#depression is getting worse someone end me like my sewing machine.

[childlikegoblinqueen]

Writing Notes

I have ONE more chapter planned before I go on vacation but I am sooooooo spent from the last one I wrote. I have a bit of the next chapter mapped out and know where I want it to end, but I feel like I need to unload a bit about the last one, how I wrote it and why I head canon Bard Hunter.

Don't read anymore unless you have read Chapter 26 of Sweet Child O' Mine, and if you haven't read it yet, check it out :D It nearly killed me.

Spoilers below!

First, Why Bard Hunter? I will write another post later on regarding writing the actual fight scene and how music choices played into it.

So, while Hunter was in the Human Realm we pretty much see that he is creative. The sewing has been often noted as a way for Hunter to stay "close to Darius" since his "father figure" is far away and/or possibly dead, but he goes beyond learning how to "neatly sew".

After Camila shows Hunter how to use the sewing machine, he creates! His shirts and curtains etc. are chaotic! Patches every where! Very grunge/punk! We know that in the castle he had expressed curiosity which was constantly stamped out because he had a purpose and a path that he was not supposed to stray from or else ....

So being a music person myself I imagined that all the children would need MUSIC in order to heal fro their trauma, and there are likely a slew of popular bands/artists from the BI, but I would imagine that Hunter had not been permitted anything but whatever was Belos approved, which coming from a Puritan, was likely not great. Maybe some somber hymns to the Titan or to the emperor himself? Especially since Belos seemed to want to mold the grimwalkers into his ideal version of Caleb ("better version of an old frend". What an ass thing to say about a literal child!)

It has also been noted by some that when Raine seems to look back at Hunter during the scene in the castle where Hunter is ignored by the other Coven Heads, Raine seems low key concerned that this kid needs to get out of that place.

I do hope that Raine survives WAD. Part of my inspiration for Raine teaching Hunter how to mold Bard music is that not only are they both creative, but they are also the only two that have been possessed by Belos. In writing this scene and building their relationship, I thought about a simple way two people with shared trauma could communicate and heel without actually talking about the trauma. Music is perfect for that.

Eventually we will see how Hunter uses music to communicate in other ways, but we've already seen how he and Willow play a game where they try to guess the band and song based on a small portion of lyrics. They communicate non-verbally, but Willow realizes that Hunter is deeply depressed living with Darius, while living through the trials and dealing with the press. Likely Hunter doesn't realize this himself. Willow notes that Hunter is only playing while using Nirvana lyrics and having lived with him for months in the human realm, she’s aware that he listens to Nirvana when he’s depressed. Really, he's going through the motions and trying to appease someone he looks up to.

A lot of this story is about Hunter's own anxieties about becoming a parent, as well as the figures in his life who have parented him for better or for worse -- as well as parental figures like Odalia who are toxic, and Alador who knows that he messed up.

That was a flashback to the past. In the current timeline we know that Hunter and Willow have developed a healthy romantic relationship. He has strong bonds to his adoptive family of Camila, Luz, and Vee (his guitar belonged to Manny). He enjoys a good relationship with others in the Owl House universe. He has accomplished a lot, but prefers to stay out of the spotlight due to many things that took place both during his tenure in the castle and how he was treated by the public in the aftermath.

The thread about Perry's supposed protege, who alerted Hunter to other students trying to exploit a relationship with him during his first weeks at Hexside will be picked up again. I really try to leave bread crumbs without revealing too much upfront.

We also know that Dell has mentored him in palisman carving, and that he has somehow developed a healthy working relationship with Lilith who still works at the Supernatural History Museum.

I would hope that post Belos, the idea of "the savage ages" and "wild magic is evil" is a thing of the past as would be tracks at Hexside. So having Raine -- again being the only other one who hopefully survived possession -- teach Hunter to use the guitar he was gifted from his chosen family (Camila, Luz, and Vee) to generate magic was something I wanted to explore!

Which leads me to writing that dang scene.

