Things that make me happy

I am leaving Seattle on Friday and I have been down in the dumps for the past few days. So decided to make a list of things that make me happy. Thank you Lily for this amazing idea :)

The following are in no particular order.

1. Bailey Campbell
2. Jordan Tuchek
3. Gina Cervantes
4. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
5. Playing Frisbee
6. Bailey Campbell and Lily Fender
7. Pho
8. Pho with Jordan Tuchek
9. The German word combination "das Auto"
10. Trees
11. Touching trees
12. Rolling around in grass
13. The smell of grass
14. Grass between my toes
15. Sea glass
16. Running around barefoot
17. Laying on the ground
18. My family
19. My dad and I laughing over Family Guy
20. Spongebob and Patrick
21. Watching Glee with Bailey Campbell on Tuesdays
22. Playing with seaweed
23. Cuddling
24. Waterfalls
25. Mount Rainier in the summer time
26. Rain
27. Thunder storms
28. My dogs
29. Sleeping
30. Camping
31. Knitting ugly hats
32. Wearing ugly sweaters I buy from Good Will
33. The smell of new books
34. People that I feel comfortable around immediately
35. Musical theater
36. Love

So, the list is kind of trivial, but it really helped.

Coffee

I just had my first cup of coffee in three weeks. I love coffee, so much. It's like my crack. But this time, since it had been so long since my last cup, I am going insane. My eye balls feel like they are going to pop out of my face and I swear I can feel the blod racing through my veins.

These sensations are so strange. I mean, how is this possible? One cup of coffee has never done this to me before. Maybe 6 cups, but one cup? Never. And yeah, I do drink fru-fru drinks, but this has never happened before, ever. In my six years of being an active coffee drinker, I have never felt this way after one cup of this nectar of the gods.

This fidgettiness should probably scare me into never drinking coffee again, but that's not going to happen. It's my crack.

Love is such a traumatically beautiful thing.

It's 1:45 am and I need to go to sleep, but sleep won't come so I am forced to be awake. What better time than to write a new blog post, especially since I haven't posted in like 2 weeks.

So I've been doing a lot of thinking lately (Imagine! Meagan thinks!), about relationships and friendships and how blessed I have been. I seriously have the best friends ever.

I recently decided that I will not be attending University of Washington next year, and instead I will be living at home in Southern California and going to community college down there. Many people have been asking me why I decided to do this. They question why I decide to leave this incredible university to go to a community college. I have been reluctant to answer most people because I have this fear of "throwing my shit in their faces". In my eyes, it's worse to have people act all awkward after hearing about all the deep shit in my life than it is for people to just not know what's going on. At least then no one can judge me and tell me I am being a child.

A week after my doctor placed me on anti-depressants, I saw her again because I wasn't getting the desired effect I wanted from them. So she placed me on an anti-anxiety medication along with my anti-depressants. This combination happens to work beautifully for me. My stress level has been lowered greatly and I'm not so sad anymore. But sadness never really goes away. It's still that numbness that I felt earlier, it's just easier to cope with now.

However, my decision to leave happened a few days before this happened. I decided that because of the changes in my life and how hard it actually was to hear about and deal with my depression, that I needed to move home and be with my family for a while. I decided that I needed help to get through this dark period that my mind is in, and if I didn't get help soon, then my brain would turn into a black whole and it would suck the humanity out of my mind and body with out even a warning to tell me to snap out of it. That sounds dramatic, but that's how I felt. I felt like I would eventually turn crazy, like the people that sit in the back of the bus. You know the ones that I am talking about. The ones that have OCD that need to stomp their right foot 15 times and turn around in 6 circles before they step foot on to the bus. I knew that I wouldn't, but I'm an extremist. Everything and anything that could and will happen will be on one end or the other on the extreme-o-meter (patent pending).

