Shameful Scars: My history of self-harm

I wouldn't say it was an addiction. It's not like I did it everyday. It's not like it was a big secret. My closest family members knew, they saw me do it enough times. My friends knew, I'd told them about it. Therapists knew. My boyfriend knew. Maybe even a few teachers knew. And everyone who knew, always said the same thing "Promise me you'll never do it again". I'd promise, I'd swear, never again, never again, but then before I knew it, there I was, doing it again.

I started self-harming in second grade, though at the time I didn't know that's what it was. I would pull out my hair, either one strand at a time, or in little clumps, until I had tiny bald spots. My mom noticed, told me to stop. I could not stop. For years and years, any time I was anxious, frustrated or angry, I would pull out my hair. If I was anxious, I pulled it out strand by strand, carefully, removing the follicle. If I was angry, I'd pull it out in painful little bunches, forcefully, punishing myself.
I suppose I started pulling out my hair because I was anxious. Because I didn't know how to cope with my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with the Non Verbal Learning Disorder. I don't know. All I know, is that I don't do it so much anymore. Sometimes I do it without thinking, but I don't do it when I'm upset anymore.

There were other incidents of self-harm in my childhood. I once pressed a bottle cap into my thighs until tiny welts formed. I did it because I was frustrated and bored. I was nine years old and wanted to go swimming, but I could not. So I sat on the kitchen floor, and laid a newspaper across my legs, and pressed a plastic bottle cap into my flesh, ripping through the paper, and leaving imprints. Hours later, my mom noticed the welts that had formed. She asked me if I was digging into my skin with my nails. I told her no, I used a bottle cap.

This taste for self-harm carried into my teens. The first time I remember doing it, I was fifteen. A boy I had a crush on, and his friends, were teasing me after school one day, being assholes. Maybe they were joking, maybe they weren't. Either way, I stormed off, frustrated and hurt, and hid in the girl's locker room, where I took a piece of notebook wire, and scratched the fuck out of my arm. I was angry at them, angry at myself. It hurt like a bitch, but it felt oddly cathartic. Afterwards, I looked at the puffy, stinging scratches. I showed them to a schoolmate. She didn't say anything. She didn't show any concern for the fact that I just physically harmed myself. I worried about scars. But for years, there was only one, a tiny white line no thicker than a human hair.
I also had a habit for digging my finger nails into my arms, or into my hands, when I was angry, when I was being bullied, until I left little white crescent shapes in my flesh. I hoped to draw blood, because somehow, that would show the world just how angry I was. Even now, despite being 'recovered', I still lightly dig my nail into my palm if I'm annoyed. Not hard, never hard, but enough for me to silently express my feelings, especially if politeness restrains me from revealing my true thoughts.

I never had the balls to use razors. That's the stereotype, isn't? That all people who self-harm use razor blades. That they do it because they're so numb that they can't feel otherwise.
Maybe that's how some people do it. Maybe that's why some people do it. That wasn't how or why I did it. The problem wasn't numbness, the problem was that I was feeling too much, and wasn't sure how to express it. Or that I was angry and wanted to punish myself. Or that I that I wanted people to see that I was in pain, that I was hurting, and needed their support. And sometimes, sometimes, I just wanted to see if they cared what I did or didn't do.
I tried using a razor once. I made a tiny nick that didn't even scar. I mostly used my fingernails, or pins, thumbtacks, wires. I tried broken glass, but found, I was too scared to press down hard enough. I wanted to hurt myself, but I didn't want to die.
I made scratches, gouges. Sometimes I did it hard enough to bleed, hard enough to scar. It would burn and sting. I would attack my arms, my face, my breasts and stomach. I hate my breasts and stomach. I mostly attacked them or my face whenever I felt ugly. Sometimes I told people what the marks were from, other times, I let them assume that they were cat scratches. Sometimes people ask, but mostly they ignore it.