#toh fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #huntlow fic #huntlow fanfiction #raine whispers #hunter deamonne #hunter noceda #hunter the golden guard #hunter wittebane #toh willow #the owl house raine #raine x eda #lumity #luz x amity #camila noceda #vee noceda #inspired by music #the owl house camila #toh boscha #fuck odalia #darius deamonne #alador blight

[the-revenirium-blog]

「 妈妈，爸爸，我想回家.」 "Mom, Dad, I want to go home."

2017 was the year I thought everything would be going amazing for me. I had a great relationship, supportive friends back at home, I was accepted into a college that would give me a certificate to pursue my dreams.

It wasn't very long after that I realized that it wasn't the perfect image of a life I wanted to live.

It started small, with troublesome pettiness, petty drama, expenses to be paid, bad decisions that I've made with myself, and my own selfishness that costed me my friendships and eventually, my own relationships.

I thought myself superior to the old me. That I'm better already, I can keep going, I can keep fighting. I ignored every single sign my body blared at me, I forced the energy to come and work for me. I kept going, until everything around me slowly unravelled.

I am so sorry that I wasn't a better child that made better choices.

I am so sorry that I was a selfish person that valued myself more, and neglected you, to the point you felt like you were discarded.

I am sorry that I am tired and sick and have terrible judgement.

But most of all, I am sorry, Me, that I let yourself get this way.

I am currently in my final semester of community college. With approximately 3 weeks left until my final assessment, with a full gown to sew and a portfolio to make, and an internship to apply for.

Today, 7th of May 2018, I sent in an application to drop out of college and said my goodbyes to my classmates.

"It's a shame, you only have a bit more to go!" "You're wasting time and energy! And money!" " But you were such a good student, why quit now?" "You're being a quitter!"

Those were the responses I got from various people.

Classmates who insisted I lend them my sewing machine that I paid for with my own money, or to give them my things that I so stressfully budgeted money to buy for class.People that never truly took the time to talk to me as a person, or understand what it was like, for me.

Lecturers who truly cared and listened to me, and were so sad to see me go, and wanted to hear from me personally why.

Friends from other courses who I supported today for the last time by being their first customer at their shops today, for Business Day.

People that called me a quitter, did not realize how in pain I was, having to force myself to get up every single day, to go to class, to sit down for hours to focus and sew, to struggling with basic human functions like eating and sleeping.

People that were disappointed in me, because I didn't fully finish what I started.

I am glad that I truly know which people are truly there for me at my worst, and I am very grateful for them for being around to see my best.

Saturday, two days ago, I went to class as per usual. It was a morning replacement class due to all the holidays this month, and I did not think much. Just finish my sewing, go home, shower, sleep.

It wasn't until I realized I couldn't sew anymore at all that I broke down. I couldn't focus, I considered just cutting everything and just failing the semester, but I finally adknowledged the one thought that was bothering me.

"I want to go home."

I excused myself from my class and for the first time in a year, I called my mother and said,

"妈妈，我想回家." "Mom, I want to go home."

My mother comforted me, and told me that she already knew I was at my breaking point.

"Come home. Come home to mom and dad. We'll be your shoulder to lean on, so don't cry alone anymore."

I cried and cried out there in the empty hall. My legs, covered in dried bleeding scabs and rashes, were sweating, my back hurt, my shoulders ached.

Just a few days prior, I had ended my 2-year relationship with my boyfriend as well.

My now-ex boyfriend, D, I am very, very sorry that I couldn't be the person to grow old with you. You are right, you are not growing younger, and you truly did need someone to be there for you.

But that person is not me.

You did not have to trouble yourself with my problems, or my family. You did not in fact need to send money to me at all for college or rent. You did not need to take me to the doctors, to buy me so much for my skin, because now, down to the very last, it was me that ruined everything.

At 18, I was so sure that I've found my happiness.

At 20, I am tired, depressed, and damaged, but I know that I will still find my happiness.

My depression and I have had an ongoing on-off relationship. I am aware that not many of us truly understand how it is, or how it affects us.