Now, how does this all tie in with friendships and relationships? I guess I really should start with the friendship part. The moment I told my friends I was leaving, I felt so sad, and I think they did too (or at least I hope so), and I didn't know how to deal with it. I usually would just pack up and leave with out caring, but that can't happen this time. These people here in Seattle that I spend my time with are like a filler-family for me. When I was away from my kin, they became this secondary family to me and they all had their little positions. Gwen was my mom, Bailey was my twin sister, Jenica was my crazy aunt, Josh was my child that I always had to keep an eye on, Jordan was my husband, and Gina was my older sister that gave me advice about boys. And that's just a few off the top of my head! How could I just up and leave this new family with out feeling anything? The answer: I couldn't. Sadness was inevitable for me when it comes to leaving these people. They are the best friends that I have ever had. They understand that I am Meagan and I do dumb things sometimes, but that no matter what, I will love them unconditionally.

It was this love that caused me to get super extra sad when Gwen called me last Friday to ask me some questions about finals week. She asked me about my schedule, and I told her that I had a final this coming Saturday, two tests next Wednesday, and an essay to write and turn in by next Thursday, and that I would be gone from Seattle on Friday. She then started telling me that her and my other friends were going to throw a roast for me. At first I was very scared. I was worried that they were going to say really mean things and that I would hate them, but then I remembered that I am dumb, and that these people love me just as much as I love them. I am a part of their secondary family also. So I started to get really sad, so much to the point that I was second guessing my decision to leave. But I realize that I need to be home right now, and that I have to leave these amazing people to detox my brain.

Although I am sad to leave all of them, I am grateful to head home and spend time with my parents and my sisters, even though Chels, my younger sister, is leaving in a few weeks for college. I have been away from them for so long that I have forgotten how my relationships with them work, and I am so excited to figure that out again. They are truly my rock. Not 4 multiple rocks, but one huge boulder to keep me from falling over. They keep me stable. And I love them more than anyone could ever know.

I am really, truly blessed to have every single one of these people in my life. They have all helped me grow in one way or another. They are amazing and I love them so much. I don't think they will ever know how much I love them, but they are all smart. They will figure it out at some point.

Dogs and things

Today was a really good day. So good that I felt the need to post here. But now I realize that I have nothing else to say, and it's probably a waste of your time to read this, so I give you a picture of a dog.

Too serious

I haven’t really blogged about my medication life lately, and it’s something I really want to talk about right now.

Back in February, I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed anti-depressants. I was originally stoked for this. I was all like, “Yeah man! I’m never going to be sad again!” I really was so excited. And I really thought that it wouldn’t take a toll on my brain and what I think about myself. I honestly thought that it was just another medication that I had to take to make myself “normal”. I ended up being very wrong. Learning to cope with my depression has actually been kind of hard for me to deal with. I can’t really explain it, but some days the world comes crashing down on me and I can’t get it off. Here is an example of one of those days:

A couple weeks after starting on this medication, I met my family in Las Vegas for my little sister’s volleyball tournament. The night I flew in, I was so tired. I hadn’t slept for thirty plus hours and I desperately needed to. So after a nice dinner with my parents and possibly the funniest couple I have ever met in my life, my parents and I headed to the hotel. I really needed to sleep, but I stayed up for a couple hours with my parents, and watched TV and caught up and stuff. We actually talked a little bit about the defunding of Planned Parenthood, and props to my wonderful mother for being such a good sport. She doesn’t usually like to listen to my dad and I debate about politics. (I am liberal and he is conservative, and that can lead to a few heated discussions, but we both love it so much. Luckily, him and I have a similar sense of humor. Our debates usually end in talking about farts or watching a hilarious video on You Tube, such as Dramatic Chipmunk. We love that one.) Mom actually put in her two-cents, which I thought was fantastic! I had never heard her talk about her stance on political issues and it was nice to find out that her and I have similar views. (Go Mom!)

