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Manic Monday

I had the impulse to just lay on the ground and do nothing. My immediate response was wondering if that was against the rules. Of course it's against the rules, I have to be productive today. I have to be an upstanding member of society. I have to straighten out my uniform, get up, and sharpen my pencil. Then I would sit back down at my desk and write more sentences in cursive. I would write, and I would learn, and I would sit, and I would be an automaton if told to do so. So, on schedule, I got up, straightened out my uniform, and walked right out of the room.

I walked right out of the building, actually. I walked, trotted, skimpered, jogged, pretended to be animals and wondered, wondered how long it would take until they noticed I was gone, or if they had already. I imagined a whole scenario in which the school called the police and the priest was over, praying for my salvation. My friends were all worried and my teacher was being arrested for losing a child. I then decided that I was done with that thought, so I pushed it away, and laid down on the ground.

While I was laying on the ground, the thought came back. Except much worse and this time, soaked in guilt and shame. I started crying, weeping really. It was the first time in my life that I had actually wept. I had cried, I had sobbed, I had blubbered, and I had bawled, but I had never wept. I layed on the ground outside of an unknown building and wept. Several cars drove by and I imagine they saw a somewhat horrific sight. A little fat girl, probably 9 or 10, laying on the ground with her hair disheveled and her face in intense pain. Just weeping.

My vision was blue and black. I was so angry at myself that I tried to hurt myself without success. I ripped my standard catholic plaid skirt to shreds and I screamed and I yelled and I hollered and I belted like a banshee. What had I done to my family? We'll be the laughingstock of town. Sharon Doughty and her little runaway. My thoughts stopped making sense and finally, in the jumble of hateful and accusatory snippets that were bouncing in my head, I vomited all over the sidewalk.

The vomiting brought me back to lucidity, and I realized that I could just as easily walk back to school. So I did. I got the the double doors, and stared at the crucifix shaped handles and dreamed. I dreamed, and I wondered, and I imagined, and I thought, and I pictured. Then I opened the doors, went to the restroom and cleaned myself up with a frightful serenity and marched back to my classroom. I swung open the door and saw my teacher. I stomped right over to her and proclaimed, "I'm back."

She looked confused and bewildered by my statement. "From the bathroom?" She said, "Okay. Next time take the pass."



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