What triggered these brutal assaults? The first time I really did it bad enough to scar, I had just been dumped by a guy I was falling in love with. I did it in front of him. It was impulsive. I was angry at him, angry at myself for not being able to stay in a relationship. I wanted to show him how much pain I was in. The scar has finally faded, but for years, it ran along my arm, a pinkish-brown ribbon, reminding me of my shameful reaction to heartbreak.
From then on, I did it when I was fighting with my family, I did it during or after a fight with my boyfriend. I did it after being bullied online. I did it when I was off my medication and couldn't cope. Anxiety, anger, frustration, disappointment, humiliation. Those feeling swam through my while I did it. Those feelings triggered the acts of violence against myself. Then after, instead of feeling high, like some say you're supposed to feel, I'd only feel ashamed, stupid. I'd broken another promise, or I'd have to go to the hospital again. I'd disappointed my parents, my friends, my boyfriend.
I'd treat the wounds with bag balm. They didn't make band-aids big enough to cover them up. I didn't hide the scars with long sleeves, or makeup. I have friends with their own histories of self-harm, and they don't hide their scars either. What's the point? I don't hide the fact that I used to self-harm either, I'm rather candid about it.

How did I stop? How did I break free of it's stranglehold? It seems like it happened overnight, but really it was a few years progress. In the Windham Center they got me to admit I was addicted, though in reality, while I wasn't addicted to the scratching, I was perhaps addicted to the hair pulling, though as I'd explained countless times, it was most likely a compulsion related to my disorder.
But neither the Windham Center or any form of group therapy saved my sorry ass. Rather, I like to think I did it myself, with a little guidance from Creator. I started taking my meds (I was bribed into it by my sister with promises of visiting her in Baltimore), and stopped resisting my therapist. Things started to get better. Then, out of the blue, I joined Voice of United Spirit Singers, an intertribal Native American drum group. Without me realizing it, the drum began to heal my heart, putting me back together slowly, but surely.
The last time I self-harmed, was April 12th 2011. That day, my boyfriend of nearly four years, dumped me, because I had attended a party. Well it, was slightly more complicated than that, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was two days before my 22nd birthday, and I was due to leave for Baltimore the next day. And here he was, calling me a whore, telling me he couldn't do this anymore. All the stress and fear of my impending flight, all the anxiety I'd been suffering, combined with the shock of someone I loved breaking my heart, made me snap. I got drunk and I self harmed again. I begged to go to the hospital. I was losing my mind. I don't remember what brought me out of it. Maybe it was Xanax. Maybe it was my father. I just don't know. I don't care, what did it. All I know is April 12th was the last time I ever self-harmed myself. I do not want to do it ever again, and I know why. The Drum. It is Voice of United Spirit that saves me from myself. And I know, that as long as I sing with her, I will be OK.

Special note- I wrote this for cathartic reasons. I do not endorse nor encourage self-harm as a method of coping. I urge all who do hurt themselves to seek help.

Rants and Ravings

I've been irritable lately. Maybe it's the stress I've been under, but regardless of the cause, I need to vent about some things that have been annoying me lately.

1. If you have facebook, and I imagine a majority of the world population with internet access, does, you must have noticed what I'm bitching about. Those little chainmails, that people implore you to post as your status for one hour, in the hopes of curing cancer. Seriously, they all say "Post this and we will be one step closer to the cure!". No. Reposting bland copypasta won't cure cancer. If you want to help cure cancer, donate to a cancer research foundation or something like that. Posting these stupid chainmails is futile. You think you're helping, but you're really doing nothing. Actually no, you ARE doing something, you're pissing me off.

2. Today, I was in Target, looking at the bins full of cheap items. I love these bins. You can find so many cute little things. But today as I was poring over these baskets, a woman was walking less than a foot behind me also browsing. You're probably sitting here wondering why this is pissing me off so much. Well, for one thing, I have personal space issues. Big ones. I don't like having strangers stand to close to me when I'm shopping. If I go to look at something and someone's already standing in front of it, I'd rather wait for them to finish up than have my personal space invaded. So with woman practically nestling herself between my butt cheeks, she was already pissing me off. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that she kept clearing her throat. Every 3 seconds. For fuck's sake, it's called a fucking cough drop. You can buy them right in the store! I can't fucking stand it when people are in public constantly clearing their throats and coughing. If my parents hadn't raised me better, I would have turned right around and told her to back the fuck off. I know she wasn't riding my ass on purpose, but it irritates me that a lot of people aren't aware of personal space when they're shopping. Maybe I should start wearing a sign that says "Autistic Person, Please Stay Back at Least 3 Feet".

3. Target's CD Return Policy. You can only return CDs if they are unopened and come with the receipt. Horrible policy. Most people return CD's because they listened to the album and didn't like it. No one buys an album, doesn't open it and then returns it. Target, are you fucking stupid?

