to stop thinking about school for the moment, and get ready to get on my dirtbike and raise some hell! 

We arrived at the trailhead just before noon. It was partly cloudy, and while it was cold, it wasn't too cold. The wind is what made it cold. There was still a lot of snow on the mountains, but the trail was dry enough for me to make it through just fine. I quickly threw my gear on while my dad took the bike off the hitch and got it started to warm up. As soon as I was ready, my dad got back in his Xterra, and together we set off on the steep and rocky trail. 

As the snow melted high above the treeline, it trickled down in steady streams down the cliff sides and across the trail. The winter weather had worn huge holes into the rocky road, most of which were full of cold snow water, and there were a few fallen trees laying across as well. It was very treacherous, especially since it hadn't been cleared up yet. There were a few people in 4x4's that were built like tanks, and plenty of dirtbike riders on the trail that day, but for the most part, it was empty. While my dad slowly crawled through the mud and over the fallen trees in his Xterra, I was flying over some stretches of the road, and had to wait for my dad to catch up to get a drink. 

At one point, I found myself approaching a shaded bend where there was a six-foot snowdrift. I stopped and stared at it. I heard my dad pull up behind me, and after a couple of minutes, he honked his horn and revved his engine. He was more successful in scaring me than he was in motivating me, but he pulled forward and threatened to push me along with his SUV, so I pinned the throttle and slid through the snow. Of course, as soon as I got through the snow, I launched off a small lip in the road directly into an ankle-deep puddle. I cringed with shock as cold, muddy water splashed over my legs, but I quickly rode out of that puddle before my dad splashed through it too.

About 50 yards later, I was stopped by an army of Jeeps that were idling on the trail. I pulled up near the front of the cavalry of jeeps, and saw that at least 25 yards of the trail was covered in about 2 feet of snow. My dad pulled up behind the jeeps and got out to talk to one of the drivers. The driver said that it was too risky, and chances are the trail only got snowier from there. He said they were planning on turning around. The jeeps were much better equipped with off-roading equipment than my dad's Xterra, so instead of doing something stupid, my dad and I turned around. 

On the way back, just as I approached the snowdrift, a rider on a 250cc two-stroke dirtbike crashed and nearly took me out with her bike. She hit the powerband just as she got into the snow, launching the dirtbike forward without her. I decided to get out of there as quickly as possible before the other riders had a chance to crash too, and then I slowed down to wait for my dad. While I sat in silence, I pulled out my phone to take a few pictures of the scenery and checked the time. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon! I had four hours to get my ass back home, cleaned up, and fed before I had to meet my tutor! The trail looked wide open to me, so I figured I could get home in time to clean myself up and get some food. 

I looked down at myself. My mom would be very upset if I met my tutor in the condition I currently was. My jeans were soaked through and spotted with mud. My back was also very wet and cold, and when I moved my feet around, water sloshed around in my boots. I reached back to pull my hair out of my hoodie, and even it was tangled and drenched in mud. I wasn't even sure how that was possible, considering I had stuffed it into my hoodie to prevent exactly that from happening. My dad pulled up behind me, and I glanced back at him with a concerned look in my eyes. He saw it, rolled down his window, and shouted, "Well, don't just sit there! Let's get going!"

I kicked my dirtbike back to life, and together we hauled ass down the trail. We only slowed down for oncoming drivers, but otherwise drove as fast as we safely could. We charged over rocks and potholes, through frozen streams of snow melt, and over fallen trees. I felt free and alive again, with the wind whistling through my helmet as I whizzed past the wilderness. I couldn't wipe my ear-to-ear smile off my face, even when I met my dad at the Moffat tunnel parking lot, where we loaded up my dirtbike. I was relaxed and at peace. My ride did exactly what I hoped it would do. 

About halfway home, once the adrenaline passed and the soreness settled in, I got nervous and worried again. I tried telling myself that it was just irrational anxiety, and everything would be fine, but that didn't help all that much. I didn't even understand why I was so nervous. I was getting back into school, but I wouldn't be alone. I wouldn't be going to a building occupied by other students for 7 hours a day. I wouldn't have to wake up well before the crack of dawn to make it to school. I wouldn't be expected to keep up with everyone else in school. Instead, I finally held the reins to my education, and I had the ultimate say in things. 

I later figured out that the anxiety I was feeling was coming from the fear of the unknown. I had no idea what Homebound was or who I'd be meeting that evening. I honestly forgot what algebra was, and I hadn't written anything in months. I had been in survival mode for a long time, only thinking enough to outsmart Pseudomonas by waging biological warfare within my own body. In hindsight, I've realized that it takes a lot of intelligence and guts to do that, but at the time, phage virus therapy seemed like a very simple concept that a kindergartener could easily master. I was worried I'd go into school and embarrass myself with how little I actually knew, but I eventually reminded myself that I was in charge of my own education, and I would eventually catch up. Much like how I trusted that I still knew how to handle my dirtbike after months of being off it, I needed to trust that I still knew how to learn, and everything I learned in school would come flooding back to me. 