And that's okay. We do not truly understand it either.

For me, every single day, there is a silent voice in my head that tells me, despite all I have done, I will never be enough.

The voice tells me, my parents are disappointed in me. The voice tells me, my friends never truly cared.

The voice told me, I was truly better off not existing.

I did pretty well in ignoring that voice. I tried to be a positive presence in people's lives, in my friends' lives and my family's, changing things for the better and acknowledging my flaws. I am trying still. And I will keep trying.

But my stress did not cease. Where hence it came from,I never found out. Was it from a close minded community that I was in? Was it the negativity that I'm seeing on a day to day basis? Or was it from me?

It slowly manifested into a physical form. A physical, self-harming habit. Scratching.

A lot of my friends and family are aware, I am allergic to VARIOUS kinds of things, to the point even going out to eat is troubling. Now, after seeing a skin doctor, I have also realized I am also sensitive to heat, sweat, and dirt, and dust, and most importantly, STRESS.

"Don't stress. Your skin will get worse." "Just don't scratch it!" "Why so stress for?"

Those were the words I was told over and over. But did they truly understand how insane it drove me?

I did not even notice I had dermatillomania, or Excoriation Disorder, until I saw how much bleeding and scarring my skin was starting to get.

For those that are unfamiliar, here is a quote from Wikipedia: ["Excoriation disorder is a mental disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one's own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused. Excoriation disorder is defined as "repetitive and compulsive picking of skin which results in tissue damage".

The inability to control the urge to pick is similar to the urge to compulsively pull one's own hair, i.e., trichotillomania.

Researchers have noted the following similarities between trichotillomania and excoriation disorder: the symptoms are ritualistic but there are no preceding obsessions; there are similar triggers for the compulsive actions; both conditions appear to play a role in modifying the arousal level of the subject; and the age of onset for both conditions is similar.

There is also a high level of comorbidity between those that have trichotillomania and those that have excoriation disorder. A notable difference between these conditions is that skin picking seems to be dominated by females whereas trichotillomania is more evenly distributed across genders.

Research has also suggested that excoriation disorder may be thought of as a type of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). Excoriation disorder and OCD are similar in that they both involve "repetitive engagement in behaviors with diminished control" and also both generally decrease anxiety."]

Slowly my skin started bleeding and itching non stop. Even from going out to take out the trash, my skin would sweat, and then immediately result in a maniacal itching that nothing could stop. I scratched myself raw, to the point of bleeding, wearing clothes irritated my skin and gave me even more rashes and scabs, and I was constantly showering.

It did not help at all that I felt tired, fat, ugly and depressed as well.

This is my story. This is why I suddenly decided to come home.

Let it be known that I wasn't a quitter. I fought and I lost, but I didn't give up. I had fought for years, and I will continue to fight again.

I will find a way back on track. I will return stronger. But for now, I am just me. I am tired, sick and in pain.

I just want to go home and recover from all that's happened to me.

If anyone that's truly read this far, This is my message to you. Thank you for caring and thank you for being patient with yourself. Give yourself some credit and be proud. Thank you for being alive and being good to yourself. Do take care of yourself. Nobody else can.

[I am not a stranger to the dark Hide away, they say 'Cause we don't want your broken parts I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars Run away, they say No one'll love you as you are

But I won't let them break me down to dust I know that there's a place for us For we are glorious When the sharpest words wanna cut me down I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out I am brave, I am bruised I am who I'm meant to be, this is me Look out 'cause here I come And I'm marching on to the beat I drum I'm not scared to be seen

I make no more apologies, this is me.]

妈妈，爸爸，我回家了.

This is the end of one journey, and a beginning of another.