4. Music Censorship. I'm an adult, thank you. I've heard all the naughty words before. And parents should be the judge of what their kids are exposed to, not the government. Last time I checked, this was still a free country and people were still allowed to make their own decisions about what they listen to, watch and read.

5. Lady Gaga's song Fashion of his Love. It sounds like bad Christian pop. Usually I love her work, but this song is one of her rare misses. Maybe I need to listen to it again, but my first impression wasn't a good one.

Well, that's all I can think of right about now. I'm still irritated, and this wasn't as cathartic as I had hoped, but oh well, it helps me practice my writing style.

Book 3 of the Vow Renewal Weekend: Sunday

And here we are, at the third and final volume of the tedious and self-indulgent memoir I have embarked upon.

Part 1: An Autistic Squirrel

I woke on Sunday morning, to bright sunlight streaming into the small apartment. The day of the Vow Renewal. It was already sticky and humid and we had much to do before we left. We had to deflate the air mattresses, pack everything up and get dressed.
I dressed simply in a hot pink, nearly magenta, cotton and crocheted lace skirt that fell just above my knee, a black tank top and a pair of flip flops. I wrapped my large black and white gauze scarf over my shoulders like a shawl, and put on my jewelry.
For such a simple outfit, it had been such an odyssey getting it together. Months ago, when I first learned of the vow renewal, I had already begun planning what I would wear. The original idea was to make a sun dress, out of black cotton printed with cherries, but I couldn't find a flattering pattern. So then I had decided to make a skirt out of muslin, dyed purple, we'd even purchased the dye, but we never got around to it. So in the end, I decided to wear what I already had. It saved time and money.
Once dressed, I did my makeup. Concealer and powder to hide the sunburn on my nose, soft lime green eyeshadow, mascara, bright pink lipstick. The effect turned out out great. For once, my skin actually looked flawless. I was rather impressed with my appearance.

After everyone had dressed, and we had gathered up the deflated mattresses, our bedding and our bags; we loaded everything back in the car and left for the wedding. We stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. Their breakfast sandwiches are pretty damn delicious, even if their coffee tastes like dish soap.
I don't remember much about the drive over, other than it being very warm. I was in a sour mood, mostly due to anxiety. I always feel out of place at family functions, so I can't help but feel nervous whenever I go to one.
We stopped at a country store to use the bathroom and pick up some chicken for the barbecue. I love country stores, especially ones in rural areas. They always have interesting things, like local products and novelty candy. This country store even had a little miniature golf course. I would have enjoyed playing a round, but we did not have the time.
When we arrived at the cabin, a few of the guests were already there. I felt awkward as I greeted family members, I don't know why. I'm just a socially awkward person, I suppose. Once I'm at my ease, I can be rather charming, but in the first uneasy minutes, I can be as about as exciting as an autistic squirrel. Actually, that does sound interesting, never mind. Ignore that simile, please.

I don't remember too much. This was all a year ago, after all. I recall doing the usual schmoozing, and socializing. I remember trying an ale, called Old Speckled Hen. At first I liked it, but then I found I had no taste for ale. I've always preferred hard cider, or as I've recently discovered, Smirnoff Ice. I couldn't finish it. I don't even think I finished a quarter of the bottle. In fact, as I was drinking, I was starting to feel surly, and agitated. This happens to me quite often. If I drink when I'm anxious, I end up in a foul mood. If I drink when I'm in a good mood, I end up giggly. Since I was already tense, being at a family event and all, you can imagine where my mood shifted. I put down the bottle, and didn't touch any booze for the rest of the day.

The ceremony was at noon. The minister had arrived, the whole family had shown up and my Aunt Jenny had changed into her wedding dress. She looked lovely. It was white, with an empire waist, and some beading. I told her she looked beautiful. My Uncle Ben wore a Hawaiian shirt.
Everyone was starting to head down to the scenic area where the ceremony would be held. I was still feeling all out of sorts, so I popped an Ativan, and joined my mother and sister to watch two people renew their vows.

Saturday Part 6

Let's get on with it....