When I finally arrived home with a little less than two hours to get cleaned up, I helped my dad get my dirtbike off the hitch and into the garage. It was drenched in mud, but I figured I'd spray it off later if I had time. My dad left, and I lugged my gear into the house, dropping it off in the front foyer, and going directly into the shower. Once I got out, I looked in the dryer for some clean clothes. Unfortunately, my mom did not load my laundry from the washer into the dryer, so all of my clothes were soaking wet. I decided that I'd just quickly wipe the mud off of my dry but muddy jeans with a wet towel, and hope for the best. At least my T shirt was mud-free and I found a fresh hoodie hanging in my closet. 

When I finally came out, my grandma was at the house. My mom had a work event to go to during the day, so my grandma came over to watch my little brother for her. My grandma was excited to see me and gave me a big bear hug. I immediately pulled away. I didn't realize how tender I was until she squeezed the air out of my lungs. I apologized, and explained to her that I just went for a two hour dirtbike ride, and I was paying for it. My grandma understood, and asked if getting me some frozen yogurt would help me feel better. I told her it would, but I didn't want to go with her because I had a meeting in less than an hour, and didn't want to rush her. Plus, I didn't want to walk around. My legs were giving up on me as we spoke, and I had two flights of stairs to climb up so I could be present for the meeting. My grandma laughed at me, told me she'd bring some frozen yogurt back for me, and then called my little brother down so he could get frozen yogurt with her. 

As soon as they left, I dragged my aching body up the stairs. I felt like I set myself on fire, but I couldn't garner sympathy because I did it to myself. At the same time, I was proud of myself. I went for an intense dirtbike ride. I pushed myself almost beyond my limits, and proved to myself that I wasn't sick or weak anymore. The pain I was in was good pain to be in, so I had every reason to be nothing but proud. I slowly eased myself into a wooden chair at the kitchen bar, and then rested my arms on the cold white granite. The pain was getting worse, and when I glanced at the clock, so did my anxiety. 

My mom arrived home around the same time my grandma returned with my frozen yogurt. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I had a mouthful of cake batter flavored frozen yogurt. I was practically starving, but figured I could survive for another couple hours or so before making myself some dinner. For the most part, I just stayed at the bar and zoned out. I was just tired, sore, and hungry, and wanted to get the meeting over with. 

At almost exactly 6:00 PM, the doorbell rang, and my dog's barking startled me back into reality. I instantly got anxious, and let my mom answer the door while I stayed at the bar and waited. My mom answered the door, and I heard a man's voice introduce himself to her, before slowly following her up our unfinished hardwood stairs. 

I was very intimidated by then. I pretty much forgot how to interact with people besides my family, but despite this, I approached the guy with a smile and we shook hands. He introduced himself as Eric, and I told him my name as well, before I sat right back down in my seat. I really didn't know what to think or how to interact, so I figured it was best if I just stayed quiet and listened, which is what I did best. 

Eric talked about himself so I could be more familiar with him, and he discussed my schooling experience with my mom. I could tell by the way he talked and the things he said, that Eric really cared about his students, and was not like most of my past teachers. Also, the more I learned about Homebound, the better I felt about getting back into school. I wouldn't be thrown to the wolves, rather, I'd ease back into it, and be allowed to work at my own pace without much pressure. In fact, the only real pressure I was under was my own pressure to graduate high school on time. I knew it would take a lot of work on my part, but I was prepared to do it to graduate on time. 

The discussion lasted for over an hour, and it was definitely a lot to take in. But, in short, I agreed to meet Eric at the local library everyday at 10 AM for school, which would get me active and out of the house. At 11 AM, I'd head back home, and work on homework. This was very exciting for me, since I finally didn't have to spend so much time on school, or even go to a building with lots of students in it. Instead, I'd go to a quiet library that was in a large, open park, just a little over a mile away from my house. I could get myself there and back, either by walking or by taking an Uber, and once I got home, I could basically do whatever I wanted. 

Finally, just before he left, Eric invited me into his writer's group. For several years, he worked on writing with a small group of teens and young adults. I had the idea of writing a memoir for at least a couple years before, and had no idea where to start. But Eric's writer's group seemed like the perfect place to start writing my memoir. Not only would I get feedback on my writing, but once my book was written, I'd have help editing and sending my book to a publisher. So, of course, I immediately signed up, and agreed to meet with the writer's group every Monday evening. 

The next day, I woke up at 8:30 AM, which was the first time I had woken up that early in the morning for a very long time. When my alarm went off, I really wanted to chuck my phone across my room and go back to sleep, but instead, I sat up, stretched, and then got ready for the day. My mom had already left by the time I was up, and all she told me was to order an Uber to the library and back for the first week, so I could get used to school without having to worry about walking back home. However, I was more than welcome to walk home if I felt comfortable, and my mom encouraged that more than taking an Uber both ways. Eventually, I would have to walk both ways unless the weather was bad or it was hotter than 75 degrees.