#depression #my journey #my art #2018 art #dermatillomania #anxiety #stress #sketch #art #digital art #venting ahead #depression art #digital drawing #digital sketch

[birf]

OKAY IT GETS EVEN WORSE SOMEONE ASKS YOU SO I CAN RELATE depression sucks and i have no explanation for it i hope the crying sessions will end soon tho it drains your whole energy and suffocates your soul try to stay alive ? :")

ya!!! I’m doin… better than I was yesterday… I was panicking about every yesterday and I had a ton of work to do… and I was working in the studio and I was on the THIRD sewing machine and it stopped working and that was just the icing on the cake I had to move onto a forth one and I hadn’t started like any of my work yet and it had already been like 2 hours of me trying to get the machines to work and so I just kinda stepped into the bathroom real quick and literally cried for 2 minutes…. and some girl walked in a heard me and was like “hello? Are you okay?” And I just kinda stopped n was like aight time to get my SHIT together… but yeah she back… she out here… depression fucking sucks but I’m trying to not let it hold her back

thank you :') 💕

[vdbstore-blog]

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Yrsa Daley-Ward: ‘People are afraid to tell the truth' | Fashion

If you’re afraid to write it, that’s a good sign. I suppose you know you’re writing the truth when you’re terrified.” These words in black type on a white background make up one of poet Yrsa Daley-Ward’s Instagram posts. This monochrome snapshot of her innermost thoughts has more than 5,200 “likes”. That’s more than double the number she gets for any pictures. Daley-Ward spent her late teens and early 20s as a model struggling to pay her rent in London, working for brands such as Apple, Topshop, Estée Lauder and Nike. She still models today. Ironically, however, it was the image-obsessed medium of Instagram that enabled her to pursue the written word.

“I always was a writer,” she explains today in a thick Lancashire accent, sitting in a downtown Los Angeles restaurant close to where she lives. “But I was depressed [in London] and that made me choke. Modelling is an interesting profession because it teaches you so much about here…” She points a finger at her face. “But not here…” she sighs and points at her heart. “You become introverted, you disappear into yourself.”

‘I didn’t fit in. I wanted to be white, have different hair, know my father, not be religious…’

Daley-Ward’s debut collection of poetry, Bone, is anything but introverted. Aptly titled, it’s a visceral read candidly documenting her religious upbringing, sexuality and mental-health battles. It flew out of her in three months, as she chronicled her bad love affairs, sense of isolation and feelings of inadequacy – an uncomfortable, uninhibited read. Daley-Ward is a self-confessed firestarter and has a colourful past. She doesn’t watch TV and prefers to go to the pub to drink Guinness and “chat to old men about their lives”. When asked to give her age, she refuses. “Men don’t get asked,” she barks.

She finds the notion of being objectified irksome. In a bodycon dress today, she tells me she’s been cat-called “seven times” en route here. “Why the fuck? Look at the patriarchy, look at rape culture. I don’t need to be subjected to what men think.” With her poems she cuts through that, deep into the parts of herself that she feels have been overseen by superficial, homogenous norms.

Bone was initially released in 2014 through Amazon’s self-publishing arm. It’s since been expanded for reissue via Penguin. Daley-Ward’s 116,000 and growing Instagram fanbase was key to that. Having followers like pop star Florence & the Machine and Hollywood actor Ellen Page also helps.

Daley-Ward read everything she could get her hands on as a kid: Roald Dahl, Spike Milligan, Shakespeare. As a young, black, LGBTQ female, she’s often said that she feels “invisible”in the literary world and maintains that poetry has a long way to go to diversify itself.

“Have I seen change? Yes and no,” she says. “There’s a lot more to do. If it wasn’t for the internet how would I have got the book out? How would I have got a publisher? If I went to a publisher armed with Bone and zero internet following…” She tapers off, suggesting they’d have looked right past her. “I didn’t know what to expect. I just persevered.”

‘The queer space is varied and intricate. Every story I have is a story a friend has’: Ysra Daley-Ward. Photograph: Platon for the Observer

Alongside the African-American poet Nayyirah Waheed, Zimbabwean bard Tapiwa Mugabe and Nigerian writer Ijeoma Umebinyuo, Daley-Ward, who is of West Indian and West African descent, is part of a small, elite community of black writers who are breaking down barriers. “It’s lovely to see women of colour poets,” she says. “Old poetry can be so inaccessible. Not just for people of colour but for people who aren’t super erudite, who don’t read, don’t love Shakespeare. Some people just want to connect with feelings.”

