For New People

If you've just now found your way onto my blog, hi :) I tend to write about a lot of varied stuff, from "Cognitive Dissonance" to [Mormon] church stuff; memoirs and essays to ideas and opinions and sociological views of the gender differences. I haven't written in pretty much forever since mid-October because it's been crazy-busy and I've gone through a lot of "potential-blog-posting-experiences" (maybe I should write about that time I had a nervous breakdown at Bogus Basin during Christmas Break) which range from *perfectly normal* to *you could write a freaking book*. I'll try and possibly catch up on some of that later. Anyways, some of my early stuff on this blog is... well, kind of really opinionated (hence the blog name!)

Before you read some of my early posts, this is my disclaimer: For a few months back there I wasn't really a happy camper with the church, and was all fired up and ranting about all the some of the wrong reasons. Some of those posts and my views in them kind of take up the tone of bitterness, because I went through this stage where I was just picking church doctrine apart and trying to find things to argue about and disprove. (I think I'm out of that phase now but I'm still having a hard time with church for different reasons.) Now, I'm not saying that I am now completely disowning these views, but that looking back I find that some of them are just angst-fueled and, in a nutshell, childish and making me sound like a whiny teenager who has taken it upon herself to unveil the "inequalities of life". I don't want to delete them because, hmm, this is difficult to word. I still believe in some of the things I have previously written about, but not to the point I was at and I think some of the posts really aren't worth looking at. But I'll leave them up, and you can read some of them if you want even though some of them are really dumb.

Please keep in mind that while I am not apologizing for the views and opinions in some of my earlier posts, my views have changed a little and many of the posts are only emotionally-driven, so I do not want to engage in a "comment-war" about them. If you feel differently from them you can sure let me know, but please remember my views have changed to a certain extent and I don't really want to spend time arguing about these posts.

If you're new, here's four of some of my posts that are actually really worth reading:

Cognitive Dissonance Part I: Psychological phenomenons interest me and I spend much time reading up on them (Wikipedia is a very close friend of mine). Alongside that, I've come up close and personal to some psychological conditions either through myself or through personal or second-hand experiences with others. Plus, I love Les Misérables, the character Javert (along with *cough*RussellCrowe*coughcough*), and researching things. Bingo. Plus, I get pretty creative with the story narration. It makes a pretty interesting read. [Note: It says "Part I" because I was originally planning on writing another post about it. But meh. Not feelin' it. It probably won't happen. Très désolé.]

CPR and Life... Totally Random: This isn't really a big post. It's pretty good, though, if you want to see me talk about an abstract way of looking at CPR and the concept of hurting someone to essentially help them in the big picture. (I have to warn about a Star Trek [2012 movie] spoiler, though.)

Memoir: Okay, this was actually a Language Arts gosh darn essay assignment that I think I did pretty well on. If you wanna read about mah family and maybe get a little depressed gain insight into the experiences of losing a parent, this is actually a brilliantly excellent (excellently brilliant?) essay to read. I believe that the subject of death does not have to be depressing, it depends on the view of the reader. Go ahead and read!

Clothing Memories: I compare this post to the Memoir post above, but un peu différents. It was actually a submission to a website (wornstories.com) about the memories associated with an article of clothing. It's kind of personal, but really good. Highly recommended.

I Am Not a Boy: Now, okay, this one is kindaaaa politically-motivated. But not like all of my garbage beginner posts. In a good way. No matter your political agenda or personal beliefs, it's a pretty good read. Seriously. I don't really know how to explain it or put a summary, but if it's on this list, it's one I think you should read.