My Uber arrived at 9:30 AM, and drove me a mile down the road to the library. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the library was actually pretty busy despite it being a Monday morning in April. I still had about 20 minutes to kill, so I used that time to get familiar with my surroundings. I visited that park plenty of times before, but I never stepped foot into the library. 

There was a lake nearby, so I wandered in that direction. There were plenty of geese and ducks wandering around, which were well fed thanks to the bread little kids and their parents threw at them. The lake was also stocked with large game fish that floated just below the water's surface near the shore. It was much nicer than I expected, and I almost forgot about school. But it quickly clicked that I had five minutes to find my teacher, and I honestly had no idea how to navigate the library. 

For a few minutes, I wandered aimlessly around the library, getting more and more stressed out when I couldn't find my teacher. I eventually turned to one of the librarians for help, and thankfully he knew exactly where my teacher was. I thanked the librarian, and sat down across from Eric. He was very kind and explained to me that we wouldn't just jump into the lessons. I had to figure out how to log into the system and navigate it, and which classes I had to take. I ended up taking up English, Geometry, and Economics. None of those classes were as hard as I expected them to be. In fact, they were fairly easy. 

I walked home on the first day, just to enjoy the weather and explore on my way home. I ended up taking the longest way possible on accident. I walked halfway around the lake, through a shopping center, waited at several lights, squeezed through a barbed-wire fence and had to untangle myself, trudged through a grassy field, jumped the creek, and finally walked up my street to my house. It took me over an hour, and I thought that was ridiculously long for the distance my house was from the library. Turns out, I was right, but Google Maps pointed me in the right direction next time I walked home. 

From that day on, I walked to and from the library everyday for school. Google Maps showed me a path that followed the creek and led me into a neighborhood across the main road from my neighborhood. Then, I'd take a left on a street that would spit me out into the park. I'd make my way to the library on the other side of the park. If I was short on time, I'd sprint from one end of the park to the other, but if I still had lots of time to kill, I'd hang out by the lake, watching the geese and ducks drift around the surface of the water.

I loved it. I loved being in the outdoors during my walks and being encouraged to learn the way that I knew how to learn. Not only that, but I really enjoyed my writer's group. With the help from my writer's group, I decided to take on the challenge of writing a book. I still had almost no idea what I was doing, other than writing down anecdotes from my life, but I learned as I went. 

For a time, things were really stable for me. My anxiety was almost completely gone. When spring turned into summer, I still had a month of school left to complete. But as long as I had an internet connection and my laptop with me, I could still attend school from wherever I was. It was awesome, especially since school only lasted an hour a day, and except for homework, the rest of the day was mine for me to do whatever I wanted. Instead of wasting my time playing video games after school, I spent my extra time learning new skills and getting outside. Most of the time, I only played video games late at night before I went to bed.

Surprisingly, while I didn't have much contact with my peers anymore, I wasn't lonely. Actually, I felt much more connected with people than before. I got to know my teacher very well, as well as several of the members in my writer's group. When I was on my walks, most of the people I interacted with were friendly, and mostly wanted to know where I got my American flag cowboy boots from. I didn't dread going to school or interacting with people. In fact, I looked forward to it. 

Of course, being technically home schooled was an adventure in itself. The adults I interacted with on my walks often wondered what I was doing outside of school, especially when I first started walking to the library while all of the other schools were still in session. I always told them that I was on the way to school, and while many of them accepted this as an answer, a few wondered why I was going to school so late, especially the nosy soccer moms. I'd tell them that it wasn't late for me, but I'd be arriving to school on time at the library. Sometimes, people were still confused by this. As much as I sometimes wanted to stick around to explain to them what my situation was exactly like, I'd usually be running out of time and have to ditch those people mid-conversation in order to make it to class on time. 

Back at home, my mom often had me explain my situation to guests. Most people thought that, while it was cool, it was also very strange. They didn't understand how I was getting a better education through Homebound in a quarter of the time, than I was getting in regular school. Many people, including family, also believed that I was missing out on important high school experiences, most notably having friends. However, I disagreed. I was already a master at ditching after-school activities such as dances, fundraisers, and other things like that while I was still in regular school. But, in Homebound, I agreed to join a writer's group founded by my teacher, which was basically an after-school activity. And, some people seemed almost offended that I was on a first-name basis with my teacher, and would likely be friends with him for years after school. It was almost as if they were jealous of me. 

As much as people often interrogated me, I couldn't care less. For once in a very long time, I was genuinely happy and optimistic. My mom couldn't deny my brand new attitude. With help, I successfully clawed my way out the black hole my illness threw me into. While I came out of that a lot more nervous about my health than ever before, at least my mental health was recovering quickly. I had confidence in myself again, at least in some ways. I still doubted my teacher whenever he promised me I'd eventually catch up and probably even surpass many of my peers in school, but at least I wasn't afraid to try new subjects in school anymore. 