The melting pot of Downtown LA is a far cry from home in Chorley. She was born in the northern town after her Jamaican mother (a nurse) had an extra-marital affair with a Nigerian man who came to the UK to study, leaving his wife and children behind. He died before Daley-Ward was old enough to meet him.

From the age of seven to 11 she was sent, with her younger brother, to live with her grandparents. They were Seventh Day Adventists. Daley-Ward describes them as “strict religious fundamentalists”. “From sunset on Friday we couldn’t do anything until sunset on Saturday,” she recalls. “During the week everything was monitored. We didn’t go outside except to see my cousins.”

‘Sex work is common among models. It’s not standing on street corners – you have boyfriends who are very rich’

Growing up fast, she was ingrained with certain gender expectations; rules that existed to be broken. “They’d tell me that a girl should be able to run a house. Every Sunday my grandma and I would be on our knees handwashing all the clothes. I learned how to clean, sew and cook. I never make my bed now.”

At the time, Daley-Ward bottled up her frustrations. When she returned to live with her mother, she was left to raise her brother while her mum worked night shifts. “Things changed completely,” she remembers. “There was all the freedom where we once had no freedom.”

As well as the liberation that came with her own sexual awakening, she gained a more rounded perspective on a woman’s place in the world. Her mum’s boyfriends weren’t always the most desirable choices. “She was the one with the money, working hard. She never received help from men, ever.” That gave birth to a sense of staunch independence in her, combined with a streak of disruption. “I’m a quiet, introverted person, but I was very internally rebellious.”

Conflict continued to bubble up inside her; she was acutely aware of not fitting in in Chorley. “I was a black girl living in a market town, alien to everything. There were so many things I wanted to be other than what I was. I wanted to be white, have different hair, have parents who were home, know my father, not be religious. When I watched TV, everything from Disney to Coronation Street, there was never a representation of me.” She would write to disappear into different realities.

Soon enough, however, she didn’t need prose to whisk her away. There was a man – an older music teacher. He was married. He left his wife for her. “It was a torrid, crazy time,” she recalls, awkwardly avoiding the conversation.

‘When I was 20, I was in knots. There’s no cage now’: Ysra Daley-Ward. Photograph: Platon for the Observer

She left Chorley and moved to Manchester en route to London, as the pull of big multicultural cities became exhilarating to her. “I was going out dancing to reggae and African music, buying jollof rice made by someone other than my grandma.” The honeymoon period was short, though. She lost her mother in 2007. (She doesn’t say how she died but implies that her lack of quality of life contributed.) Working as a jobbing actor and model, struggling to makes ends meet, she fell into depression. Writing was unimportant when there were bills to pay. “The grind got to me. I was lonely and had no real support in the world. None. I felt awful every day. I didn’t want to get out of bed.”

The discrimination she experienced in the fashion industry made matters worse. Repeatedly she’d fail to get jobs she was more than qualified for. “This is not a face that sells in England,” she says. “They say that black models sell fewer clothes than white models. That’s stupid. Fashion just doesn’t want to be diverse.” To survive, she had to find other avenues. “I was a very enterprising young woman,” she says coyly. “Learning what to use to get by.”

I ask if she’s alluding to sex work. She laughs. “It’s the most common thing in the modelling industry, especially at high levels. I’m not talking about standing on street corners. You have a boyfriend for two months who’s a millionaire. In that situation you’re safe, eating caviar, drinking champagne. There are other situations that are considerably less safe and less consensual. It’s a reality for so many women in the entertainment industry and we’re told not to talk about it.”

In desperate need of salvation and in search of more secure modelling jobs, she moved to Cape Town where there was, she says, a guaranteed market for black models. She was 24 years old with £200 in her pocket. The experience made her rich in a way she’d never have anticipated. While there, she came across a spoken-word evening. The task was to write a poem about family discord. “I thought: easy!” she smiles. Her performance brought rapturous applause. She went again and again. Every week the audience grew.