Sooo I'm hoping that by now there's going to be a change in the attitude or maybe a slight shift in views of future blog posts, starting now. I can usually find something interesting to write about or recycle one of my thought-provoking essays [hopefully] without offending anyone (I'm the kind of Language Arts student that mostly hides in the shadows but consumes books like chocolate and writes really good essays if I don't procrastinate and if I actually give a crap about the topic. All that added to a small-but-growing list of missing assignments, and you get a kid who is good enough to stand out but then again *not living up to her potential* AKA I'm super lazy. In other words, I'm that student that kind of intrigues LA teachers but I'm kind of weird and lazy so they don't really get into it with me.) (Just to be clear, I have loved/really liked every single Language Arts teacher I've had [CyrRiceFineThomasWelker] except for 7th grade.)

Okay. That went off on a slight tangent (probably due to the fact that it's 12:56 am and caffeine is fighting sleeping medication. "Sleep? Who needs sleep? I don't!" That's not what my doctor thinks) My little dog has been alternating between trying to sleep and giving me pitiful little glances letting me know that he wishes I wouldn't keep him up and that I would go to sleep ("seriously, even though you sleep pretty much all day and it's not like you have a busy life"). I'd better go :-)

Happy reading, 

Kelsey

Clothing Memories

[I originally wrote this as a submission to wornstories.com/. The guidelines said it had to be less than 600 words, so hopefully there are not many mistakes because of my attempt to squish it down. I tried to find a picture of the dress when it was brand new, but there's only two in existence and I can't find it in our picture black hole. Taking a picture of its state now, about 18 years later I believe would be anticlimactic.]

When you first look at my bed, it probably looks like it could belong to any other teenage girl: bedspread, pillows, and a few stuffed animals thrown in the mix. But if a quick scan turns into a searching glance, you would see that in the corner under the blanket is a small lump. This small lump isn’t another stuffed animal or small pillow.

That lump is a size three button up silky-like red dress that I sleep with. Every night.

Of course I realize that dresses are meant to be worn, not slept with. But this, this is my security blanket. The person who owned it before me only wore it on a few occasions, since it isn’t your average casual or church dress. Between the top button on the neck and the one below it, there’s a circular space designed to show a little skin with a heart charm hanging down into it. It almost seems slightly risqué, at least on a conservative Mormon. The previous owner doesn’t care about the fact that I sleep with it as one would sleep with an old, faded favorite blanket. The previous owner is dead. The previous owner was also my mother.

I found the dress when I was around thirteen. I was sifting through my mother’s hope chest at my grandparent’s house. When my grandma came in and saw that I had found it, she smiled. “I remember that dress. Your mom wore it when she and your dad and Grandpa and I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” at the Salt Palace. I think we got it at somewhere like… Dillard’s? No, I’m pretty sure it was Nordstrom.” Going through some of my grandma’s old pictures, I found a picture of the night they went. My mom is wearing the dress, with her hair down and her typical large smile spread across her face. Whenever I look at pictures of her, I study the eyes and the smile and think, she really didn’t know what was coming for her, did she?

At night I clutch the dress in my arms, holding it tight, inhaling that musty-yet-sweet smell of years passed in a cedar chest. It is soft to the touch, cool against my face, and makes me almost believe that my mother is here. I talk to it sometimes, pretending it is her. When I hug it, I hug my mom. When I tell her that I love her, it is she who hears it, not a piece of lifeless red fabric. One may chalk it up to madness; I chalk it up to grief.

The dress is among the few things I have left of a person I do not remember, aside from a few memories. It represents the person who loved singing alto in various choirs. It represents the person who would sneak microwave popcorn into movies using her purse. It represents the person who dedicated her life to her family and to her career as a psychiatric nurse. It represents the person who dealt with kidney disease and dozens of surgeries, along with a few near-death experiences. It represents the person who longed for a child for years, and in turn received two miracle babies.

Sometimes during the night the dress escapes above the covers. When my dad or stepmom wake me up, I try to hide and cover it. They never say anything, but I’m sure they’ve seen it and know of its existence. My family never talks about her, they pretend she never existed. She and the sadness from her death are not supposed to exist in our seemingly happy and normal family. But when I have no one else to turn to, the dress with the remnants of a person long gone will always be there to comfort me.