My newfound confidence pushed me to do other things, such as driving. Before, I was absolutely terrified of just the thought of getting behind the wheel. While I sometimes drove anyways with my family just to get used to it, I never drove on the suburban roads, and I always had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I only drove around on the country roads while arguing with my dad about my speed. According to him (and most drivers behind me), I drove like a 90-year-old dementia patient. To me, it felt like I was driving faster than the speed limit, even though the speedometer hardly ever made it to 5 miles per hour under the speed limit. 

The confidence I found in Homebound eventually translated to my driving. My dad was on the verge of getting me a cake and a few balloons when the speedometer finally reached the speed limit on the country roads. Of course, he pushed me to drive even faster than the posted speed limit. "Nothing's illegal if the cops ain't around!" my dad joked. 

One day in the fall, my dad finally had to tell me to slow down for the first time. That was quite the achievement. Admittedly, I was pushing 70 miles per hour on a straight dirt road, and my dad saw a small herd of pronghorn long before I did. But once we passed them, I sped right back up. Once the dirt road turned into gravel, I suddenly slowed way down again. 

My dad glared at me and remarked, "So, you're not afraid of the gravel, but you are afraid of the asphalt. It should probably be the other way around. You know that?"

"I just know the gravel better." I shrugged, "Plus, the cops are a lot less likely to be on the gravel than they are on the asphalt."

Back at school, I whizzed through my subjects. I was no longer very anxious or sleep-deprived. The walks certainly helped, but so did the casual environment at school. For the first time in my life, I didn't worry about keeping up or slowing down to match my peers. I was my only competition. But I pushed myself hard, and I worked harder in school than I ever had before. It just didn't feel like I was, because I enjoyed school. 

I was very surprised when Eric told me that I was holding a solid A in all of my classes, which was something I had never achieved before. Back in regular school, I was a straight C student most of the time. My dad did his best to encourage me by saying, "C's get degrees!", but I never accepted that as truth. I've always been very competitive in everything, including and especially school, and my confidence suffered severely when I went through most of school, always being a couple grades below most of my peers. Because of that, I went through most of school believing I was an idiot, even for part of Homebound. 

But, that slowly started to change. When I finished Economics a few weeks before summer officially began, despite having been out of school for a combined 4 months, it really made me rethink my intelligence. I wasn't slow or stupid at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. But, for some reason, I refused to believe it. In my mind, I was still the biggest idiot in the universe. Before, I was constantly left behind in school, and accused by past teachers of being lazy, slow, and even stupid. The students further pounded this into my head by bullying me, and many of my grades ended up being the final nails on the coffin that held my confidence. I had buried my confidence years ago, and I had no plans of reviving it. I was only confident in one thing, and that was my stupidity, and I constantly made self-deprecating jokes and remarks whenever someone tried to compliment me. This frustrated many people, especially my parents, who voiced their concerns to me.

When my mom found out that I finished Economics in record time with an A, she was ecstatic. While she danced around in the kitchen, I stared at her blankly and asked, "Why is this such a big achievement? I've still got English and Geometry I've gotta complete in the summer, and I'm not even sure I'll finish them in time. Plus, I'm still technically behind everyone else, so..." 

I'm pretty sure the only thing preventing my mom from strangling me at that very moment was the law. Meanwhile, I reached for a glass of water as if I didn't just say the worst thing possible.

"Are you serious?" my mom asked in a stern tone, "You still think you're stupid? After all that you've accomplished? You aren't stupid, Maya. Clearly, you aren't stupid! If you want to know what stupid looks like, just look at aunt Shirley's sister!" 

I choked on my water and wheezed and coughed for a good five minutes while my mom stood stoically on the other side of the kitchen bar, staring me down the whole time. My great aunt Shirley was the woman married to my grandpa's brother, Gary. Her sister was severely mentally handicapped. She had the average mental capacity of an 8 year old. While she could read books, feed, dress, and bathe herself, she couldn't do basic math, learn basic reasoning skills, or have any boundaries. Her speech patterns and overall behavior reflected those of an 8 year old. While I understood what my mom was trying to tell me, I could not believe that she said such a thing. She always lectured me when I cracked dark jokes or made some minor judgmental remark about someone on the street. Suddenly, her attitude completely changed, and I knew that she really wanted to get a point across, even if it meant saying such a thing about a distant member of our family. 

When I could breathe again, I looked at my mom, and she cocked her head to one side and gave me a "I told you so" kind of look. 

"You're believing lies, Maya." my mom continued, "You need to start believing the truth, and that truth is that you are very smart. Gifted actually. Just like Jack."

"Jack's smarter than me, mom!" I argued, "He basically skipped two grades!"

"He also doesn't have Cystic Fibrosis." my mom retorted, "And just because he's ahead in his classes, doesn't mean he's smarter than you. In fact, he's probably, well..."

I squinted my eyes, "Well?"

"He's definitely not smarter than you." my mom smiled, "You're the one who has common sense around here. Jack would totally get in a stranger's car."

"You've got a point." I shrugged, "But the midget's still better than me in school. He's got all A's and a social life. When I was his age, I wasn't doing so great."