So we did eventually all go to bed (I had to sleep on the pull out mattress in the couch, and it was really sucky.) I ended up waking up late because I needed sleep so badly, and I felt so bad but my parents were very nice. They told me to take my time getting ready and that they would come back later and pick me up. So that’s what I did.

That morning, while I was taking my medication, I was really worried how I was going to behave around my parents and how they would react to my behavior. It’s not like it was anything to worry about, but they had never seen me on this type of medication before, so it was a stressful moment for me. Looking back on it, I think I was worried because before with the Adderall, my parents had decided to put me on medication, and with the anti-depressants it was my decision. I can actually say that this was the first real adult decision I have made. I think I was nervous because I felt like I needed their approval of this medication. Now I realize that it’s really my happiness and success that matter, and if this medication helps, then that’s what I need.

In case you were wondering, my behavior was completely normal that day. It’s not like I was acting out or being socially awkward.

The real problem happened when the medication wore off. One thing I have noticed on anti-depressants is that it’s very easy to tell when they are no longer in your system. “How?” you ask? Here is how.

The world sucks. Everything becomes so much worse than it should be. And here are a couple examples.

While my sister was playing that day, I noticed approximately four ants on the ground (actually, it was exactly four) and whenever I see bugs anywhere, I kill them. I always have, well at least ever since a brown recluse bit me when I was 7. So, naturally, I killed those four ants. Usually it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, but this time, I felt like scum. I killed four ants! Killed! Meaning I took four innocent lives! Those ants could have been the best ants ever! They could have been champion ant Olympians, and I ruined their careers! They were mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters! I broke their families! I am a life ruin-er!

I almost started crying right then and there, but I realized that I was blowing the situation out of proportion. So I calmed my self down.

We later went to Wendy’s and the woman that took our order had horrible teeth, and something similar happened. I felt so bad that she didn’t have all her teeth and the ones that were there weren’t straight or white. I almost started to cry again because I felt bad for this woman and her teeth. But I calmed my self down again.

Sometimes I like being on anti-depressants. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I become numb and really just don’t care about anything. And being numb is probably the worst feeling in the world. Other times, it feels like I have a buffer on my life. Like if something bad happens, I will be okay. That doesn’t happen very often though. It’s usually just the numbness. Maybe I just have to get used to the medication, but I really hate it right now. It’s making it much harder for me to accept that I have depression, which probably shouldn’t be happening. The numbness is confusing my body. I want to cry because that’s what I am used to doing when I am feeling down, but it’s like someone turned off my tear ducts.

However, yesterday I saw my doctor again, and she prescribed me the same medication, but a longer-lasting kind. So that’s probably why I am feeling the numbness. I need to get used to this new dosage. But I don’t want to. I just want to cry.

Yes. I did just write about burritos.

Chipotle.

It's the best experience ever:

You walk in the front door and grimace at the horribly long line in front of you. "Why does everyone love the best food in the world?" you think to yourself. But you join the line anyway because you know that it's going to be worth it.

While you are waiting in line, you are thinking about what you are going to get. You think to yourself, "Do I want pinto beans or black beans? Chicken or steak? Wait! Do I want tacos this time? That might be nice. I know! I am going to get a carnitas burrito bowl with pinto beans! Yes! That is going to be so good!" And you are so proud of yourself too, because you are finally branching out and trying something new.

There is nothing like the feeling of finally making it up to the glass shield covering all the scrumptious fillings for your gold-wrapped, amazing burrito. But you decided that you weren't going to get a burrito. A burrito bowl is what's up. But you see the tortilla guy warming up all those delicious, huge flour torillas and you impulsively say, "Steak burrito with black beans". You know that this isn't what you want and you are beating yourself up over the fact that you gave into your usual order. But this way you most definitely know that you will be leaving satisfied.

This next step is the hardest part of the burrito process. You get to the salsa/lettuce/cheese/sour cream/guacamole section. You know that you want tomatoes, corn, lettuce, and cheese, but the guac part is the hardest. Do you splurge and spend $1.80 on some guacamole that will take your burrito to the next level, or do you settle for a delicious pocket from heaven? The answer: do it. You get your guacamole on your burrito because you know you will regret it if you don't.