Part 6: Battle Weary
The very last ride I remember going on that day was the Desperado Plunge, the log flume which appears so frequently in my other memoirs.
The line wasn't long, and we got seated in our little barrel shaped boat very quickly. I sat in the front, my Uncle Russ in the back. I was a bit apprehensive about sitting where I was, because I don't like to get soaked when I'm not in a bathing suit, but I figured it would be alright this time.
For the most part, it was. The ride went as it usually does, starting out slow, then rushing over white water rapids, before going through that creepy building full of dummies.
Then the best part, down the steep drop we plunged, my arms in the air. The camera snapped our picture, and we hit the bottom with a splash.
The boat was floating back into the station when it jerked to the side suddenly, why I do not know. I lost my balance, and slammed into the side of the little boat, my elbow making painful contact with one of the screws on the handlebar.
That was my second injury of the day, including the vicious wedgie I had endured in Splashwater Kingdom.
We left the ride, me nursing my injured arm. A large bump had risen on my elbow, with a little bloody scrape right in its center. My uncle noticed, and thought it was a puncture wound. I assured him it was not, and we did not have to visit the infirmary.

It was time to go. We'd ridden all that we could, and now had to meet my mom in Schroon Lake. So we trekked back to the lockers, collected my things, and made ready to leave the park.
I was sore. Between the wedgie, the arm injury, the sunburn, and walking around all day, I was pretty battle weary. I had a headache from riding too many roller coasters. But I regretted leaving early. When I go to amusement parks, I like to stay until closing. But we had to do, what we had to do, and so we left.
We stopped at McDonald's, where my uncle offered to buy me something to eat. I was starving. I had been too excited to eat when we were in the park, but now, I just couldn't pass up a hot meal. I ordered a double quarter pounder with cheese value meal, and my uncle and I sat down to eat. While we ate, we talked, and I collected brochures for tourist attractions, that I thought looked interesting.
Then we went to find Aunt Jenny's cabin.

We drove through the Adirondacks, and I spent the trip admiring signs for restaurants and campgrounds. We drove past a very large Christian campground. It made me think of those weird Mormon compounds out west. I made some comments about the place, and wondered how interesting it would be to infiltrate one of these Christian "family-friendly" camps.
We got lost. That's how we ending up constantly driving past the Christian campground, and it's horse stables. Eventually, we made it to my Aunt's rented cabin. It was small, and charming, surrounded by forest, with a view of the lake.
My mother and sister were there, along with my Grandma, my Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ben. My Uncle Russ and I shared the highlights of our day, my wedgie, making Uncle Russ high-five Sasquatch, the rides. I discovered I had a nice little sunburn on my nose and cheeks.
After passing the time pleasantly enough with my relations, my mother decided it was high time to get back on the road. Katie's friend Chad had a place for us to stay that night, in Saranac Lake, and we had to get there before it was too late.

I spent a large chunk of the journey from Schroon Lake to Saranac Lake, dozing. I was exhausted, from running around with my Uncle all day. After a little while, my sister suggested we go and get something to eat.
We stopped at a little diner with a nice rustic Adirondack theme. A lot of restaurants, shops, and motels in this area really like to play up the wild 'untouched' quality of the Adirondack Mountains. This is for the tourists, mainly. For years the Adirondacks has been a vacation spot for Americans. When people think of these mountains, they picture fishing in clear rivers, pine trees, cabins, moose. And while not all of this part of New York is a picture of tranquil wilderness, the places that cater to tourists tend to play up this pretty image.
We sat down at a booth, and flipped through the menus. We all ended up ordering the same thing. A hot turkey sandwich, open-faced. The kind you need to eat with a fork. If I remember correctly, it came with stuffing. I think we may have had soup or salad, too. It was pretty good, but I couldn't eat all of it. After we finished, my sister bought us some home-baked chocolate chip cookies (this place also functioned as a bakery, general store and information center. You'll find a lot of places like this in upstate NY and VT). Then we got back in the car and continued on.

We drove through the Adirondacks. Despite the darkness, I saw a lot of familiar sights. I used to live in this part of NY, and would drive up to Lake Placid with my mother, where she used to work for a mental health agency as a peer specialist. We drove past some lakes that are said to be bottomless. I remembered being frightened of them when I was fourteen.
We drove through Lake Placid, and I was assaulted by memories. Going there with Families First Girls Group (not a pleasant memory). Swimming in the lake with my sister. Walking around downtown as a teenager, while my mother worked. Buying chocolate covered expresso beans, and books. The gas station we stopped at when I was coming down with the flu. We drove past the fancy restaurant named Goldberry's and I remembered how badly I wanted to go there. The town was lovely, lit up the way it was.
Soon enough we were entering Saranac Lake. I may have been dozing, when I heard my sister and mother exclaim with surprise. They had seen something that looked like a wolf, dart in front of the car. A wolf? In Saranac Lake? Maybe it was a dog. Or a coyote. I don't know. I never saw it. But the thought of a wolf running around made me uneasy. I don't like driving in the Adirondacks at night as it is, there's something slightly unsettling and sinister in the darkness of the mountains and the trees.