"You were also sick a lot." my mom reminded me, "Yet, you still haven't fallen behind."

"But-"

"And you're gonna catch up this summer very quickly! You're graduating on time! So you're not behind."

"Bu-"

"No buts!" mom stopped me, "You're doing great. You're smart and you're going to graduate on time! And if you don't believe me, just look at your grades!"

After that little confrontation, I still didn't believe my mom like I probably should've. I still underestimated myself in every way possible. While I did my school work, I worked on it very slowly, paranoid about every possible mistake I may or may not have made. The nice thing about Homebound was that school fit into my own schedule rather than the other way around, so I could work on homework whenever I liked. Sometimes, I'd work on it as soon as I got home from school. Sometimes, I'd work on it as soon as I got home from school, pause it, then resumed it later. And sometimes, I'd work on it late at night. 

My teacher told me that if I ever felt myself getting stressed out over my work, or the answer to a problem wasn't coming to me as quickly as I wanted it to, I could pause my work and take a break. I used this strategy often, especially as the work got progressively more complex, and my grades proved to me that the strategy helped me out a lot. Sometimes, the answer to a question would come to me out of nowhere, and other times, I'd have to wrestle with the question a little more until I found an answer I was satisfied with.

Unfortunately, as the month of May came to a close, my grandpa Bob passed away. His unexpected passing forced me to stop working on school completely for at least a week, while I attended his funeral and regrouped. 

Because it was so sudden, I struggled to get a plane ticket to Minneapolis, and then a driver to take me to Lake City, and hour and a half southeast of Minneapolis. But, my mom offered to take me, which came as a huge surprise since my mom always talked about how much she hated Minnesota and would never go there again. She loved my dad's family, but did not like the overall climate of southeast Minnesota, or the culture. 

My dad told me I wasn't obligated to come to Minnesota, and if I did, I'd have to be around my stepmom and her side of the family. However, I told him that we all needed to swallow our pride for once, and I needed to say my goodbyes. Nothing was gonna stop me from attending my grandpa's funeral, especially since everyone else in my family begged me to go and even assigned me as a casket bearer. My dad finally agreed, and told me he'd meet me at the farm a couple days before the funeral. 

At 3 AM on a Tuesday morning, after getting no sleep, my mom and I left for the airport. By 5:00 AM, we were 30,000 feet in the air, headed northeast for Minneapolis. I slept on the plane, hoping to catch an hour of sleep before guiding my mom on the journey to the farm. She hadn't been there for over 15 years. However, my attempts to sleep on the plane failed, and as soon as we got off the plane, I made a bee-line for the nearest airport store to get myself a large Coke. 

My mom drove our little rental car slowly down the wet highway as heavy sheets of rain lashed at the windshield. We were one of the few cars on that stretch of highway, and I watched through the window as we passed by lush woods, thick green pastures, and acres of freshly plowed cropland that extended over rolling hills for as far as the eye could see. 

We turned off the highway after over an hour of driving, and I was agitated by how slow my mom was driving on the white gravel country roads. I was used to my dad's driving, which was actually quite dangerous. My mom was in no mood to drift and skid around those country roads like my dad often did, so I eventually gave up encouraging her to go faster, and let her drive below the 20 mile-per-hour speed limit. 

We passed through a little town called Oak Center, and then followed the road for the final mile, before turning into my grandma's driveway. The weathered victorian farmhouse still looked the same as it always did, and as we slowly drove up the gravel drive, about 20 mangy barn cats scattered in front of us in all directions, which startled my mom. In the pasture beyond the granary, black angus-holstein cattle grazed alongside their newborn calves, and beyond that were more acres of freshly plowed and planted cropland. Everything on that farm was just how it always been, yet it felt so different; so empty. 

My mom parked the car in the shadow of the granary where most of the barn cats ran to hide from us, and then together we slowly walked up the concrete steps and into the side-door of grandma's house, which opened up into the kitchen. There, my grandma Shirley stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes. When I came in there, she immediately looked up, smiled and embraced me. 

"I'm so glad you came!" she said in her thick midwestern accent, "I bet you're hungry!"

"I always am, grandma!" I smiled. 

"Good! I suppose your mom's hungry too!" grandma said as she hugged my mom.

"I am." my mom smiled. 

While my mom and grandma briefly caught up, I walked around the house just to check things out. Almost everything was the same, though it was eerily quiet without the TV or the radio blaring at nearly full volume. I startled when I walked into the living room and saw grandpa's empty wheelchair parked in his usual spot in front of the TV. Immediately, I felt a lump form in my throat, and struggled to choke back tears. Suddenly, the reality of my grandpa's passing hit me. It was something I had never felt before. I felt a searing physical pain wash through my body as tears welled up in my eyes. I quickly swallowed, and wiped the tears away from my eyes as I turned around to head back to the kitchen.