After you pay for your food, you go find the cleanest table, and sit down. You take your first bite, and it's probably all rice, but you keep eating until the top layer of tortilla is gone and you can align your burrito in a fashion that allows you take a bite with every flavor in it. As soon as you think you are ready, you dive in. Oh how delicious. Words cannot express how much flavor and love is having a fiesta in your mouth. It's so good that you keep eating and eating. You might look like a rabid animal devouring your food in a way that is not socially acceptable, but you don't care. You can't take a break from something this delicious.

You notice that you are content and full around the midpoint of the burrito. But it's just so good that you can't stop, so you man up and dive back in, but more slowly because you can feel your stomach stretching and becoming more uncomfortable.

After you reach your "Hey, I just ate three-quarters of this burrito!" point, you set your burrito down and look at it. You think, "I can't do it. It's too much. I am in pain because I am so full." So you push your burrito away and just look at it for a little bit.

After looking at your burrito for about ten minutes, you say, "Fuck it. I am finishing this burrito." You eat your burrito in silence, and after you are done you lean back and sit in pain, but you are so happy.

So very happy.

The airport is like my third home

I am currently waiting for my flight from the Seattle/Tacoma airport to the Long Beach airport to board. Just 10 more minutes left.

I have flown many, many times before, but this was the first time I actually felt prepared. I have learned to perfect packing my bags and figuring out my bus schedule, so that I time it that I arrive at the airport an hour before my flight boards. I have learned that checking a bag is unnecessary most of the time (and it costs money and I spend all of that on other things, like food and clothes). I didn't worry about a thing this time.

I think that me not being worried about a thing like traveling and feeling responsible is a good sign that I am capable of growing up. Turning 20 doesn't seem so scary anymore. It's just another year.

On another note, I am excited to go home. So excited. And I am tired. I would try to crawl under the bench I am sitting on and try to go to sleep, but gate A10 (I am pretty familiar with this gate) and I aren't that close yet. I mean we have only been on probably about 5 dates. Maybe next time I will, but I don't know what protocol is on things like this.

Update: Well, I just saw two people making out at my gate. And a little girl is putting chapstick on, but she wound it up so high that the whole stick was outside of it's plastic container. I thought that was really cute. The little girl and her chapstick. Not the couple making out. That's gross.

Suck on my 19 and a half pages of notes

I have spent many late nights in my school's 24-hour library with my amazing, glorious coffee that I could never live with out, despite my mother's efforts to get me to give it up. And I must say that today's has been the most productive. Except for right now. But we all need breaks.

I've taken 19 and a half pages of notes so far for my Human Sexuality (Yes, it is a class. A psychology class to be specific. I'm taking notes on urinary incontinence right now, and it's really reminding me of when I was in Kindergarten and how I peed my pants multiple times a week. And that is reminding me how I didn't learn how to spell my name until I was in pre-school. Sorry, I am really off topic right now. Time to focus) midterm, and I feel like I am going to own this test. In part because my focus has been near impeccable and in part because of haterz.

I don't like to deal with haterz. I'm a really emotional person and when I feel like some one insults me or judges me in anyway, I instantly feel like crying. And most of the time I do. Today was a very bad day.

I was studying with a friend earlier, and they kind of told me I was dumb, like, in a serious way. I hate being told I am incompetent in any way. I think it's mostly because I judge myself for being not as smart as other people, and it's cool when I do, but when ever anyone else does, it's like the apocalypse. My world is over. Reality sinks in and I hate myself, but I especially hate them. How dare they say something like that to me?! My level of intelligence is none of their business. And if it doesn't meet up to their expectations for me as a human being, then they can suck it! At least this is what my brain is telling me when it happens. So, the way I see it, I have two options. I completely give up, drop out of school and move home and work at a yogurt shop the rest of my life, or I kick some ass, get fan-fucking-tastic grades, and shove them in all the haterz faces.

