Story time

I believe in ghosts.

I believe in the ghosts of things that once were, and that will be, and that are still here, but not quite.

Most of you might not know that I work at a retirement home- Ashford/Highland Glen. (Shoutout to Sabrina. :))

Most of you might not know that I spend my work shifts taking care of people that can't quite care for themselves, and that even though it's one of the hardest things I'll ever do, it's also one of the most rewarding. I work in a memory care unit, and, as such, I work with people that are in any stage of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, or any age-induced mental impairment.

Most of you might not know that these people are the purest and sweetest souls that I've ever had the opportunity to meet.

They're also the reason that I believe in ghosts.

I've held the hand of a dying woman before, and I held her hand after she had passed, and told her that I love her. (Present tense.)

And the story I want to tell is funny, but it also makes me think- which is the best quality of a story, in my opinion.

So, a little background. On a normal day, I start work at 2:30, meaning I go straight from school, and I usually don't get home until around 11:00 at night. The shifts are long, and tiring, and by 9:30, I usually just want to cry. But that's cool.

On one particular night, around 10:00, we were all exhausted and ready to go home, when our pagers started going off- letting us know that there was a call light going off. This was a normal occurs nice, and I stood up to answer it, but that's when I noticed that it was coming from an empty room- one who's occupant had passed away a few weeks early. Weird.

The woman who had lived in that room was one of the residents I was closest to. She was tiny, weighing only around 60 pounds when she died, but her mind was surprisingly clear, and I loved talking to her. Needless to say, it freaked me out that an alarm was going off from her room.

I forced my coworker to come with me, and we walked down the hall to her room, with our iPhone flashlights on, and saw a figure in the corner of my room. I literally almost peed my pants, man. We were both silent until we turned on the light and saw one of our other residents standing in the corner, tugging on the call light. She was a wanderer, and it was common to find her in somebody else's room, but this one really freaked us out. Imagine walking into a pitch black room and seeing somebody in the corner... Yeah. Bad night.

But it made me think. For those of you that don't have experience with Alzheimer's, it's a destroying disease. It turns healthy people into people with hardly any recollection of their surroundings or even their family. And it's heartbreaking. Their former selves are like ghosts, and as sad as it is, some of the people I work with are no longer who they used to be, even in the slightest. That's why it's hard for their families to visit them- because it isn't truly their mom, or their dad, it's a ghost. So, yeah. I believe in ghosts. Maybe not physical, literal ghosts, but the ghosts of who people once were, and the ghosts that are now occupying their bodies, only a trace of who they used to be remaining.

If you knew me

If you truly knew me, you'd know that I hate being 'the girl that always sits in the same spot, the girl that doesn't share much and doesn't talk much', but I'm too afraid to change it. 

If you knew me, you'd know that I wish, more than anything, that I wasn't one of the five juniors in our class- that I wish I was a senior. That I wish I could grow up and leave and get out and hopefully, not visit Utah County any more than I need to.

If you knew me, you'd know that I love pineapple ice cream and Mary Higgins Clark's books and boybands and this class, even though I might not show it.

You'd know that I like instrumental music and risque music and music that makes me feel something. You'd know that I've played piano for almost ten years, and for about eight of those years, I wanted to quit more than anything, and I'm just now starting to appreciate the talent. You'd know that I play music in my car way too loud, and when I pick up the elementary school carpool, adults give me dirty looks for blasting 2011 Justin Bieber. Music is important, basically.

I love photography. I love being able to capture a moment, and for some reason, I love the way I feel with my camera around my neck. 

I love dogs, old people, and snow cones. I love my job (even though it SUCKS) and for the most part, I love the people I work with. I've got it pretty good, guys.

I love scary movies and San Diego and swimming with dolphins and laughing so hard that my head starts to hurt. I love the summer, and I love getting to sleep in, and I love having plans for the weekend. I love good grammar.

I love when people text me first.

One thing I don't love? This reveal. (Sorry, Nelson, but I almost boycotted). This is more scary to me than writing the first post, because at least then, nobody knew it was me. But I've written personal stuff on here for a good few months now, and now I'm supposed to tell you all who I am, and let you judge me, and that basically terrifies me. 

I care waaaaay too much about what people think.

You'd know that I hate being in pictures, that I hate the way I smile, and maybe that's why there's only three pictures of me on my phone. You'd know that I hate judge-y people, I hate slow drivers and eight hour work shifts and grumpy people. 

If you knew me, you'd know that my real name isn't Charlotte Rose, obvs, though it's a pretty name and it's done me a huge favor. 

                   My name's Cassidy Atwood- Cassy for those who know me. Nice to meet you.

                       Above: Me, with my best friend, Wyatt. Some of you might know him. :)

Thank you, Charlotte. 

Wins and Losses

We're all going to die, so why the hell am I so afraid of it?

In ninth grade, I thought I wanted to die. I knew how I wanted to do it, I knew when I wanted it to happen, and I thought that maybe I would finally be happy, away from mean girls and overbearing parents and a stifling community.

Sometimes, I wish I had done it.

But sometimes, I'm happy they stopped me.