“In acting and modelling I was so busy expressing what somebody else wanted that I’d completely shut down my own voice,” she says. “I didn’t have any mirrors. When I was 20, I was in knots. I couldn’t speak my reality to anybody. There’s no cage now. Lots of people are afraid to tell the truth. But I don’t care. It’s fucking boring otherwise.”

Ysra Daley-Ward as a toddler with her mother and brother. She says her mum ‘never received help from men, ever’. Photograph: @yrsadaleyward

Today, Daley-Ward lives between LA and London. Her audience has grown far beyond Cape Town. One poem, Mental Health, has made fans of people who have never given a thought to poetry. During a reading in south London, a man came up to her in tears. “He asked me to send it to him. I thought nobody was listening,” she says. She’s also become a poster child for the undermined, particularly the LGBTQ community. Despite writing about her relationships with women, she refuses to make her sexuality a big deal, insisting that her poems relate to people of all sexual preferences.

“I’m writing about common experience,” she says. “The LGBT community are my friends. The queer space is varied and intricate. Every story I have is a story a friend has. When I talk about a woman that you can’t get out of your head even though you know she’s going to fuck you over… Hello?! That represents 10 people I know.”

In an age of technology, the fact that Daley-Ward has built a platform for literature out of social media is perhaps her biggest act of rebellion. Next, she’ll release a memoir. “There’s nothing left unsaid,” she laughs. Titled The Terrible, it’s “The truest thing I’ll maybe ever write.” Where it will take her remains to be seen. “I move through the world at an alarming rate. Next time we speak I might be in New York,” she says. “I’m in the midst of a change. I keep dreaming about it. Something’s about to happen.”

Bone by Yrsa Daley-Ward is published by Penguin on 26 September, at £9.99. To order a copy for £8.49, go to bookshop.theguardian.com

Fashion credits: (from top) Daley-ward wears dress by Alexander McQueen; coat by Givenchy; and jumper by Prada. Fashion editor Jo Jones; hair by Jerome Cultrera at L’Atelier NYC using Oribe Hair Care; make-up by Linda Gradin at L’Atelier NYC using MAC Cosmetics; fashion assistant Bemi Shaw

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[crazysnowwolf]

Depression and Loss

The thing about depression is that it’s constant yet sudden and that loss is expected and unexpected.

I say these things because I had the unfortunate luck of losing my grandmother today. I am severely upset by this because my grandmother and I have always been very close. Not only was she the first best friend I ever had (aside from my mother) she was like my second mom. She helped raise me and shape me into the person that I am today. She helped teach me how to read, write, do math, stand up for myself against my cousins and my uncles, she taught me to be proud of myself and my achievements. She also kept me straight when I got a little too full of myself. She gave me the love for her favorite genre of music. 

She was cursed with having many diseases and illnesses that made living her life very difficult. She was diagnosed with an affliction called neuropathy in 1995 that left her having severe nerve pain in her feet that over the years began to progress until she couldn’t stand the slightest pressure from her knee down without wanting to scream out in pain, despite having some of the highest level of painkillers that you can have. What’s odd is that this affliction normally only affected people with diabetes. I asked her once what it felt like, she said it was like someone was stabbing her with a rusty serrated knife, while simultaneously getting her legs cut off with a chainsaw and being drove over with a semi-truck. 

She also eventually developed severe arthritis in her hands to the point where doing simple tasks such as eating and writing became taxing. It made it worse because with this she became unable to do many of the things that she loved the most. Quilting, sewing, crocheting, hunting, shooting, snowmobiling, four-wheeling, and pretty much everything else. She also had a surgery go wrong to where she constantly looked pregnant for the past 10+ years. 