I was just listening to Pandora, and an Ingrid Michaelson song came on called "Giving up" and she kept repeating "I am giving up" over and over again. It got me thinking. I'm not giving up. I will not give up. I am going to defy all the haterz because they are just trying to keep me down in life and that's just not cool. Go pick on someone else. You are wasting my time.

Sorry, this was so philosophical. I'm just in that mood. But I go home tomorrow, so I mean, that's really rad.

Soccer almost killed me

I played soccer for two years when I was in elementary school. My first year was in Kindergarten, and my second was in 2nd grade.

I remember absolutely despising soccer. Both times. I originally joined because my best friend Ali Boehler played, and my parents totally encouraged me being an athlete. And of course I thought that I was going to be God's gift to soccer. And I totally was not. At all. And here are the three reasons why:

1. Ali and I were not on the same team. I was so upset when I found out that I didn't get to play my first sport ever with my best friend. I mean come on! She was my best friend! I needed to be on her team. But, I wasn't and I never got my wish. I'm actually not sure why. It probably had something to do with the fact that Ali was a really thin girl that looked like she had an athletic future, and I was a chubby child that really probably had no future as an athlete (This actually didn't end up being true. I was pretty gifted at riding horses, an okay volleyball player, and a kind of talented, kind of cocky shot-put and discus thrower). We probably had try outs or something and she was probably waaaay better than me.

2. I hated running. I still hate running. With my whole soul. I have always found it very inconvenient. It's like walking (which is great; I love walking) but faster and you are out of breath after. It's not fun. And around this time, my sisters were both diagnosed with asthma. So obviously I thought I had asthma too. I remember there was one game that I was so out of breath that I made them take me out of the game and I made my parents give me my sister's inhaler. I was convinced that I was going to die. That was it. That's how my life was going to end. I was going to die on the side of a soccer field at the ripe young age of seven with my parents trying to save my life with an inhaler that I did not need. But really I was just out of shape and chubby and unable to run for long periods of time because I was out of shape and chubby.

3. It was boring. I thought soccer was so boring. They didn't let me play the position that I wanted to play (which was the coveted goalie position) and the position that I did play (maybe wing or something? Is that a position in soccer? I wouldn't know. I don't follow the sport), my coach told me that I had to stay on our end of the field the whole time and I had to keep the other team away from the goal. But that was so boring. The ball was always on the other team's side of the field and I was so bored of just standing there with nothing to do. So of course I had to entertain myself in some way. Sometimes I took up dancing on the field (please note that I am about as good of a dancer as a squirrel with an acorn stuck up it's butt). I would prance around because I didn't like just standing. It was more exciting to shake my groove thang. Other times, I would just sit down on the field. My coach did not like this one at all. He would yell at me to get up, but he just didn't get it! I was so bored and standing for too long hurt my body, at least that was how I felt. And plus, why would the field be full of three-leaf clovers if we couldn't look for ones with 4 leaves? That just seemed preposterous to me. I wanted a four-leaf clover so badly because I had never found one, and at seven years old, that was my life goal. I would search at recess, at the park, in the middle of soccer games; anywhere there were patches of clovers, you would find me on my hands and knees searching for that clover with 4 leaves on it. I needed that clover, but I never found one.

You might be wondering why I decided to play soccer for two years instead of just one. I hated soccer from the beginning. That's why I didn't play when I was in first grade. But when I was in second grade, all my friends were playing and I felt left out. But when I started playing again that year, I regretted it completely. That was the worst decision I made for my recreational life in elementary school.

Oh, and they also eventually let me play goalie. Once.

Yes, I am fully aware that it is 2 am, but I am not tired.

I am not tired, and this is a picture of my family.

It also happens to be a perfect depiction of our family dynamic.

