Entry Eighty-Nine

The Wicker Chair From Down Stairs-Version 1

SYNOPSIS(originally posted on Facebook in response to a comment)-There once was a bed ridden young man who feels like he can't do anything with his life. One day his parents bring up this wicker chair from the down stairs living room and put it in his room facing his window, in case he is ever able to move from the bed to the chair. This chair represents physical and mental struggle as, every day, the boy attempts to get out of bed just to get to the chair. His best friend becomes his love interest, he eventually makes it to the chair (representing a huge mental and physical achievement), and then 2 days after, dies because of the added strain to his body.

Story Style: Journal

Maine Character: Darby

Thursday January 1, 2009

This is a stupid idea. A stupid idea presented by my stupid therapist. The one who thinks he can scoop out my brain, look at it under a plastic children's magnifying glass, and asses every aspect of my psyche. I have to distinguish because there is also the therapist who thinks that the words "you can do it" have some sort of magical property that will cure me and I will feel below my waist again.

So I've been seeing this brain guy for about a week now and he says to me, "hey it's the new year soon. I think it would be a good idea for you to keep a journal for the year. That way, at the end we can see your progress." This is like the one thing that these guys learned in school that they remember. Journals somehow make everything better. Well, screw him.

Yet here I am. Writing away. I guess I do it because I know this will count as "progress points" to him and maybe that will appease my parents.

So, I guess I should just...introduce myself? I don't know. Who is going to read this? Maybe some futuristic civilization will dig it up years from now and it will become their bible.

That civilization is screwed.

My name is Darby.

My parents say they liked it because somewhere they heard it means Freedom. I think it's a very loose translation. I also think they told me that because they didn't want to admit that my mom has a Sean Connery fetish and one of her favorite movies is Darby O'Gill and the Little People.

So I'm stuck with it.

Pretty hilarious if you ask me. My name is freedom. The one thing I don't have. I am forever trapped in this cage of a body. In this cage of a mind. All because I got the best Christmas present ever: A motorcycle.

It was from my brother. He's this mechanical genius and for Christmas he fixed up this bike for me. My old piece of crap car had died 6 months earlier and I was resigned to public transportation. I nearly cried when I unwrapped the keys.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

I had to give it a go THAT DAY, of course. Lucky for me we hadn't had snow all winter. Just blinding cold. But I didn't care. My little sister had gotten me a biker jacket which would keep the wind at bay (Guess what my parents got me? A helmet and enough reflectors to make me a lighthouse for cars). And so, after all the family greetings and formalities had been made and we had all stuffed ourselves with Christmas ham, I took her for a spin.

It was amazing, let me tell you. The best feeling I have ever experienced, I will probably ever experience in my now cursed life. That kind of freedom, speed, power-It was intoxicating.

Too bad I wasn't the only one intoxicated that night. I saw the light and it was this vibrant green color, accented by the bows and tinsel decorating the traffic signal poles. Our town is over the top like that. Everything has to look festive, including the traffic lights. Strings of street lights, even stop lights and all that. And then there was this bright blazing red Ferrari slicing through the intersection.

Slicing through me.

Then I'm in the hospital. White sterile blankets, beeping monitors, and everything else. And I can't feel below my waist.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

So there it is. On the most joyous day of the year, when I felt more free than I ever have in my life; a time where I truly could live up to my name, everything was taken from me.

So, Mr. I have a PhD in telling you what you think. If you are reading this, why don't you stick it where the sun don't shine. I'll spend the rest of my days brooding and moping, thank you very much.

It seems like the only appropriate thing to do.

Entry Eighty-Eight

There was this dream I had last night. Boy, was it ever a dream.

I'm sure that if the person that was in the dream were to know that I dreamed it, he would be...disturbed. MAYBE flattered.

I blame this dream on Julia Roberts and ELizabeth Gilbert. You see, last night I watched Eat. Pray. Love. It was what came in my Netflix. I'm not going to review the movie just now suffice to say that I hated the female lead. HATED HER.

Moving on.

One theme of this movie is Marriage and finding a man to tie yourself to.

