When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with a rare condition called Idiopathic Cryoglobulinemia. I don't really understand what it is or how it affects him, but I do know that it is not going to kill him. This condition is considered rare because only about one hundred people in the whole world have it. At east that's what the doctors say.
Because of his condition, he has been in the hospital every two to three years for about three weeks. When I was little, I found it so fascinating to watch the nurses draw his blood, or to watch him get Plasmapherisis. I also loved going on "adventures" such as traveling up three different states to take him to Maya Clinic in Minnesota. This has been going on for ten years now, but two years ago, I snapped.
It was a bad year for my whole family. We were moving two hours south of our home, I was in gymnastics, art, violin, and I was homeschooled on top of that. We were moving our furniture from one house to the other, and one day I woke up and saw a note from my mom that read, "Get ready for the day, I'm taking your dad to the Emergency Room and should be back by 9:30."
This wasn't anything new, and sadly I was used to it. I got up and got ready for the day, and then my mom came back without my dad. He was in Condell Libertyville hospital, and stayed there for about three weeks. Luckily, he got out fast.
I usually do summer school because I'm homeschooled, and that year was no exception. Except for when my dad took my school books and put them in a folder where he worked because he really needed me to help him and my mom get the house ready to move into. Well, then he went into the hospital again. I didn't have my schoolbooks, so I just drew in a notebook all day, or colored in those anti-stress pattern books. He got out in about three weeks, and all went back to normal.
Two weeks later, however, he went back in. This time, he was only in for three days before they transferred him to the University of Chicago Hospital. He was in for two weeks, then got out. Then he was in for another three weeks, and got out in the beginning of December, just in time for Christmas. I was really hoping he wouldn't go in again.
Sadly, two days after Christmas Day, he went into Red Cross in McHenry for four weeks. I was fine with everything, until I got my school books back. I spent all day in the hospital with my parents, staring out the window and my mom almost shouting at me to do my work. It took me two hours to do five little math problems, and I was so stressed and upset because my life was now literally get up, work, school, eat, school, walk, school, gymnastics, school, violin, sleep. I had dropped doing art classes because we were running around to much, but now I didn't have time for ANY FUN AT ALL. I started staying up until three in the morning watching YouTube videos just so I could laugh. I was tired all the time, making it even more difficult to concentrate on school. Then, when I thought the worst was over, I got hit HARD.
I could tell my dad was getting upset about being in the hospital, and he had a history of just getting up and walking out. Well, one night in the car my mother was talking to my grandmother on the phone. Our car has one of those hands-free Bluetooth features, so of course I could hear the whole conversation. Well, something about what my mom said hit me bad. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something like, "He has a history of ripping the IV's out of his arms and just walking out." I almost cried, and I didn't know why. I started thinking, "What if he does that?" "What if he hurts himself?" "What if something happens and he goes back in?"
That night I snuck downstairs and pulled a small knife out of a drawer, and made a small slit in my wrist. If I had known that that slit would start my addiction, I would've never even opened that drawer.
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