I paused in the main room, where grandma had a handful of open photo albums on the main dining table and on top of the antique cast iron stove. She sorted them out so they were in chronological order, from her and my grandpa's childhoods, to the last pictures of them they ever got taken. I started thumbing through the oldest photo album, which had pictures of my grandparents when they were kids. There weren't many pictures of them before their high school days, so after only a couple of pages, I came across my grandparents' wedding photos, a few of which were colorized. My grandpa towered over my grandma in those pictures, and they were both overjoyed about the marriage.

My mom and grandma joined me in the main room, where my grandma's cheery energy perked me up as well. She excitedly continued to catch up with my mom, while also showing her the photo albums. My grandma told stories about her life with my grandpa, starting with the day they met, and continuing up until his final day. In fact, my mom and I sat with my grandma at the dining table for two hours, listening to her talk about my grandpa. 

I thought I knew my grandpa Bob well before I read his obituary and listened to my grandma Shirley talk about him. But the more I listened, the less I realized I actually knew about my grandpa. Truth is, I never knew my grandpa Bob outside of his wheelchair. He was disabled long before I was born, and by the time I came along, his condition had deteriorated considerably since he suffered the brain aneurysm that took away his able body when he was 40 years old. 

Before his brain aneurysm, my grandpa was a very active man. He loved to hunt and was a lifetime board member of the local sportsmen's club. He grew hundreds of acres of crops, raised hundreds of Hereford cattle, and still found time to create a family and spend quality time with them, all the while battling a handful of minor health conditions. My grandpa Bob, for reasons I don't know, didn't have the ability to sweat. He struggled to regulate his body temperature not just in the heat, but in the cold as well. So, for a few winters, he and the family would move to a suburban house in Arizona, while the Minnesota farm froze under a blanket of heavy snow for several months out of the year.

In 1983 or 1984, after having three boys and one girl, my grandpa suffered sudden, stroke-like symptoms which landed him in the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, about a half-hour's drive from the farm. To save his life, doctors had to remove a considerable amount of his brain, taking away my grandpa's ability to walk without help, talk without slurring his speech, or hold spoons and pens without severely shaky hands. My dad was only 5 or 6 years old when my grandpa Bob suffered such a cruel blow in life, so he grew up going to frequent doctors' appointments and watching as his dad struggled to take care of his own basic needs. 

My grandpa refused outside help, as did my grandma. Aside from going to the hospital for frequent check-ups and physical therapy, my grandma Shirley was my grandpa's only caretaker. Meanwhile, my uncle Wade took over the farm with the help of my uncle Wes, while my aunt Stacey went to Minneapolis with her fiance to start a family of her own, and my dad took the bus to and from school everyday. 

My grandpa Bob was very stoic and refused to show much emotion towards his condition. He relied on comedy to lighten the mood during the hardest times, and his stubborn nature always ensured that he'd come home and recover from every bout of illness he was challenged with. Because of this, my dad grew up emotionally immune to most medical emergencies, which is why he coped so well when I came into the world. 

But, that's also what made my grandpa's passing so much more shocking to us. My grandpa refused to give up, even when the odds were strongly stacked against him. He had many close calls with death before. A few times, he was so sick that my dad and I packed in my dad's little white Subaru, and drove across the Great Plains during the height of tornado season to visit grandpa in the hospital. I remember walking down those white-tiled ICU walls all too well, squeezing my dad's hand as we rounded a corner to my grandpa's room, unsure of what we would find. As cheery as he and my grandma would be, my grandpa would be unable to talk to us. Every time he ended up in the hospital with Pneumonia or something similar, he'd get a tracheostomy to help him breathe. While that made his recovery much quicker, the tracheostomy would be placed below my grandpa's vocal chords, stealing all of the air away from them, and thus robbing my grandpa of the ability to speak. 

As painful as those memories are, my grandpa always came home from the hospital and resumed life as usual. The last time I saw him, he was at home, active as always. My grandpa loved old country western music, especially if it was gospel music. In fact, the very last hour I saw him alive, he was watching the Grand Ole Opry on TV, where all they sang was bluegrass gospel music. If only I knew that was the last time I'd ever see my grandpa Bob alive again. 

When my mom left the farm to check into her hotel, I was left alone with my grandma Shirley as I waited for aunt Stacey to get off work. Outside, it was still cold and wet, but feeling restless, I headed out there anyway. 

The barn cats wasted no time rubbing up against my legs and using my jeans as their own personal scratching posts. I startled the cats away from me, because they were full of mange and grossly deformed due to being so inbred. Still, they trailed behind me at a safe distance as I headed towards the pasture, where the neighbor had his herd of holstein-angus cattle for the summer. I was still stunned by my grandpa's passing, and even though I knew he was gone and the air felt so much heavier, a part of me still expected to hear his radio turn on and faintly sing old country music to the rest of the farm from an open window. But when I returned to the house after patrolling most of the farmyard, I was met with a dark, empty kitchen. 

While my grandma was busy with other things, I sat down at the main dining table and flipped through the old photo albums. I saw my grandpa as a young man riding his beloved horse, Judy, and driving old tractors and pickup trucks. I saw my grandma as a young woman caring for my newborn aunt Stacey, and then my newborn uncle Wade a few years later. I watched through the pictures as the family grew. I saw my uncle Wes as a newborn, shortly followed by my dad, and just as everything seemed to be stable, disaster struck. 

