I'm not really sure if this will turn out well, but I haven't sat down and written for a decent amount of time since November, so here goes.

07/07/2010

I've always found that a blank piece of paper holds the greatest amount of hope in existence, yet still somehow manages to be one of the greatest obstacles in my life. My name is Kristine "Kris" Delcourt, and I believe that a blank piece of paper will always be my best friend and my worst enemy.

Why, you ask?

Because here I sit, after tackling four years of college and the strangest of romantic encounters, and I can't even write it down.

Should I start from the beginning? That's what Ms. Cathleen Aberson said; she's my therapist. But you see, I'm not really sure what the "beginning" is. Do I start when my mother died? Or maybe I should begin later, with my best friend's wedding.

What defines a beginning anyways? For all I know, the events of the past few months were set in motion long before I realized. Is a beginning the place things honestly and truly start, or is a beginning based on when a certain person realizes what is going on?

For me, the moment that stands out the most as a beginning is a random day in the middle of last summer. That was when I started noticing things. I would go for a walk and nonchalantly look over my shoulder to find sunglass-clad figures looming a short distance away. I'd become suspicious of ice cream trucks and drive-through attendants for reasons that were, at the time, rather unreasonable.

On the first Monday in August, I was off to my seventeenth job interview that week when I got the phone call. You know that kind of phone call. It's the kind of phone call that sends your world crashing down around you in a matter of seconds. It's the kind of phone call that makes your head spin and your heart stop beating. It's the kind of phone call that interrupts an interview to send you spiraling into despair.

My neighbor, a sweet old lady named Mrs. Nadine, had walked over to my house to ask my mother for a cup of sugar, which she does nearly every Monday. She just walked in out of habit to find Mother sprawled on the couch drenched in her own vomit. Turned out that she had drunk herself past the point of an average human's tolerance level. To this day, I have no idea why. Mother was rushed to the hospital via uber-fast ambulance, but even uber-fast wasn't fast enough, I guess.

By the time I got to the hospital, step-dad-three was there with a folder of official-looking papers and an almost-empty box of tissues. Apparently he was there for the rigorous CPR they performed on Mother, and he was there for the doctor to give the bad news to. She was beyond rescue. Nothing could have kept her alive.

I almost felt bad for step-dad-three.

Two days after the hospital, we had a funeral. Mother didn't really know anyone who was willing to come to a funeral, to be honest. She had her drinking buddies, but they were either too hung-over to come, or they really didn't care. Mother didn't work either – she lost her job around the time step-dad-three rolled around – so it was essentially just me, step-dad-three, and Mrs. Nadine. One or two neighbors stopped by with casseroles and half-baked condolences. I left a daisy on her grave and went home.

I think I'll stop there for today.

I'm posting this as a story because I like the idea. Please review? Let me know what you think!