Finally we made it to Chad's. One of Katie's friends for years, it was the first time I'd ever met him, and her friend Chelsea. He owned a house, and adjacent to that house, an apartment building. It was in one of those vacant apartments where we would be sleeping for the night on air mattresses. After showing us around his house, he helped us carry our things to the little apartment. It was a cute little place, and I wondered what it would be like to live there. I pictured what I would put where. What room would be the living room? Where would I have an office? I've always wanted an office. My dad had one, and my mother had a studio, when I was growing up.
Once we were somewhat settled, my mother and I went to the nearest corner store to get some cold drinks, as it was very hot that evening. I remember getting green tea with honey.
When we got back, Katie had decided to spend the night with her friends. Mom set up the air mattresses (I think I may have tried to help), and we got comfortable for the evening. I lay on the mattress in the big main room, reading about Henry VIII and his six wives. I was falling asleep, as I learned about the negotiations for the marriage of Katherine of Aragon and Arthur, Prince of Wales. I was very very exhausted, but I wanted so desperately to read.

But finally, I couldn't fight it any longer and put the book down. I slept on an air mattress in the little room I envisioned as an office. I can't remember why I had moved to that mattress. I think the other one had deflated.
I slept deeply, exhausted from my long day. I only woke up once, and that was when I had rolled over and hit my head on the low windowsill. I lay there, muttering to my mom that I mustn't, mustn't fall asleep, as I probably had a concussion, but she reassured me that I was fine (though I felt as though I had cracked my skull) and so I drifted back to sleep, albeit reluctantly.
Saturday was over, and tomorrow, would be the main event, the entire purpose of our adventure. The vow renewal.

So ends, Book 2: Saturday.

I'm only human. Mostly.

I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes I'll write something mean about an ex-boyfriend, or an enemy, and it will come and bite me in the ass. Sometimes I'll say or do something that will hurt someone I love.
Sometimes, I apologize for these mistakes, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes, my stubborn pride prevents me from doing the right thing. I'm only human, and I am vulnerable to the pitfalls of being so.
Sometimes, even when I apologize for the bad things I've said and done, my guilt still eats at me, a cancer of the soul.
A wise woman named Snowy Owl, once told me "You mustn't hold on to anger". Throughout my life, I have had people tell me this. But something about the way she said it, touched my heart. She told me how to let go of angry feelings. I felt at peace when she told me these things.

Yet I still have issues letting go of old grudges. Ex boyfriends, friends who stabbed me in the back. I carry them all, each one, in my heart, remembering the humiliation, the hurt, the regret. I fear, that they'll come back to haunt me, tell people what a terrible person I am. That based of off their judgments, any new friends I make, will abandon me.

I am not a perfect person. I can be capricious, cruel, vain and selfish. I can be arrogant and conceited. Self-absorbed. Cowardly. An attention-whore.
But I know I am not an entirely bad person. I can be sweet, affectionate, and good. It's just easier to be a bitch. It's so easy to hold onto hatred and anger.
But anger, isn't always a bad thing. Anger, used properly can do a great many things. If not for anger, revolution would not happen. If not for anger, there would be no change.
And yet, anger creates so much destruction.

I must pick my battles. I can not rage against something that happened years ago. I must rage at what happens NOW. If someone invades my boundaries, instead of bottling it up, I should speak up. If I see injustice, I should be ready to defend. I must harness my anger, make it my weapon. But it's not easy. Sometimes when I'm angry, I end up hurting myself, mentally and physically. My arms bear the scars of years of frustration and rage. While I worked on the self-harm, through means of Zoloft and therapy, I still have a lot of work to do. How can I learn to control my feelings? Know when to hold 'em? Know when to fold 'em?
How old will I be, when I no longer hold petty grudges? When I can accept the past, and enjoy the present?
I can't write anymore. I've had my rant, and now my mind is started to freeze up. Thoughts are getting foggy. I wrote from the heart, which I had never intended to do on this blog. I didn't mean to get this personal, but alas, that is my nature.

My foray into blood donation...

For reasons of confidentiality I'm editing this and any names I mention will be replaced by initials.