My mother is on the left and she is cleaning me up. That's how it always is. She always thinks I am a mess. Which I am. There is a running joke in my family that I dress like a homeless person. Except it's not a joke. I dress like a homeless person. And my mom is always trying to clean me up. I try to stick with her efforts, but I am lazy. But I am so happy she tries so hard. It means a lot to me.

My older sister, Ashley, is in the center. We all look up to her a lot. We don't see her very often because she is all grown-up and on her own. Because she is all on her own and we don't see her very often, she's always kind of along for the ride.

My little sister, Chelsea, and my father are on the left. They are like two peas in a pod. They have the exact same sense of humor, and they look a lot alike. They are always off causing mischief and burping or whatever they do.

Sorry this one isn't so exciting. I was trying to fall asleep and feeling nostalgic because I get to see all of them this weekend to celebrate Easter and my twentieth birthday. And I just had an urge to post something.

I'll post something more entertaining later this week.

I'm not supposed to be a grown up

I am turning 20 years old. In 7 days. It's a very exciting thing to turn 20. You aren't a teenager anymore, but you are still young enough to make stupid decisions and break rules. (I have this mentality that all rules are meant to be broken, although that is very dumb and no one should actually think this way. Like seriously, if you live your life this way, you will probably die. And I am not saying this to scare you; it will actually, most definitely happen.) However, I am not excited for this day to come. I want to be a teenager forever; I kind of like having an excuse to be angsty.

And the angst thing isn't the real reason. That's just what I tell people to sound clever and funny.

I am immature. Sure I can handle being 1,000 miles away from my family 9 months out of the year. I can work full time over the summer when all my friends are going to the beach, because that is what I think I need to do (Okay this isn't that big of a deal, but I think it is. I mean I live is a place that virtually gets no sun, ever, and then when I go home over the summer to sunny Southern California, I want to go to the beach and see my friends and all that summer stuff that people do. But I choose to work full time at a yogurt and smoothie shop instead. At least I can make some pretty wicked smoothies. And I make money. That's really nice too). However, I am still immature.

And here is evidence:

I watch Nickelodeon. And Disney Channel. But mostly Nickelodeon. I wish I could say that I just watch it to try to relive my childhood every now and again, but no. I watch it every day. Because I actually like it. I love Spongebob Squarepants. And sure you could say, "But Meagan, you used to watch that when you were little. It's okay if you do. You are just reliving your childhood." But I already told you that I actually enjoy watch all of Nickelodeon, and sure I do watch shows on there that I used to watch as a child, like Spongebob and the Fairly Odd Parents, but I watch the new shows too. I often find myself watching iCarly, the show about a girl and her friends that have their own popular web-series. Some times I tell myself that I watch it because I think that Spencer, Carly's big brother, is really cute and funny (It's okay, he's not a teenager. He's like 31 in real life or something like that), kind of like a younger Jim Carrey. (I happen have a thing for tall, skinny, gangly men that happen to be hilarious. And Jim Carrey is a great example of that). But in reality, I actually like this show. It's funny, and cute, and I wish that my high school and middle school experiences would have been just like Carly's (I hated middle school and high school. Actually, middle school wasn't that bad. High school was the worst expereince of my life though).

I could explain the other shows on that channel, like Big Time Rush, and VICTORiOUS, but that is just too embarrassing to explain. At least iCarly is pretty popular among elementary school age children.

However, I have recently found myself watching and enjoying Sex and the City. I mean, that's a pretty grown up show right? You have 4, 30 year old women living in Manhattan that are all living their grown-up lives. And I want their lives! They are so grown-up and sophisticated. And they all dress well, something I have to learn how to do still (I wear yoga pants and sweat shirts waaaay too often, and I don't even do yoga).

I actually find myself relating to Carrie quite a bit though. Especially her relationships, but that's another blog post for another time.

My first grade teacher is the one to blame

You might be asking why my parents decided to get me tested for ADD. I didn't actually find out the reason why until my senior year of high school.

