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The Day I Ran
I was diagnosed with two diseases at a young age. Both would affect my life greatly, but in very different ways. The first disease was very severe asthma. The second was depression. My parents were very worried about my asthma. They gave me an inhaler five times a day, never let me play sports, and never, ever, let me run. They ignored to depression. They claimed the doctor only diagnosed me with it to make money. I knew they were wrong, but they would never listen to me.
Having depression and being forced to deal with it on my own made my life hell. I plotted to run away more times than I could count, but when I got older, I began looking into ways to legally remove myself from the family. I needed to find a guardian and the choice was easy.
Monica was a close family friend. I could tell her anything, and she would never judge me. She would believe me and help me. Monica was my ticket out, and the day she died, something in me did too.
I wasn't particularly surprised or shocked when Monica passed. Monica was a breast cancer surviver and was very susceptible to disease. She was often in and out of the hospital. This last time she left for the hospital though, was different.
I went over to her house, just like I always did before she left. We talked or what seemed like hours, and quite honestly, she was boring me to death. I let my mind wander and hardly paid attention to what she was saying. I was too preoccupied reliving the party I had went to the previous day. When it was time for me to go she sat up so I could hug her and something in me knew. Somehow, I knew it would be the last time I ever saw Monica. I hugged her and tried my best not to let go. Weak as she was, she managed to get up and walk me to the door. I hugged her again at the front porch and lost it. I sobbed silently into her shirt. I could feel just how skinny she was then, and it scared me even more. I cried harder. She asked me what the matter was. “What if I never see you again?” I asked her.
“I always come back, don't I?” Monica responded, laughing. Something inside me knew she was wrong.
When I heard the news though, that very second, the world turned to a blur. I was faintly aware of my parents offering pointless advice on losing a loved one, and my sister starting to cry. I stood up and ran out the door.
I ran and ran and ran, feeling none of the pain I normally felt when running. I didn't think or hurt, physically or mentally, I just ran and I felt free.
I wasn't even aware of where I was going, and before I knew it I was at the intersection across the street from a beautiful park. I could see the car coming. I didn't want to stop running. There was no reason to stop. If I made it, I could keep running forever and ever, if I didn't make it, at least I would be out of that house.
A few feet away from the intersection, I knew it was impossible for me to make it across without being hit. I thought “Maybe it's time” and continued running.
Right as I was about to set foot on the road, mere feet away from that stupid blue Subaru, I stopped. I hurt all over. My lungs were on fire. I could barely walk. I felt like I was going to die, car or no car.
The car whizzed past. I thought “ I can make it to the park. I can sit down,” but for some reason, I turned around. I walked all the way home, thinking I was just crossing the street. I made it home and have regretted the decision ever since.
I don't really know what made me stop at that intersection. Or what made me go home that day. It could have been instinct. It could have been some subconscious part or my mind, taking over control of my body. Maybe it was God. But I like to think that it was Monica.