[UPDATE: I did find a couple of pictures of her with the dress, but not the one from the "Phantom of the Opera Night"... I'm sure the picture vortex in my house swallowed it up. This one was taken by my iPod camera and not scanned, thus the poor quality and discoloration. The poor quality does not, however, change my depressed look... :)]

Memoir

For Language Arts, our project we've been working on is a memoir. I wrote this all in a 90-minute period (yay for being a peer tutor in a class full of freshmen with nothing to do!) So.... Not exactly sure why I'm posting this, but I hope the writing's ok. Now, just to let you know, in case you're some random family member who was there at my parents' wedding, remember that I was five years old. I may not have remembered things exactly as they were. This is just as I remember them. So if it's completely wrong, that's nice. Don't ruin my story. And if you're my parents reading this, GTF(oops)[H]O. Thank you.

My last memory of her is of her in a hospital bed.

I don’t remember much, except for the warm yellow fluorescent lighting and that she was smiling. I don’t remember my three year-old self feeling fear or apprehension from the medical instruments and monitors. I just remember the happiness of my beautiful mother looking at me and smiling. It was the last time I would see her alive, though we didn’t know it at the time.

            Linda Diane Fralick Wilcox died on Thanksgiving, November 23^rd, 2000 of a cerebral hemorrhage. After a lifetime of suffering from multiple kidney transplants, dozens of surgeries, hypertension, and a couple of near death experiences she was finally gone. She died at only 34, leaving behind a 48 year-old husband to care for their three year-old girl and two-year old boy, her miracle babies.

            My first memory is of getting a computer for my 3^rd birthday (one of the benefits of having a father in the computer industry). I remember sitting outside my bedroom door, hearing the unknown noises coming from my room of my dad setting it up. I remember my mom sitting down by me, hugging me and laughing.

            “What do you think Daddy is doing in there?” she asked.

             With a shy but excited smile, I answered, “I don’t know” with an added shrug.

            We waited until he was finished, then I was introduced to a whole new world of Microsoft Word and a plethora of Sesame Street games.

            My second to last memory of her is on the way to Utah, a day or two before she died. We were about two hours away from our destination when two whining children wanted their mom.

            “Mommy!” Kevin wailed.

            “Mommy, please come sit back here with us! Please,” I pleaded.

 She finally relented, unbuckled, and precariously climbed into the back seat between us. That may have not seemed like a major act of love, but in that case, in that instant, it was everything.

            I don’t remember the funeral. And I’m glad. I’m well; I guess happy probably isn’t the right word to choose while talking about death. I’m suppose I’m thankful that my last memory of her isn’t of a cold, pale dead body, dressed in white clothes in a casket. This may sound demented but I have always been intrigued with dead bodies. From examining a dead mouse with my play doctor kit as a child to touching the waxy hands of the deceased at viewings and funerals, I’ve always found it fascinating. I know random facts, such as how decomposition starts the moment of death, though of course it’s not noticeable for another while.

            I want to know what makes a dead body so different from a living one. What is it about the moment of death, the absence of the spirit that causes such effects? Energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed. Where did the part of my mother that made her her go? I also wonder if someone this day, this second, is walking around with my mother’s corneas, her liver, hear heart. Definitely not her kidneys, because no one would want a malfunctioning, twice-used body part. I found out that she was an organ donor, that her body was kept alive just long enough to be eligible for organ donation. While her brain was… a dead, useless piece of body tissue.

            Because of my religious beliefs, I know that I will see her again. But that is not enough. I need her now. I found a hope chest of her things at my grandparent’s house. I sleep with her beautiful red dress she wore to see “Phantom of the Opera”, clutching it like a child’s security blanket, inhaling the musty but oh so wonderful scent of being in a wooden chest for 11 years. Sometimes by morning it ends up above the covers, and I know that my parents have seen it, though they never say anything. They never say anything at all.