Because I'm not finished yet- one more year, that's all. One more year of high school and then I'm free.

If I had died two years ago, I never would've learned as much as I have since then. I'd be sleeping forever- which doesn't sound so bad when I'm waking up early every morning, but at least I'm alive. I can go to school and I can have a future and I can laugh and cry and live, just because I didn't open that bottle of pills. High school doesn't last forever. Neither did middle school, even though it felt like it would. And the older I've gotten. the more I've realized that nothing lasts forever. I don't talk to those mean girls anymore, and they don't talk to me. My parents are still overbearing, very much so, but I can deal with it. One more year, right? And the community is just as stifling, but next year at this time, I'll almost be finished.

If I had died, I never would've met him.

I never would've known that, hey, maybe there's a chance for me, after all.

I never would've met some of the best people I know, and I never would've taken the best classes I've gotten to be in, and I never would've known that even though I'm sad, I can still be so happy.

I never would've known that that my parents got divorced, and that even though I still cry about it, and even though I can't decide where to live and who to live with, I'm okay. We're okay.

And for the first time in a while, I'm looking forward to things. I'm looking forward to Hawaii, and the cruise, and senior year, and everything that's going to come after that. Because I'm afraid, sure, but I'm not going to let that stop me. That's a pretty big win, in my book, even after so many losses.

afraid

when i was little, i was afraid of the dark.

i was afraid of tattoos and snakes and that someday, i'd have to grow up and move out and be by myself.

i'm still afraid of the dark, but now, i'm not afraid of growing up- i'm afraid of how much longer it will be until i can finally leave.

i'm seventeen years old now, and i'm scared of change.

i'm afraid that everything will change, but i'm even more afraid that nothing ever will.

i'm afraid of roller coasters that go upside down, and of tall boys with cute smiles who are everything i told myself i'd never want. i'm afraid of lower-case letters, thanks to the american schooling system, and that's basically why this entire post is lowercase. have to face at least some of my fears somehow, right?

i'm afraid of being alone. i'm afraid that the way i feel right now, with no boyfriend and no huge group of friends and nobody to eat lunch with- i'm afraid that this is the way i'll be forever. because i love cats, but not enough that i want to be single and alone in my later years with only a nursing degree and twenty cats to keep me company.

i'm afraid of myself.

i'm afraid of what i can do, and i'm afraid of what i can't.

i'm afraid of what i want, and i'm afraid i won't be able to get it. i'm afraid of the world, because if there's suicide bombers in Europe, how long is it going to take until they're here? how long until it's my missionary that's in the hospital, or my family, or my friends? how long?

THERE'S SO MUCH TO BE AFRAID OF

but why would i let that stop me?

Maybe I Am a Robot

I always post on Sundays. It's not because I'm trying to procrastinate, of course, but every Sunday night as I'm getting into bed, the thought of my blog and my grade and my unwritten post is always lingering in my mind.

So, here I am. Better late than never, right?

I have a routine. Like it or not, Sunday night posts have become part of my routine.

I've been alive for 6,221 days.
149,304 hours.
8,598,240 minutes.
537,494,400 seconds.

And almost every single one of those days, at least recently, is the same.

I wake up at the same time. I get ready, not sure who I'm trying to impress. (Everybody, nobody, myself). And I go to school, and I waste away seven hours of my life memorizing formulas and writing research papers that will never benefit me in the future. After school, I usually go to work, where I waste away another eight hours, just pretending that I know what I'm doing. If I'm not at work, I'm at home, attempting my homework and again, pretending that I know what I'm doing. (I don't).

Doesn't that sound like a robot to you?

What if I don't want to be like that?

What if I want to be spontaneous?

High school doesn't like spontaneity. High school likes rules and disclosures and Scantron tests with number two pencils.

But, me? I like surprises. I like sneaking out and going on adventures and making my life just a little bit more exciting.

(I really hope I won't be a robot forever).

how to take a risk

This.

Broken Crayons

In first grade, everybody has crayons. You color and you talk and share and go to recess, and so does everybody else.

You color in second grade, too. Not as much, but, still.

By sixth grade, the crayons are almost gone. You'll break them out for the occasional art project, but other than that, you're expected to grow up, to act like the almost middle schoolers that you are, and that you have no idea how to be.

Middle school will be hard. The crayons are gone, as is the façade that you're a child anymore. Everything is about grades, about high school and college and everything after, and it's so overwhelming, and you'll probably find yourself wishing for your old pack of crayons and your juice box, because in first grade, there's nothing to stress about besides who you'll play with at recess.

(Maybe it isn't so different, after all, because I still find myself in high school, wondering who I'm going to lunch with).

By high school, the crayons are gone. The pictures that your mom hung up on the fridge were torn down years ago, replaced by report cards and ACT scores and college applications and expectations and stress and the future.

The crayons are broken. They've been snatched away, worn down to a stub, replaced with a number 2 pencil and a Chemistry test.

I want my crayons back. I want my childhood, the one that I didn't appreciate enough because all I wanted was to grow up and get out.

But, oh, what I wouldn't give to go back to naptime and snacks and juice boxes and a fresh box of crayons.