There was a gap in time, and when it resumed, my grandpa was in a wheelchair looking quite a bit older than before. My aunt Stacey had grown up and was living in the city, hoping to start a family of her own, while my uncle Wade was now in charge of two farms. 

It was weird flipping through those antique photo albums and seeing the family grow, from just my grandparents, to my aunt and uncles, to my dad, to my cousins, and then finally, in the second to last photo album, I came along. I was arguably the most beloved grandchild in the family. Not only did my grandparents, aunt, and uncles absolutely adore me, but my cousins fought over me. In some ways, they still do. 

I was blissfully unaware of the time as I slowly flipped through each photo album, listening to the rain quietly pelt the granary's tin roof outside through open windows. As I closed the final photo album after staring at pictures that were only a few months old at most, I heard the kitchen screen door swing open and shut, and my aunt's familiar voice calling my name. 

That night, my aunt brought me to my uncle Wes's house for an evening on the patio. After shooting a couple of .22's for fun, I settled down next to Wes's wife, Jess, and the four of us talked about grandpa and how his passing affected us. Everyone was inexplicably anxious leading up to his passing, and when he was nearing his final hour in the early morning hours of Memorial Day, my grandpa woke up unable to breathe, and struggled to wake up my grandma (who was sleeping next to him) to tell her what was wrong. My grandma woke up to my grandpa barely breathing, and ran to call the hospital and family using the landline phone in the main room. All of his kids rushed to the farmhouse to say their goodbyes before the EMTs could arrive. Only my dad couldn't be there in person, but he was able to Skype in thanks to my aunt Stacey.

For over an hour, the EMTs tried to stabilize my grandpa enough to airlift him to the hospital, while my aunt, uncles, and grandma anxiously stood in the bedroom door frame, hoping he'd pull through. Unfortunately, my grandpa was too far gone, and passed away the moment my grandma kissed him goodbye one last time. He had lived for 76 years, severely handicapped for 36 of those years, and he passed away just like he wanted to; on his farm he grew up to love surrounded by his family. 

The rest of the trip went by in a blur. My memory and thinking skills were clouded by grief and disbelief. My aunt Stacey and I joined my mom for lunch, and a family bond that had been shattered by divorce so many years before, mended almost completely within that hour at the lunch table, while my aunt and I shared a plate of beef liver in front of my squeamish mom. I, like so many others, broke down sobbing when I saw my grandpa in his casket for the first time at the Wake. Guys in my family who boasted about being tough, masculine men who never cried, leaned on my grandpa's casket as rivers of tears streamed down their cheeks. 

The pain forced us to grow even closer together as a family than ever before, and we spent several hours at a tavern for dinner, telling classic family stories about my grandpa over hot wings and hot dogs. That night, my cousin Taylor and her fiance, Charles, joined me in the living room of the old farmhouse for the night. I had the couch while they slept on a mattress on the floor. The upstairs was too dilapidated for anyone to sleep up there comfortably. I was just glad that I didn't have to spend another night alone in the eerie farmhouse. I struggled to sleep the night before, because I felt like I was being watched the whole night. While I knew it was just in my head, the feeling never left me. But with Taylor and Charles on the floor right next to me, I was able to quickly and easily fall into a deep, dreamless sleep that night, even though I still felt like someone was watching me. 

The next morning, I found myself walking with just my aunt and my grandma, into the old Trinity Lutheran church just across the road from the farm. We were the first people to arrive, besides the pastor and undertakers. I helped by setting up a few pictures in the front foyer of the church, so when everyone else flooded in for the funeral, they could pause to stare at the pictures of my grandpa once again. 

Up a set of stairs and next to the archway into the main church room, was my grandpa's casket with a beautiful bouquet placed on top of the casket. By then, I was in the numbing stages of grief, so I managed to control my emotions when I approached the casket with my aunt to help her open it. Soon after, people began to flood into the church. Almost everyone that attended my grandpa's funeral were at the wake, but those who came to the funeral were those who knew my grandpa very well, rather than just people who vaguely knew him. Still, every pew, including the pews up in the loft, and several in the overflow room, was filled. We estimated about 300 people were at my grandpa's funeral. 

The funeral service was honestly one of the best church services I've ever attended. The pastor knew my grandparents when they were newlyweds, though he was only a young teen when my grandparents got married. So, he knew what to preach about and how to talk about my grandpa to celebrate his life and allow us to mourn. When it came time to sing a few of my grandpa's hymns, I got chills while all 300 people sang at the top of their lungs. I've never been a good singer, so I kept quiet while I listened in awe at everyone's voices. First, they sang Amazing Grace, and after several more hymns, they finished off with an extended version of my grandpa's favorite hymn God be With You. 