On October 1st, 2015 we were notified that my grandma had fallen on a patch of ice in the driveway and that she had broken her knee cap horizontally. She ended up going through nine surgeries and ended up in the ICU a couple times and we almost lost her at least twice. One of the surgeries she had was to amputate her leg. They had to do another surgery and take more. She was in and out of hospitals and long-term care facilities for over a year and a half. A doctor at the last one she was in told her that if she left she wasn’t going to last eight months. 

Last Thursday, (3/16/2017) we were up at our cabin preparing to come home because she wanted to come home. So my sister came up to help us come home. I got a call from my cousin saying that my grandpa said that we needed to take my grandma to the Emergency Room. She had very labored breathing and wasn’t responding to us or external stimuli. So we got her in my sisters truck with my sister driving me in the front and my cousin in the back to hold her up and make sure that she was still breathing. We ended up having to call an ambulance because we were that worried. We had to meet the ambulance on the road and I rode with her to the urgent care facility. 

Upon on arrival they hooked her up to all the machines and started trying to figure out what was wrong with her and figure out what they could do to help. They ended up having to fly her in on a medical plane called a Cessna. I got to ride in the front of an ambulance which was kinda cool despite the situation. It was very small and very different than a commercial flight. Luckily for me, thanks to NJROTC, I have rode in Blackhawks before which are WAY worse. We finally landed in Anchorage at Ted Stevens and took another ambulance to Providence. They admitted her to the ER and then many hours later decided to admit her to the Intensive Care Unit in the hospital. We left the hospital at 3 am on 3/17/2017. 

They determined that she had a staph pneumonia and a blood infection among many other things. She also had a critically low blood pressure and a preexisting congestive heart failure. One lung was completely full of liquid that they couldn’t remove. She was having a very hard time breathing so my family and her decided to have a breathing machine put in which would take over breathing for her so that she was getting enough oxygen in her lungs and carbon dioxide out of her lungs. We almost lost her a couple times actually there too. She has a do not resuscitate order on file and her heart stopped and then started back up on it’s own. 

At this point we began speaking about her quality of life and what she would or would not want to be kept alive like this. So they were going to put a pic line in to help start some antibiotics to try and stop her infection. They failed at getting it in her veins and at that point my grandpa decided that we needed to stop everything and pull the breathing tube and let life takes it course. They pulled the tube yesterday evening (3/23/2017) and she seemed like she was doing well and that she might recover. 

This morning around 5:30 a.m. we received a call saying that she had taken a turn for the worse and that we needed to get to the hospital now. By 6:00 a.m. we were at the hospital and pretty much just waiting for her to die. We had my whole family there in the ICU room. Both of my uncles, my mother, my grandpa, my aunt, and all of my cousins. Plus many other family members and friends that have been with us for many years.

It was touch and go for awhile. Around 12:00 my mother and I went home very quickly to let my dog out and board her so that we could be with my grandma and not worry about my dog. We got some people of my family food, and returned to the hospital and got lucky enough with front row parking. By time we got up to the ICU went to the bathroom and got back to her room, her heart rate had jumped from the normal resting rate of about 75-85 down to 20. Obviously this was not good. So it started to go back up to 50-60 and my family started trickling back in. My sister and I were sitting on this little ledge by the window and our mother was comforting us and all of a sudden goes “Call your brothers”. So my mom and a friend go to call them and most of my family have broken into tears. Then he goes “She’s gone” and I just broke. My heart was just ripped out of my chest. 

I was so sad to see her go but I was so relieved to know that she would no longer suffer. I’m not a religious person at all but I thank the Lord that he let me be there for her. I was wondering whether or not that I could be there when she decided to leave us. I’m happy, I was, I’m still in shock and not believing that she is gone. Right now I’m sitting with my mother, my grandpa, and my dog to try and make sure that we are alright. 

So I say this prayer unto the Lord;

Bring her to you so that she may not suffer any longer, may she see those who have long since passed, her father, her mother, her brothers, and all our family, friends and pets who have long ago left this earth. May we take her suffering upon us all and lift her soul into freedom. May she walk again happy and free and know that despite our pain, we will be alright and never forget and remember the best moments of our lives together. Amen. 

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