Hey guys, welcome back. I think I can call this the worst week of my life so far. I think that’s acceptable. Granted, nobody passed away in my family, but still plenty of things have happened.
Monday morning: panic attack. I know surprise surprise. I didn’t end up going to school, just stayed home and did a bit of make up work. At 4:00 my new math tutor came. Finally someone who is actually teaching me. That went well. But the whole day I had a weird feeling in my chest. I cannot for the life of me describe it, but it felt like my chest was heavy and light at the same time in an odd way. That evening, my father put the tv on. The way he normally does. He put on a news channel we always watch and the headline I saw was enough to make my heart pound.
Bombing at a concert in Manchester.
Of course at that point it have just happened moments prior so there was no information. We switched between news channels for a good half hour looking for the ones with the most updated information. And it broke me. That photo they keep using, you probably know the one, of the girl hunched over, leaning on two other people with a bandaged leg and distressed look on her face. As we leaned more, I found out it was an Ariana Grande concert. That sent a shiver down my spine. A fan base of young children and teens filled that arena. Those kids who were at their first concert. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The dashcam video where you can hear the explosion replayed in my head over and over. The sounds of the screams and the images of people climbing over railings and running, trying desperately to get out. The video of the kids running down the staircase with a group of anxious parents waiting at the bottom broke me. All those parents, unsure if there child was alive or dead, but all they could do was wait.
Tuesday morning: panic attack. Worse this time. I paced around shaking my hands rubbing my legs, pulling at my hair. It seemed uncontrollable. I had to go to a lab and get blood work done. The thought of leaving the house made me want to scream. I cried and cried and finally made it to the car. I shook and looked around frantically for the entire ride. I didn’t say a single word in the lab. The Manchester story was on the news again. I tried not to listen. But there was nothing else to listen to. I started shaking. They called my name and I walked down the hallway with my head down. I still shook as I sat in the chair. The technician probably just though I was afraid of needles when in reality, I’m perfectly fine with them. I was supposed to go to school after the lab, couldn’t. I was scared to leave the house. But I forced myself to go to my 8th period orchestra class since our concert was that evening.
If you’ve never been in an orchestra you probably wouldn’t know that the better you are, the farther up and closer to the edge of the stage you sit. Now this works really well when it’s just the sixth grade orchestra but when it comes to the seventh and eighth, it work a bit differently. Usually it doesn’t matter how good you are as a seventh grader, only eighth graders get the outermost seats. That’s just the way it works. So when I found that my seat was the second row in and fourth one back, I was heartbroken. I turned to my right to congratulate whoever was sitting on the outside row. I figured that because my stand partner and I always had the outside seats, someone must have done really well this year. But what I saw crushed me, I was faced with two seventh graders. It was a given for us in seventh grade that we wouldn’t get the outermost seats because we were in seventh grade and it was the eighth graders last year. But all of the sudden that was different. My stand partner was completely livid and stormed up to the front of the stage to ask our teacher for an explination. That explination was, “well some of the seventh graders have worked so hard this year and they’ve really improved so I think they deserved it.” But it never mattered how hard you worked as a seventh grader, you always knew you’d have to wait until eighth grade for those seats. I wasn’t mad at my teacher, but at myself. Had I not gotten the home instruction and just stayed in the regular school system for the year, maybe I would’ve gotten that seat. And not for nothing but I learned those concert songs in a week. I had finally found the time to practice and they were hard songs. I thought that deserved some recognition. Guess not. But regardless I played my heart out at my final concert with the only orchestra teacher I’ve ever known. It saddens me to think she won’t be my teacher next year.
Yesterday: once again, panic attack in the morning, no school. Spent the day sleeping, trying, and failing, not to panic anymore. Social studies tutoring was a bust. I got nothing done and cried after the tutor left. But I went to piano excited because I love piano so much. My teacher is amazing and it took so long for us to find a teacher at all. But when I got there and sat down to take my shoes off, she told my mother that she’s moving. To Nashville. I broke inside. Over the last week I’d perfected the pieces I’m playing for our recital but I couldn’t play them well because my heart felt heavy and my eyes were trying to hold back tears. I got home and sobbed, locking myself in my room for hours. Trying to piece things together.
And then this morning, I once again didn’t go in because of anxiety. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I HAVE to be in school but it’s so hard.
See ya soon!!!