And this is the dream that resulted. Had I written it down as soon as I woke up it might have been a little more detailed.

Ahem...

The first thing I remember is seeing him. And I knew who he was. A memory from the past. Someone I hardly knew anymore. And yet my mind flew to that moment where we were connected.

His name was Chris. Last name not important. He was of average height, gangly, and had curly dark hair. We grew up in elementary school together. Sharing nothing more than games of tag, maybe a group project or two, and the sweet voices that only children can have. We were in second grade. Mrs. Thompson love to put on little plays and productions. The Christmas season was no exception. At the end of our little skit, Chris and I sang Silent night-a little duet. Our voices were clear and innocent and brought tears to our teachers eyes. I will forever remember that day.

This memory hit me and as I observed Chirs, I could see a remnant of the small boy with the lovely voice. But I also rememberd the turn his life took once he hit high school. Drugs and failure.

I'm not sure if her really ever proposed to me. I just remember that we were engaged. He was handsome enough, but I felt I hardly knew him. And yet, I had said yes. Part of me felt obligated. Another part of me knew that this was the only offer of marriage I would ever recieve and that no matter what happened we could find a way to be happy.

Everything was so sudden. We were to be married that day. Right away. A traditional ceremony. No planning, just a gathering of all who were already there (some friends and family) and a priest. I had no dress. I was clothed in jeans and a t-shirt. It was all I had. I went to the tiny church bathroom and threw up. Then I tried to do my hair so I didn't look so awful. I stood in the doorway, waiting to walk down the isle alone. Laughing because no one really seemed to know when I was supposed to start walking. Laughing because nothing was planned and everything was wrong. Laughing (a little bitterly) at the absurdity of it all. Then a Hymn began to play. Which hymn it was I don't know but it was not a traditional wedding march. The ring bearer was James Young-from High School. An odd choice since I haden't seen HIM in 6 years. He was having a hard time marching to the beat of the song. This also made me laugh. But I followed behind. Walking slowly because at the end of the isle, where there should be a groom, there was no one. Chirs wasn't even there for this haphazardly thrown together wedding.

And so I walked on. Slower and slower as people murmured around me. Hoping that he would show even though every part of my cried against this wedding. Why was I doing this? I hardly knew him! I shouldn't marry someone just because they were the only one to ask and I would probably recieve no other offer. With all these thought rambeling around, I reached the end. Stood there. The last notes of the music ringing in my ears. The priset wasn't even there. Why? Perhaps he had gone to look for Chris. I stood there, flowers in my hand, in my jeans and t-shirt and wondered if this was a sign. Surely it was.

Abuptly, everyone got up and started to mingle. And I was still left alone. Wondering what all this meant. Time, which I was unaware of, passed by and the chapel was empty. Even the walls dissappeared and it was just me, some carpetd stairs, and the organ around which Chris walked. He was dressed in a blueish silver tuxedo with long tail coats. He looked confused.

"I thought the wedding was later." He says, brows furrowed.

"They decided to have it right away." I tell him apologetically.

"This is all very strange and uncomfortable." He is frowning now.

I point out that at least he is wearing a tuxedo. I didn't even have time to find a dress. I didn't have time to do anything for this wedding. It just happened.

"Why did you agree to it?" He asks, matter of factly.

I don't have a good answer but tell him, "Because I felt I had no choice."

"You always have a choice." He holds out his hand to me. And for the first time in the whole dream I feel that there is possibility here.

This is where things get...a little strange.

I go to inerlock my fingers in his and he only holds onto two of mine, saying "watch this".

He then proceeds to do this neat trick where he eaisly and painlessly flips me up and onto his back (we are back to back) and then rolls me gently off the other side. This makes my stomach flip and I am impressed. He proceeds to do other tricks with me like picking me up and puting me on his shoulders. I feel this should be impossible because I am a little taller than him and certainly weigh more. And yet he does it with ease and I find myself laughing. Not bitterly this time but in joy and happiness. In amusement. And for the first time in this dream, I see a chance for happiness.

And as always, before I have a chance to explore that happiness, I wake up.