If you want to heal, you have to talk about it. I think it's time for me to heal.
I've been suffering ever since last October.
I have been hiding it in my brain, blocked by the heaviest of filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel.
It all started when I had to drive myself to my hair appointment. My mother wouldn't come hold my hand as I had my forever-appreciated split ends sawed off my head.
Please bear in mind that the hair salon is about twenty-five minutes from the homestead. And I hate driving. And I hate directions. And I can't follow directions. Because my brain makes me panic and the filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel smash around my head. That gets a little uncomfortable. So I am sure you can understand where I am coming from.
But guess what. I made it to the salon. And my hair was chopped. Nobody had to hold my hand.
When I was done, I called the homestead and asked for the directions to get home. And I got directions. Directions that involved pressing pound and saying my credit card number, social security number, and my address.
Then, when I actually got a hold of the people who raised me, I received directions consisting of standing on my head, patting my shoulder with my foot, covering my eyes with my elbows, and sensing when it was time to exit the freeway and enter the belt route by using my telepathic radio waves.
I thought I would give it a shot. After all, I kind of wanted to make it back home so I could finish my weekend, and perhaps even my education, eventually. So I turned on the radio and blasted some tunes, simultaneously drowning out all thought, sound, and telepathic radio waves. And I drove. And I drove.
Eventually, my brain decided to pay attention to the world around me. Had Utah always looked so... desert-like? I saw an exit sign and I wondered if I should remove my vehicle from the freeway by following said sign. The sign passed. So I decided that I would take the next exit. So I kept driving. And I kept driving. And I kept driving. There were no exit signs. The filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel thrashed about my brain and smashed against my skull.
So I made a phone call that involved pressing pound and saying my credit card number, social security number, and my address.
Then I made another phone call that involved parental voices telling me that I am blonde. Thanks, but I already knew that. But could you please tell me what to do. Then I looked at the dashboard and saw a little yellow light notifying me that my gas tank has been on empty for quite some time. And I kept driving through the unfamiliar, parched desert. And I was told that the only thing I really could do was to keep driving. Until I hit an exit.
To make a long story longer, I drove until I hit an exit. And I didn't even run out of gas before I made it to the gas station.
Plus, I had never been to the Great Salt Lake before then.