When I was little, I definitely had my own thing going on. By that, I mean I didn't really think about what I said or did. Some might have called me odd, and I did get a few strange glances from passer-by's, but I was just independent and I marched at the beat of my own drum. I let my freak flag fly! And I still do, which is something that I have completely embraced and love most about myself.

The following is based on stories my mom has told me. I don't actually remember this happening, but I am sure that I loved every minute of it.

When I was still sleeping in a crib, nap time was party time. (Up until I started college, I had sleep problems. Now that I have discovered that not sleeping is the only way to get anything done, I have learned to grasp onto and celebrate any amount of shut-eye I can get.) This was the time of the day that I decided to be especially active compared to usual. So I could make play-time a little longer, I taught myself how to climb out of my crib. I might be wrong about this but I am pretty sure that I stacked my stuft animals inside of the crib, climbed up them, and jumped over the top of the crib.

I knew that once I got out of my crib, my room was my oyster. I don't know if I actually had toys in my room that I could access, but there were other things, like furniture and other room fixtures, to play with. Apparently, one of my daily routines was to play with my dresser. The dresser in my room was tall and white, with maybe about 6 or 7 drawers built in it. (I'm not really quite sure about exactly how many drawers were in it because we gave it to Goodwill when I was about 14.) I'm guessing that I was a pretty smart baby because what I did with my dresser is pretty advanced and I don't think a monkey could even figure it out, unless it was one of those monkeys that NASA uses to send into space; I am guessing those monkeys are pretty smart to be okay with being trapped in a small space with no gravity for an extended period of time. (I mean I would probably shit my pants if I was suddenly floating around in the air, regardless if I knew what was going on or not.)

I learned that I was able to climb my dresser if I climbed it one drawer at a time, like a set of stairs. And I would get to the top every time. I don't know what triggered what happened next, I might have just gotten bored of sitting at a height that was significantly greater than my own, or maybe I fell at one point, but one thing was for sure: I enjoyed this enough to do it the rest of my nap-taking career. I learned that if I rocked back and forth with enough force and speed, the dresser would fall and crash to the ground, sending me flying through the air at speeds too fast for a toddler to experience.

Of course my mom heard all of this happening, and naturally she came running to my rescue, only to see me sitting on the floor giggling and wanting to do it again. I'm sure she thought, "Awesome. My two year old is an adrenaline junkie."

I'm not sure if this was the first sign that I was a little too crazy, but there were many more signs to follow that indicated some sort of lack of focus and excessive amounts of energy (Such as running away at family reunions only to be found sitting with a large Mexican family that did not speak a lick of English. It's okay though. They fed me tortillas). It wasn't until first grade that my parents decided to get me tested for ADD.

I remember not liking first grade at all. Kelsey Crowder was in my class. I did not get along with Kelsey Crowder. She was mean and stole my crayons. And I had the amazingly awesome 64 pack of crayons with the built in crayon sharpener. Not only did I have the most amazingly awesome crayons in my class, but I could sharpen them too! And she went and stole them. Also, my teacher was a problem for me. My teacher liked me enough (in fact, a teacher never really disliked me until my Freshman year of college) but I did not like her; she was too strickt for my high energy personality.

One day at a parent-teacher conference my teacher informed my parents of a little habit I had. I would chew on my clothes, but not just a little bit. I would chew out the seams and the stitching on my sleeves until they were soaked through and completely stretched out. I basically ruined all my long sleeve shirts. And of course my mom noticed this, and I am sure she questioned my sanity, but it wasn't until first-grade teacher said to my mom, "Gwen, I think you need to get Meagan tested for ADD. She chews on her clothes everyday." that my parents decided to give it a shot. Why not get me tested? The worst thing that could happen would be to find out that I actually do have ADD.