            A month ago, I found a large box of her old things in the attic. I found a journal from when she was a teenager to her twenties, from which I found out her exact medical issues, that she didn’t even go on a date until she was 25, and that she considered suicide on a number of occasions. I found her old, huge make-up box filled with Amway makeup over 13 years old. I even found her glasses, those clunky, unattractive “coke bottle” glasses. I put them on and try to see what she saw. Maybe it would bring her back.

            My dad had already endured a divorce from his first wife in the 80’s, and now he was stuck again by himself but this time with two little children. I remember how night after night I would wake up in the middle of the night and run to his room, knock, and ask if I could sleep with him because I had a bad dream. I have to admit that I lied pretty much every night about those dreams. In reality, I was just lonely. In the mornings my dad would get my brother and I breakfast, do my hair in one or two little braids, and we would be off to the kind lady who babysat us every day. After over a year of shuffling my brother and me to the babysitter during the day, my dad finally found a permanent caregiver: my stepmother.

My stepmom was divorced by her alcoholic husband who came home with his new girlfriend and told her she had three weeks to move out. I didn’t care at the time that she was my stepmom, she was someone who was there to love me and take care of me. She was my new mother. She is a good woman and has done a wonderful job of raising my brother and me. But still it is not the same. I want the mother who thought she would be childless all her life. I want the mother who miraculously conceived and went through a risky pregnancy, but thought that her 3 lbs 7 oz daughter was perfect and completely worth it. I want the mother who would wake up in the middle of the night just to turn on the camcorder and record me, so that those moments could be captured forever. I want the mother who… loved me before she even knew me.

            On my dad and stepmother’s wedding day in January 2002, I was wearing a pretty puffy blue dress. I thought I looked just like Cinderella. No, I was Cinderella, and the temple with its beautiful fountain and landscaping was my castle. My new aunt was arranging all of my new cousins and aunts and uncles into cute picture-taking poses. Walking up to “Mommy”, I asked excitedly, “Can I be in a picture? Please?”

“No, honey,” she replied. “Only the cousins are going to be in this one.” My little five year-old mind was confused. Wasn't I part of this new family too? “But Mama, I am a cousin now too!” I could tell she was busy and didn’t want to worry about me at the moment. “Kelsey. These pictures are just for the people born or married into my family.”

“But… but Hannah and Abby were adopted, though—” She just looked at me. I could feel the implication. They count. You don’t.

  I was heartbroken. I wanted to be in a picture, any picture so terribly bad. I felt left out, like everyone got to have fun and be a part of everything while my maternal grandparents stood there watching Kevin and I the whole time. I wasn’t a part of that family. I didn’t count. I was an outsider.

            Sometimes now, when I put on her glasses and favorite lipstick (Amway color “Ember”) and squint reeeaaally hard while looking in the mirror, I can almost see her face. I can almost see the face I don’t remember but have memorized from looking at countless pictures. But when I open my eyes all the way again, I see no resemblance.

            There are dozens of photographs from that wedding day, and I pass many of them in a collage frame in the hallway many times a day. I am in only one picture, the group picture, where my little body is standing in front of my new mom, face stained with dried tears, with red eyes and a half-hearted, attempted smile.

Here's a poem I found online a couple of years ago that I really love and I'm thinking about adding it to the the printed copy:

“Memories”

By “AmbRawr”

