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September 21 Sunday

The house is eerily quiet. Jeremy hasnít left his room since we got home early Saturday morning. His door is locked and he wonít answer. Iíve tried to catch him making his way to the bathroom down the hall, but I donít even think heís done that. I walked around the outside of the house to his window, but the blinds are down, the curtains are drawn and itís dark. I knocked on the window, hoping for some movement to prove to myself heís still in there and alive. I saw a crack appear as he pulled apart two of the blinds, but it quickly snapped back as he realized it was me. At least heís breathing.

Dadís not much better. The hospital doesnít want him to visit mom just yet and he has no idea what to do with himself or this new information. He just wanders aimlessly through the house, looking for something to do, but the house is spotless and I think it adds to his disquiet. Heíll walk by the phone in the kitchen, pick it up, then let it fall back onto the receiver.

Amy called every 30 minutes all day yesterday, but I didnít answer the phone. Iím sure she wants to bitch at me for chickening out of going to the football game and how can I explain to her where I really was, or how fucked up my life has become in the last two months. At first she didnít leave a message, but then around 4 yesterday afternoon, she started threatening to come over and finally at 6 she said she was leaving. I quickly picked up just to tell her I was sick with the flu, not to come, and then I hung up.
Part of me doesnít want to go to school at all next week. How can I carry on like nothingís wrong. Part of me wants to get lost in the crowd, caught up in my work, laugh with my friends and forget this weekend ever happened. And a small part of me wants to crawl in the bed beside mom and have them hook me up to whatever pain dulling medication they have her on and sleep the year away.

Not even the ironing board offers any answers tonight.


Dirty - Clean

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