I finally lost control over my emotions towards the end of the final hymn, and my tears lasted until my grandpa's casket was lowered all the way down into the grave. I was supposed to be a casket bearer, but I just couldn't find the strength to help my older cousins carry it, so I let my cousin Taylor take my place. But, as sad as that funeral was, my cousin Kellen threw his arm across my shoulders and reminded me that grandpa was in a much better place, and like my grandpa's favorite hymn promised, I'd eventually be reunited with him again. 

Together we walked back into the church, and followed the crowd into the basement where lunch was being served. I wasn't hungry, so I only took one roast beef sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate, and sat down between Kellen and my dad, while they told more stories about my grandpa and their childhoods. There, I managed to take a deep breath, and my emotions slowly subsided while I listened to my dad and my cousin share light-hearted stories from their childhoods. 

Back at the farm, while grandma and my aunt arranged the 50 or so bouquets flowers they were gifted by funeral attendees in the living room, I took some time to wander around the farm to clear my head. It was a bright, sunny day. There was a cool breeze blowing in from the south that gently rustled the trees. The birds were singing much louder than usual. I felt as though that was God's way of reminding me that grandpa was ok. The cattle in the pasture were pretty active. They grazed in the pasture while they kept an eye on their calves, which played around wildly around them. Everything was the same on the farm, though without my grandpa there, it felt painfully empty. 

I decided to sit down on the concrete foundation of one of the grain bins just to take everything in. I managed to relax and replace my feelings of depression and grief with a great sense of peace, which washed over me seemingly out of the blue. Several minutes later, I heard my name being called from the farmhouse. It sounded like a man's voice, though I couldn't put my finger on it. It sounded remarkably like my grandpa's, but it wasn't slurred or gravelly like his was. I sort of sat there, dazed, looking in the direction of the farmhouse which I could not see past the granary, when the same voice called my name again. This time, I couldn't resist it. I got up and trotted up to the house where there was no one. 

I headed up the concrete stairs to the side door into the kitchen, and just as I was reaching to open it, my grandma opened it and beckoned me inside saying, "I was just about to call ya! Lunch is ready!"

"Was someone just out here calling for me?" I asked, "I swear I heard someone calling for me, which is why I came back."

My grandma had a slight puzzled look on her face, but then smiled and said, "Not anyone around here. Everyone's been inside the whole time. But, lunch has been ready for awhile and it's getting cold! Grandpa didn't like it when lunch got cold!"

I knew what she was implying, but I wasn't sure how to take it. It certainly irked my atheist side. I just shook my head and got myself a plate to fill. 

That evening, after having dinner at the bar, which was paid for by my grandpa (he set aside about $600 so everyone could enjoy a few free beers alongside a free meal), my dad drove me back to Lake City where my mom was staying. I had a 7:30 AM flight to catch the next morning, and my mom didn't want to drive 10 miles out of her way to get me from grandma's at 4 in the morning. On the way there, my dad almost hit a wild turkey and then a deer on the same stretch of road, about a half-mile away from the church grandpa was just buried at. We both thought it was strange, since wildlife rarely cross that stretch of road, let alone across 3 other busy lanes to get to ours. But, we didn't think too deeply into it, and continued the rest of our journey. 

Once in the hotel room with my mom, I took a long, much-needed shower and let myself let out the last of my emotions while I stood under the steaming hot water. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest, and in some ways, it really had been. After that, I got dressed in my most comfortable pair of PJs, and passed out in bed for the night while my mom did some work on her laptop. 

The flight home was easy, and since it was such an early flight, I landed in Denver at about 8:30 AM, Denver time. I had an entire day to kill, but I was honestly exhausted and still lost in the fog of grief. I landed back home on a Friday, so I had an entire weekend to recover before returning back to my routine on Monday. My mom decided it would be best to send me to Clarke's house that weekend, where I could relax in the country and get my mind off the hard things I was going through. 

Clarke picked me up shortly after Mom and I got home from the airport. I didn't have to worry about packing anything up. I just took my bags that went with me to Minnesota to Clarke's. 

Near the end of summer, my mom found another house to move into. It was twice as large as our house, and in a much nicer neighborhood. When my mom showed me the house for the first time. I didn't like it. I thought the neighborhood was too pretentious and the layout of the house was weird. Sure, we had a lot more space, but the house was much more comparmentalized and needed some work.

It had been renovated over the years, but it still needed a lot of work, and I didn't look forward to renovating the house while we lived in it. At the same time, I knew why my mom was moving. She wanted to expand her net worth even more, even though that meant I'd have to attend school completely online since the library was way too far away for me to walk to. Plus, Jack needed a good school to go to, which was in the neighborhood my mom wanted to move to. 

I reluctantly packed up my things and helped clean up the house so it was ready to be advertised online. Meanwhile, my mom tried to get me excited about moving by bringing me to our new house a few weeks before our moving date, and showing me around. Our new house was twice the size of our old house. It sat on a street corner, so the front lawn was bigger than the front lawn at our old place, but the backyard was also considerably smaller than our older one, so it wouldn't be harder to mow. The backyard was shaded by huge