Post by gabriel b. fletcher on Aug 14, 2012 2:28:24 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; height: 250px; overflow:auto; border-left: 10px solid #657f86; background: #FCFEF5; opacity: 0.8; border-top-right-radius:60px; border-bottom-left-radius:60px;] gabriel blaine fletcher  seventeen || level one || bipolar disorder || logan lerman || male [style=border-left: 10px solid #657f86; font-size: 16px; padding: 5px;]the early days: a memory five-year-old gabe works on the car with his father, daniel. "i think this goes here," says daniel. he guides his son's hand towards where the part goes. "it'll be yours when you're sixteen, so you have to make it work right." "sure will, dad," grins gabe, and he screws the part in. fifteen years old: a blog post so dad's joining the army. i'm pissed. not only does this mean that i'll see even less of him, it means that his life is in danger. i don't get why this has to happen to me. i mean, we're paying enough for my adhd meds and treatment (which mom insists on), and i don't even need it. seriously. i did fine without the meds. :/ i don't get why life has to be so goddamn unfair all the time. i think if i had it my way my family would be rolling in dough and i wouldn't have labels attached to me. because do i look like i care if i have a little trouble with paying too much attention to everything? no. do i look like i care if i like guys as well as girls? no! and do i look like i fucking care if i am a nerd, papa's boy, or whatever else those "jocks" may call me? fucking no. i hate high school. one year later: a conversation "who was that? because katie was going to call me back about our date and i was in the shower and - and mom? mom, are you okay?" "it was about your father." (pause) "mom, is he coming home? that's great! i can't wait for him to come home!" (unsure) "gabe, he's--" "coming home." "yes, but he won't be alive." "of course he will, he's coming home!" (voice crack) "mom, you're not saying dad's - dad's - he's alive, isn't he? he's just seriously hurt or something but it can be fixed, right? i don't give a shit--" "language--" "--if he doesn't have an arm or a leg he's still my dad and i still love him and he's alive he's alive right?" "your father's dead, gabe." (silence) (silence) (silence) "oh. mom..." (muffled sobs) the aftermath: blogging part 2 i can't fucking believe it. he's gone. the funeral just ended. my father's in the ground. i hate everything. i don't want to live anymore. mom told me i could have the car. i told her to fuck herself, which i do see as sort of harsh. but you know what, mom? i really don't care. you're taking this a lot better than me, so go fuck off and go marry some other dude. i don't care anymore, mother. the aftermath (3 weeks later): blogging part 3 dad wouldn't want me to be all mopey like i've been. god, i've been so stupid stupid stupid. it's 3 in the morning and i'm planning for tomorrow. it's time to stop being depressed and move on with my life. diagnosis: a conversation "mom! i am not bipolar!" "the psychologist said." "wow mom, screw you!" "you're in one of your episodes!" "aren't i always in one of my episodes?" "gabe, you come down here right this instant!" "no!" (sudden influx of music) "i am fine how i am and i am not going on any more meds! i don't want any more damn labels!" "suit yourself, gabe. you know how i gave your adhd medicine to you when you were a child!" "...i'm eating mcdonalds and only mcdonalds from now, mom." "well, if you don't cooperate..." (mimicking) "well, i won't cooperate..." "okay! perfect! you're going off to white springs and they'll help you cooperate." "FUCK YOU!" [/style] jess || fourteen || two years || yeah |