I've been wanting to donate blood for some time. No particular reason, just a desire to do some good. But I never knew when the Red Cross was coming to town until it was too late.
So today, when my mother and I were driving home from my therapy appointment I asked her to drop me off at the Mason Lodge so I could finally achieve my goal.
After she let me out of the car, I walked up the path to the big yellow and brown Victorian building and entered through the handicapped door, the one I take whenever I come here to vote. I went up to a table, where some volunteers in white coats were seated and told them that I wanted to donate, and that it was my first time doing so.
A young blond woman in her neat lab coat told me to come with her. Apparently I had needed to enter through the regular entrance, and register. I followed her through a dark hallway to a room near the front door, where some older women sat. I told them I wanted to donate, that I'd never done it before. They smiled, asked me to sign in, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my little identifying square of plastic, and they gave me a green sticker that proclaimed "I made a difference!" and a little booklet with all the information I would need. Then, they had me sit in the hall to read the booklet and wait to be interviewed. While I waited, they played Queen, and the woman sitting next to me danced in her chair. I realized I forgot to put my name on my green sticker. Oops.

Some of the book they gave me made sense, and some of it did not. It mostly told you the guidelines for donating blood, and gave you information about confidentiality, and other legal disclaimers. My turn to be interviewed came, but I hadn't finished reading the booklet yet. I rushed through the rest of it, eager to find out whether or not I could donate. I was worried about my iron level particularly. I only had coffee and a pastry to eat that day, and was concerned that this would make my levels too low to donate.
A kindly woman named L came to collect me. She led me to a room, and into a cubicle made up of flimsy white dividers. My breasts almost knocked them over.
L asked for my ID, put my information into a computer, making conversation with me all the while. Then, she took a lancet, pricked my finger (just like testing your blood sugar) and collected my blood in a little piece of plastic. She put the sample in a machine to test my iron level. My iron level was 12.5, just high enough to donate. Any lower, and I would have been turned away.
Then, she asked me some questions about my personal history. Did I have HIV or Hepatitis? Am I taking any antibiotics? There were at least 50 of them, and some of them she had to explain to me. A couple of times, when I asked whether my history of self-harm or the birth control I was using would get in the way of donating, she got up to ask a nearby nurse.
I liked her a lot. She put me at my ease, and was very friendly. She even told me that the Mason Lodge was haunted. At one point, she even let me take a break from the interview to use a bathroom.
In the end, I was approved for donation. We left the little cubicle, and I followed her into the big room where all the blood collecting was going down.