My teacher was obviously correct. But I still chew on my clothes, however I save that for T-shirts that I work out in. I rip out the stitching in the collar, but that's okay. These are the kind of shirts you keep around specifically because they are disgusting.

And I still have not forgiven Kelsey Crowder for stealing my crayons.

An awkward introduction

So I'm giving this blogging thing a chance. I figure that it might help me realize that my irrational thoughts really are irrational, and that I should actually try to be a little bit normal for a little bit.

I guess I will start from the beginning.

When I was 8 years old, my mom took me to a coach (it was actually a shrink, but she called it a coach to make me feel better. She was probably more like a life coach or something, but who needs a life coach when they are 8?). I totally remember loving this. I only saw this woman once, but I remember it being awesome. First of all, this woman was amazing. She had crazy long, brown hair that was so poofy and curly that you could tell she never brushed it, and she was wearing a long teal dress. I remember that she gave me candy and we talked about life while letting me draw. I loved drawing, but I had trouble being creative. I always wanted to be the best, most creative person, but my mind would never let me draw things that I had never seen before. So I drew a clock while I was talking to my coach. But not just any clock. Do you remember the clock from Beauty and the Beast? Yep, I drew Cogsworth. And I remember doing a pretty damn good job too! I really wanted to keep this drawing, but my coach didn't let me. She had to keep it or something. Whatever.

After drawing Cogsworth and eating candy, my mom had to talk to the woman by herself. So I had to sit in the waiting room. I always loved waiting rooms. They had every copy of the children's magazine Highlights that has ever existed. I loved Highlights. My Grandma bought my sister and I a subscription to Highlights one year and we received them for years, at least until I was in middle school, because I remember still reading it when I was in 7th grade (Which is so embarrassing at the time. I was 13 and reading a magazine that I thought 6 year olds read to entertain themselves.) So after reading a few copies of Highlights, meaning after looking at all the pictures and playing all the games in it that I could without writing in it (for some reason, I have always had a giant phobia of writing in magazines. I think I am subconsciously worried that the next person to read them would think, "Well, this copy of Highlights is completely and utterly DESTROYED! How dare someone write in this?!" I always feel like they know that I am the one that did it and that they obviously knew where I lived and then they would come to my house and tell my mom and then my mom would ground me.), my mom came out and we left the doctor's office. We then had to go to Target.

I loved Target. However this trip to Target was different than any other one before it. This is when I discovered the pharmacy. I loved the pharmacy more than the whole of Target it's self. That's where the heart-rate monitor was. I loved the heart-rate monitor. I loved that I could put my arm in a squishy tube, press a button, then watch the squishy tube fill with air until it squeezed my arm really tightly. I didn't even know what the numbers on the machine meant, and frankly, I didn't care! I just loved the squishy tube. My love and obsession with the squishy tube would continue on into my early teen years; it probably stopped around the same time I stopped reading Highlights. That was when being cool and popular was the most important thing in the world. And that I had to get a boyfriend. Getting a boyfriend was more important that being cool and popular. I think I stopped reading Highlights at the doctor's office and checking my heart-rate at Target because what if I saw my future boyfriend there?! They would see me and think, "Man that chick is a loser. No one reads Highlights anymore. That was soooo 5th grade."

The day after my mom took me to the greatest place in the world, aka the Target Pharmacy, my dad made me cinnamon toast for breakfast. Cinnamon toast was my favorite breakfast; it was like dessert for breakfast! What kid doesn't want that?! He also handed me two little bright blue pills and a glass of water. He said "Meagan, you have to take these right now because the doctor says you have to take them with food." I thought this meant that I had to wrap these little pills in my cinnamon toast. I did this and tried to eat it, but it did not taste good. I told my dad what I had done because I could not do it again with the other pill. He told me that I was supposed to take the pills with water then eat my toast, so that's what I did. And what a discovery it was! The pills didn't taste bad at all! Then I went off to school, and went on with my day.

And this is how my 10 year relationship with Attention Deficit Disorder and Adderall began.