Ten Years

Yesterday marked the ten-year-anniversary of an event that continues to haunt me. It was then--and remains to be--the most deadly high school shooting in history. I'm not even going to call it by name, because seeing traffic being driven to my blog by searches for this particular event would be a daily reminder of something for which I will never need reminded.

I have just returned home from school the afternoon of April 20, 1999.

I am still basically the same person that I was that day in ninth grade. In fact, I think I have always been this person. This person who feels other people's grief and sadness as though they are as much a part of me as my own heartbeat.

I mindlessly flipped through the channels on the T.V.

For as long as I can remember, I have cried for other people's losses. People whom I have never even met. And I'm not just talking about shedding a tear or two. I am talking completely lose-my-shit-sob-until-it-hurts-to-breathe-until-my-eyes-sting-and-remain-puffy-for-days. I'm not always sure if this immense empathy is a blessing or curse. It is probably a little of both.

I am immediately confused and drawn in by a live news feed on CNN of high school students being pulled from the school windows by a SWAT team.


As the story continued to unravel on the news, I was paralyzed by my sadness for this community in Colorado that had senselessly lost so many bright young lives. And then, stories about the deceased began filling the news channels 24/7. As I began to see these teens as my peers rather than the latest headline, the tears came. I cried. And cried. And cried. Friends and family, also obviously saddened by the events, tried to comfort me. But aside from the Colorado people they kept showing on the news at their candle vigils and memorials--it seemed like I was the only one crying.

As with most tragedies, tears dry as the days pass. My life as a high school freshman continued as normal. Except for one thing. The footsteps. Hearing heavy footsteps in the hallway during class became more frightening to me than hearing a chainsaw in a haunted house. In my mind, footsteps equaled imminent death. Clearly, I had some of my own problems to work through following the tragedy.

But you know what didn't help me to feel comfortable in my own school? The two boys whom I sat between in biology class. They were known for wearing trench coats around school (which were forbidden following the April 20 tragedy). But it wasn't just their "unique" wardrobe that set them apart from their peers. They were "loners." Their group consisted of about ten students--but I sat smack dab in between the two of the most notorious.

One day, during biology class, I heard them discussing something in whispers. Of course, I could hear everything they were saying. They said they wanted to line up everyone in the school in the hallway. They would dismiss the people they liked and shoot everyone that was left. All the teachers were goners too. All of them except one--a much beloved English teacher.

I tried as hard as I could to pretend I hadn't just heard their words. I must not have been very convincing, though. The boy to my left leaned towards me and whispered through a grin, "Don't worry. You're safe."

And that, folks, is why you should be nice to EVERYONE. Especially the kids that everyone else thinks are "freaks." Okay? Moving along...

Then there was The Hit List. My troubled classmates made a hit list that soon made its way into the hands of the administration. It was taken very seriously. Students and teachers who were on the hit list were notified and everyone had letters sent home to their parents filling them in on the news.

The hit list not only listed names of students and teachers, but it also included a date the massacre was supposedly to occur. That day, several of my friends and I stayed home from school with our parents' permission. We spent the day together, trying to calm each others' fears and pray that our high school would not be the next one to make national headlines.

The students responsible for the hit list were either expelled or suspended. One boy never did return to our school.

What if the hit list had never made its way into the right hands? The tears that I shed April 20, 1999, and the weeks that followed could have just as easily been shed for my own classmates and best friends.

Tragedy and loss happens everywhere. It is universal.

I believe I feel sadness at a greater intensity than most people. But I think this allows me to feel happiness more intensely as well. So, while it might be exhausting to cry for days on end for people I never met--it is not something I would change about myself.

Marching for Maddie

I joined a Pittsburgh March for Babies team in honor of Maddie. Please help me reach my goal. The babies and I thank you for any financial support you can contribute. A little can go a long way.

Madeline Alice Spohr

Rest in peace, sweet Maddie. You are easily the most beautiful baby I have ever laid my eyes upon. My heart has shattered with this tragic news.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Maddie's parents and everyone whose life she touched during her much too brief lifetime.

To make a donation to the March of Dimes in Maddie's memory, go here.

It's not all flowers, squirrels, and gingerbread...

Dear Blog,

Despite the flurry of excitement surrounding my life lately (read: engagement, squirrel, etc.) I have been feeling rather down. It's not the holiday blues, or the bronchitis that refuses to leave my lungs in peace. Nope. It's something else. Something that I've dealt with my entire life--but only recently had a name for.

It's the narcolepsy.

I was so relieved after receiving my diagnosis--finally having an explanation for why I never had the energy that others around me seem to possess. Blog, you probably remember the hope that glimmered in my eyes as I recounted my conversation with my sleep disorder specialist. I had to restrain myself from giving him a big old bear hug, you know? I was going to be able to sleep. Really, honestly, sleep. All the appropriate sleep cycles, and not just all that dreaming crap I've put up with for 25 years. I couldn't believe it.

Well, blog... that hope isn't sparkling in my eyes anymore. After discussing the prescribed medication with my mom, a registered nurse, she raised some serious concerns. The medication, which I will not refer to by name, has some side effects that are potentially deadly. Among them: seizures, severe difficulty breathing, confusion, depression, loss of consciousness, and even death.

Side effects aside, the real reason I'm putting this drug on the back burner is that it alters brain chemistry, which I worry can potentially cause a trigger of mental illness. Because bipolar disorder runs in my family, brain chemistry is not something I want to fool around with. The consequences could turn my world upside down. And a good night's sleep? No matter how much I ache for that very thing... risking my mental health is just not worth it.

So I guess I'm holding out for plan B. My doctor tells me new drugs tailored for narcolepsy are coming down the pike in the next 2-3 years. These new drugs will target hypocretin, a hormone that is thought to be responsible for narcolepsy.

I've gone this long without real sleep. What's another 2 or 3 years? Well, I asked myself that very question last night, and the only response I could muster was twenty minutes of crying and feeling sorry for myself. I know there are people going through much worse right now in their lives, so I'm going to try to suck it up and wait patiently. In the meantime, I'll be napping and going to bed at obscenely early hours.

Love,
Mermanda