The room was filled with volunteers and donors, people giving and taking blood. Volunteers serving drinks and snacks. I showed a couple of women my papers, and they gave me a cup of tart cranberry juice to hydrate me. I sipped it as they lead me to a metal and plastic chair that put me in mind of a pool lounger. I sat down, and put my arm in a little metal cradle, and the lab tech, with his gray hair and Eastern European accent double checked my papers. I took out my Vermont Ghost Guide, so that I could read while I gave blood. I was anxious. I knew the needle would hurt, and I wanted to squeeze the little squishy blue ball that they hand on hand. Eventually I got to squeeze it, not to ease my nerves, but rather to make my veins stand out. I told the tech, that I had shy veins, he'd have trouble finding them. He did. He checked my right arm twice, then my left arm once, and finally he checked my right arm one more time, saying in his that if he couldn't get a vein, then we couldn't do anything today. No. I would not get to this point only to fail. I prayed, as hard as I could, and success! He found a vein, marked with a pen and swabbed me down with iodine. He told me to squeeze the ball every five to ten seconds. Then he inserted the needle. Mon Dieu!
It was painful, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him the needle hurt, that it felt weird, but I'd get used to it.
Suddenly, I started to feel dizzy. Faint. He asked again how I was doing, and I told him what was going on. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. He called over a tall bald man. His tone of voice frightened me, he sounded urgent, alarmed. I was afraid. Was there something terribly wrong? I asked: "Is this normal for the first time?".
He assured me, yes, yes it was. He and the other tech, adjusted the chair so I was flat on my back. It had already been adjusted to elevate my legs, a good position for a first time donor. They turned on a fan. Cold air hit my face. I felt strange, hyper aware of my body. I wondered how long it would take for them to fill a bag with my life fluid. I kept squeezing the ball. I started to feel something, an odd euphoria, almost transcendent, spiritual. I wondered if this was caused by the knowledge of the good I was doing, or if I was delirious from blood loss.
A new tech was by my side, a young blond woman with purple nail polish. Her name was K. She was friendly, and she talked to me, as we waited for me to finish up. When the bag was full, she told me I filled a pint in seven minutes and 43 seconds. She removed the needle, and bandaged me up. My original lab tech, who was finishing up with another donor turned around and told me that he was proud of me. I could not help but smile.
I had finished draining my blood for the good of humanity, but I was not allowed to get up for a few minutes. K sat with me, and we talked some more, about ghosts, about cemeteries. She was so nice. Every so often K would let me sit up a little, ask me how I felt. I was feeling fine. Less dizzy. She asked if I wanted water. Yes, please. So I sat, rehydrating, while she talked to me about how I would feel afterwards. I'd feel dizzy, tired. I was supposed to call if I woke up sick with a cold or a tummy bug the next morning. They couldn't use my blood if I did. She let me briefly hold the bag that contained my blood. It was a deep maroon color, and when my hand caressed the bag, I was surprised to find that it was warm, like a hot water bottle. It made me think of a water balloon filled with blood. Then she helped me get up. Another volunteer gathered my things. I walked slowly to a table decorated for Saint Patrick's day. I felt like a drunk, trying to prove to the cops that I was sober, just look at my steps! No wobbling here, officer! I made it to the chair, they asked me if I wanted to eat. I was starving. I ate some little ham salad sandwiches, sipped my water. Volunteers asked me how I was doing, patted my shoulders, told me to eat up. It was so pleasant, and I felt at ease. I talked to other donors, as we sat and recuperated. The older gentleman who sat near me while I was donating told me he was jealous that I'd finished filling a pint faster than he did. I smiled. I felt good about myself. I'd done something good, I was giving life. They told me the blood I gave could save up to three lives. Three lives. The idea that my blood would be running in the veins of a stranger, filled me with a sense of wonder. They'd never know my name, but they would be grateful to me.

One of the volunteers asked me if my mom would be giving me a ride home. No, I was walking. Was I sure I wanted to walk? Yes, I would be fine. I got up to leave.
I used the bathroom before I left, but the sink was broken. I asked for hand sanitizer. A man gave me a bottle, told me I could keep it, I told him I couldn't, I had some at home, but in the end I took it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
On my way out, I ran into K, the tech who'd sat with me. She gave me a hug, asked me if I'd donate again. Yes, yes I would.
I did get dizzy on the walk home. I sat down on a guardrail, drank some water, waited for it to pass. Then I got up and kept on going.

My family is proud of what I did. It seems like such a simple thing, giving blood. But it is more than that. I wasn't just giving away a solution of plasma and platelets, I was giving some of my life. I can not describe how this makes me feel. It makes me feel all at once proud and humble.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I did indeed celebrate with a pint, though not a pint a beer. A pint of blood.

Cemetery Review #1

I've decided, that every so often, I'm going to do a review of three different cemeteries. I'll discuss the condition of the monuments and the grounds. I'll talk about notable graves, and share legends about each cemetery. I'll share my observations and opinions.
I'll start with the three cemeteries I visit the most. I know these three like the back of my hand and have a lot to say about them. Enjoy!