And I remember she wouldn’t wake up.
Her lips were mushed together in a
Horrible shade of red
They buried my mother in a white dress
And red lips.
And she couldn’t see.
Where are your glasses, Mommy?
And still at sixteen I bring them to my face
And peer through the distorted murky lenses
To see what she saw
Maybe one day …
And I remember it hitting me 
Like it does every day
When I hear them all talk and complain about their
“Horrible” mothers
What’s it like to have a mother
I’d give anything to know,
Or at least for them to know how lucky they are.
They know.
And I remember she wouldn’t sit up
And I dreamed of a stuffing machine because
Someone whispered by my ear she was
Cut in half and stuffed
And it made no sense
And still at sixteen I wonder
What happened to my mother?
And I remember her faintly 
She doesn’t even smile in my dreams anymore
And I wonder if she’ll ever be proud of me
If she’d ever approve of me
And who I’ve become 
The things I’ve seen
The things I’ve done
And I remember her singing 
Though I can’t hear her voice
The only happy Christmas I hold on to
Every year
Maybe one day it’ll come back
I used to think
Maybe one day she’d come back
And still at sixteen I hope
Maybe one day she’ll come back …
And I remember she wouldn’t wake up
Not even to say good-bye.

Haha, are you depressed yet from reading this? Sorry.

CPR and Life.... Totally Random

It's been forever since I've posted... I feel kind of bad, but school's been crazy. Fun, but crazy. Anyways, my Language Arts teacher (better known as English to you non-sophisticated, non-Kuna folks) seems like she's pretty crazy, but in reality she's pretty cool. Every class period she has us write something, and last time she wanted us to write a story or experience in exactly 150 words (because of course Reader's Digest is offering $25,000 if they publish it...) So here's mine:

There was a lifeless Caucasian torso lying on the table, staring at me through the crack of its eyelids. My fist was interlaced over my other hand. Then with all the strength in my little arms, I pushed the sternum in, it bending like a piece of thin Plexiglas. 

28, 29, 30, breathe. Pinching the nose shut, I breathed air into the non-existent lungs of the CPR mannequin. It was feeling surreal when our instructor said hastily to the class, "Ok, that's probably good. Let's move on to first aid."

While he droned on about burns and cuts, I stared at the wall, thinking. A teacher collapsing in the middle of class. A child laying face down in a lake. A suffocating baby.

Could I do it? Handle the desperation as I break bones, trying to save someone's life? And if I failed? A broken, lifeless body. A mannequin.

So where did this come from?

Last week I spent nearly my entire day participating in and helping out with a free CPR class. The instructor was pretty freaking hilarious, though he obviously didn't know that there were at least four Mormons in the class when he was joking around with everyone, talking about their experiences getting drunk.

I know. I love my iPod camera too.

I can't really describe the feeling when we were working. It was kind of weird, because, first of all, CPR's pretty much pushing someone's freaking chest in. Now, as I'm touching my sternum gingerly (I'm a sympathetic pain kind of person...), I can't even imagine it moving. And then when I'm just, lah-dee-dah, having play time with a plastic mannequin, you don't even hardly have to push to get that thing to cave in.

And breaking ribs. Don't you even get me started on that.

I just can't imagine what it would be like doing CPR on an actual person. I mean, obviously you would want to save their life and everything, but come on; I'm the one writhing in sympathetic agony and discomfort when Khan squishes Admiral Marcus' skull in with his hands in the new Star Trek movie. (haha, oops, spoiler alert... en retard.)

I've never broken a bone in my life or seen anyone break a bone, so I seriously have no idea what it's like. So all of the sudden if I have to do CPR on someone, I'll probably be crying and on the verge of a panic attack while trying to re-start someone's heart.(Why am I thinking of going in the medical field?!?)

I think it all comes down to this: "Sometimes in order to help someone, we need to hurt them first." Examples are of when a bone heals incorrectly and doctors have to re-break it and set it, slicing someone open to fix something in their body, and even other stuff that doesn't pertain to the medical field, like how you have to deadhead rosebushes or trim trees so that they can grow in healthier. CPR's kind of a life lesson, you know? If you can look past the literal fact that you are performing an act on someone that will save their life, there's all kinds of ways you can look at it.

So, if at all possible, please do not stop breathing and fall over with no pulse right in front of me. I'm perfectly qualified and might be able to save you, but I'm pretty sure your broken bones will hurt me more than they will hurt you.