I Thought it was All Over With : 11.13.03 @ 10:50 pm
The lines between reality and my thoughts have been blurring. I haven�t been able to distinguish what I said and did between what I thought and dreamt. It all smears together, as if none of it happened at all.
*
What I know did happen was my panic attack yesterday, at school. I broke down in front of my English teacher, in front of a handful of students who happened to be there at the time, and in front of anyone and everyone in the guidance office.
The stress has been tremendous the past few weeks. I�ve complained about it enough for you to realize it, but my entries have just barely touched upon it.
In an attempt to get things done and out of the way, I gave my chosen teachers their teacher recommendation forms, as well as addressed and stamped envelopes, back in mid September and had my application and transcript sent out before October was over and done with. I told both of my teachers the very day that I sent it out.
I get a postcard from Bennington last Friday. It�s postmarked the Tuesday before, saying that neither of my teacher recommendations are in. I know Mrs. S already sent it out, as she told me. She was the one I was worried about, because as sweet as she is, she�s a bit flakey..
I email Mrs. O on Monday, saying I was just double checking to make sure she had sent it out, blah blah blah. I don�t hear back from her. Wednesday, I try to hunt her down. She�s one of those teachers that has six different rooms and by the time you figure out what room she�s in, you need to get to your own class or be late and interrupt hers. I see someone else who�s also looking for her, for different reasons. This guy informs me that when he had her do his recommendation, she just sent it to the guidance office and he didn�t know until it was almost too late.
My stomach drops to the floor.
And why, she asks, obviously irritated, Do you think I should let you take time out of my class to do that?
Because this may determine if I get into the college I want to you fucking bitch, and is infinitely more important then your lame Geoystems class, I think. I�m shifting nervously, I don�t think I can raise my voice louder then a mumble, as it seems like my throat, my lungs, are just collapsing in on itself.
Because I was just informed that one of my teacher recommendations is missing and I don�t know where it could be and it�s due the fifteenth. - I say this really fast. I don�t think I even heard the words myself, but she scowls and scrawls out a pass.
She�s not there. My guidance counselor, she�s in a meeting. I leave a note, my anxiety rising. I leave to head back to class and I�m thwarted by an obnoxious teacher who wants a pass. I go back to the guidance office and get one.
And spend the rest of third period shaking and forcing myself not to vomit all over the place.
I wait outside of the room that Mrs. O is supposed to be in until the bell rings, she�s late, or she�s not there, whatever the case the end result is the same. I�m late, I rush to class, I ask my English teacher if I can go to guidance... I mumble it. I can�t think, I can�t concentrate, I can�t make reason, let alone coherent words that form sentences.
She asks me to repeat it and I do, but I barely begin and I feel it burst open and I just start crying while I�m speaking.
I thought this was all over, I say. I thought I had gotten it done and out of the way, I thought it was done. I thought it was over.
She looks concerned. The few that saw this looked concerned.
Familiar faces in the crowd ask what�s wrong. I shake my head and shake my way to the guidance office, trying to breathe, trying to get a hold of myself.
She�s not there. She won�t be, most of fourth period. She�s in another meeting. I lean against the cement wall in the guidance hallway and try not to cry again. I had taken the note out of her box, as I had thought I�d be seeing her and there�d be no need for the note. It twisted violently in my hands of its own accord. I looked down at it, wondering if I should rewrite it. Paper should always be purer, cleaner, then the words and the writer.
I ask the secretary for a kleenex and it happens again. I sob uncontrollably, in the middle of the guidance lobby, taking kleenex after kleenex and then shredding them nervously in my hands, balling five or six up into my hands and throwing them away when I can no longer hold them.
The secretary is saying things to calm me down, a voice of reason that I can not hear past the burning in my ears, the wildfire in my mind.
I push the tears back long enough to collect myself. I start to walk slowly back to class, breathing deeply to calm myself down.
The same teacher stops me in the hallway. This time I have a pass, and I flash the red lined paper at him.
Thank you, sir. He says.
I�ve already started walking away, but I pause slightly, and say loud enough for him to hear -
M�am. Female.
It�s forced out of me, short and clipped.
I hope he was embarrassed.
*
I have not talked to Mrs. O since then. However, from what my guidance counselor said, it appears that Mrs. O mailed it out either Tuesday, or more likely, Wednesday morning.
The day after I sent her the email.
What would have happened had I not sent the email?
My counselor faxed Bennington a copy of the recommendation, just in case it doesn�t arrive by Saturday.
Hopefully, it will.
September. I gave it to her in September.
/A
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