1. St. Immanuel Episcopal Cemetery, Bellow's Falls, VT-
When I moved to Bellows Falls nearly six years ago, this is the first cemetery I visited. It's located next to the St. Immanuel Episcopal church and behind Bellows Falls Middle School. The oldest graves date from the late 18th or early 19th century and are near the the cemetery's main entrances. The newer graves sit at the back entrance along Cherry Hill Rd. There are also a bunch of new graves and a memorial garden on a hill overlooking the main part of the the cemetery. There are plenty of oak trees, and as a result the cemetery has an abundant squirrel population. The grounds are well kept, the grass is mowed. Once in awhile, there will be unraked leaves, or fallen branches that the caretaker hasn't picked up yet. In the winter, the pathways, are not plowed, presumably because the cemetery is supposed to be closed from October to May. The newer section has some trash in the bushes as a result of local kids going up there to hang out, but otherwise, it's very clean.
The gravestones are in decent condition. A few of the older ones are broken, and eroded, but some of them are repaired. I'm not sure whether the damage is caused by vandalism or natural causes. One particular stone, close to the church wall, gets buried by snow that falls off the roof every year. As a result it is completely unreadable.
While nature does attribute to a lot of the damage, vandalism is also a moderate problem. It usually comes in the form of kicked over and broken gravestones, I have yet to see any monuments damaged by spray paint or other artistic mediums. St. Immanuel's is located behind a middle school, and close to downtown BF, and as a result is prone to young people and drunks coming in and creating trouble. It's fairy easy to get into the cemetery, because not all the entrances are locked, and it's easy to hop over railings and squeeze between the gate and the fence, if you're thin enough.
At least one notable person is buried here. Hetty Green, known as "The Wicked Witch of Wall Street" and in her day, the richest woman in the world, is buried here with her husband, children and in-laws. Her gravestone is a fairly simple family obelisk made of granite, with names, and dates of birth and death. I like to leave pennies for her.
The cemetery is over all a very pretty cemetery. There aren't any statues (except for the odd urn now and then), but there are lots of very interesting carvings, and some beautiful Celtic crosses. It looks a bit spooky at night, and during the daytime one gets an uncomfortable feeling near the cold-storage crypt. The cemetery isn't outright haunted, but there is a feeling of being watched now and then. A friend of mine claims a witch is buried there, and when he sat on her table tomb, he says he felt something grab his leg. Another friend of mine told me she looked into the cold storage crypt through a crack in the doors and saw a figure moving around.
I definitely recommend visiting St. Immanuel's Episcopal Cemetery, if you like small, old cemeteries or if you're interested in Vermont history or Hetty Green.

2. Restland Cemetery, Bellows Falls Vermont
I first saw this cemetery while we were searching for an apartment in BF. I first visited this cemetery in late winter of 2006, several months after I moved in. The earliest known graves date from the mid-19th century and the most recent graves are from the late 20th century. Part of the cemetery is one flat ground, but it is also on a rather steep hill.
The grounds are very well-kept, with the grass being mowed, but there's a bit of trash in some places, due to people using the cemetery as a dumping ground or a party location. A lot of the gravestones are in fairly good condition, some of them are broken, some are weathered and very few are totally missing. I suspect there is a small amount of vandalism in this cemetery, despite being in the middle of a neighborhood. There are two entrances into Restland, a gate, and a staircase.
I have recently found out that "the last Abenaki Chief at Bellows Falls" is buried in Restland in an unknown location. Apparently, it used to be called the Rockingham Town Burying Ground. I find this very interesting, being Abenaki, myself.
The majority of cemetery occupants appear to be Irish, Italian and French. This makes a lot of sense, seeing as Bellows Falls used to be a mill town. A lot of the Irish and the Italian graves state that the people buried there emigrated.
I haven't heard any legends about the cemetery being haunted, though I have often felt like I am being watched when I am in there. There are some weird vibes in a certain corner of the cemetery where there are a lot of damaged graves. A friend of mine did a Ouija session in Restland, but did not communicate with any Restland occupants, but rather a spirit that was merely passing by.
Restland does not have any statues, but it has quite a few crosses and urns. There are a few pretty carvings. It's still definitely worth a look though, especially if you like little cemeteries. It is adjacent to Oak Hill Cemetery.

3. Oak Hill Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, Vermont
Oak Hill Cemetery is on a hill above Restland Cemetery. Half of it is technically, in Westminster VT. I first noticed this cemetery while visiting Restland, and visited the same day, but didn't stay long, for reasons I'll explain later.
The cemetery is terraced, with graves on different tiers. There is one large tier, where the majority of graves sit, and two smaller tiers filled with recent graves. The earliest graves seem to be from the mid to late 19th century. It is still very active.
The grounds are immaculately kept. I hardly ever see any trash there either. Very few of the gravestones are broken or damaged. There is some vandalism, but the town repairs most broken monuments.
Oak Hill is haunted. I have personally seen shapes, heard screams, and seen statues change their expressions. Almost everyone I have talked to has told me Oak Hill is haunted. There are a few legends surrounding the cemetery. One being that, a murderer would hide behind one of the benches and whoever sat at that bench would be brutally killed. There is however no proof that this actually happened. A friend informed me a dead girl was found in this cemetery during the 1960's, but like the legend of the murderer, there isn't any solid proof besides word of mouth.
All creepiness aside, Oak Hill is gorgeous. It's got a gazebo, a Veterans memorial, and plenty of beautiful statues and carvings. I certainly recommend this cemetery to anyone who loves cemeteries and to anyone who loves paranormal investigation.