High Bunny

Say Hi, Bunny.....
It's like an anti-depressant for my major depression.
I do everything when I'm high, I dance, exercise, write, clean, i want to paint, and go out; do all the things that I'm too exhausted, groggy, unmotivated, and sad always to do.
I almost want to do my homework.
You know my heart has been broken for years....
It broke when Iva Smith died, when I was about seven years old.
She was like the Great Grandmother that I never had.
I never really had much family growing up, I had my aunt and cousins sometimes.
I kind of was raised by my Grandmother, she was the only person in the world who ever understood me.
She understood everything, after she died I was never the same.
But Iva Smith baked cookies with me, she gave me ice cream and dollar bills, she told me stories.
She lived across something resembling a field.
We all lived in duplexes, there were ducks when it rained.
There was an ice cream truck that came every afternoon in the summer.
There was afternoon tea, walks with my Grandmother and the French lady that lived down the street.
Sometimes I'd play with the kids in the complex, but none of them were my own age.
I hurt my tail-bone roller skating there once....
My Grandmother and me, we listened to Persian radio; she told me stories of growing up in Iran, of my mother as a child, of her life as a hairdresser and the wife of the Chief of Police (which was a very big thing), and of her first days in America during the Iranian Revolution.
We talked about music, politics, philosophy, she really was (although I hate to admit it) like a parent to me.
I cannot even begin to describe all the things she did for me.
My mom, I don't know why I don't remember much of growing up with her. She always had a joint in her hand...she was really pretty.
She had long, curly dark brown hair; tiger lily eyes (amber fading out to green).
She sometimes wore gold jewelry, but always wore gold cubic zirconia studs in her ears.
She wore a suit when she went to court; and then one day she was really sick, so she wore a vintage 'save the animals' t-shirt, plaid shorts, and flip-flops.
She always dressed like this, and she liked the beach.
She used to love expensive makeup and clothes, but that was back when she had more money.
She kept getting fired for not going into work, she was kind of abusive.
We got evicted a couple of times.
One time I spilled blue eyeshadow on my bed, she hit me.
She broke a brush over my head once, she used to throw things.
She used to drag me by my hair, and dig her nails into my leg until I was bleeding.
Sometimes I'd go to school with red marks on my face from her hand and my hair falling out all day.
She always felt bad afterwards.
I can remember a few good moments of her teaching me to cook, or talking with me, dancing with me, doing my hair and makeup.
When I was four years old we lived with her fiancees family, they had a golden retriever and I hated having my hair brushed.
She used to watch Lord of the Rings, Treasure Island, and Chinese Kung-fu movies all day.
I memorized every word to the first Lord of the Rings movie from watching it so many times as a kid.
I remember living in a trailer, and her best friend's house.
I grew up with her son (he's a few years younger than me).
Nothing about my childhood is linear, it's all mixed up, vague memories.
One time she cut my stuffed cat into little pieces because I accidentally woke her up from a nap.
She used to throw things out of the car window when she was angry (and high), I think the pot impaired her ability to think through things.
She did everything from her emotions, my Grandmother thought she was crazy or on drugs.
When I was very young and living with my Grandmother my dad used to spend a lot of time with me.
He took me to movies and fast food restaurants.
He's the reason that I'm such a nerd, buying me long fantasy books and playing video games.
I was a very emotional kid, as the years went on I saw my dad less and my mom more.
Finally we moved back in with my Grandma, and my memory is clearer from that point on.
My dad ended up having two sons with his wife (of three or four years).
I was ten, and my mom seemed to be gone a lot, I'm not really sure why.
Part of it was her meeting my step-dad, he didn't like her much.
Apparently my mom was more devious than I knew (but I've since learned much).
They somehow ended up married and living in my Grandmother's house.
She eventually kicked them out (probably for being crazy potheads).
I had gone through a depression through most of fifth grade, it got worse in the summer.
I'd stay up all night, sleep all day, never get out of bed to shower.
There were bunnies that lived near the house, squirrels too, I adopted a lizard once.
Kitties that lived in the parking lot, my best friend who lived up the hill, my cd player and my play station, my Greenday casette and radio, my books, my daydreams, and my mom's stoner movies.
I used to think that a vampire lived in the bathtub when I was little, I used to cry myself to sleep that summer in 2005.
In August I got on a plane to a little city outside of Austin, Texas.
I moved in with my dad, and I had a normal life for almost two years.
I missed the palm trees and 91X with it's reggae Sundays.
I missed the beach and my favorite pizza place, most of all I missed my Grandma.
Modare Joon is what I'd call her in Farsi (Persian).
She used to sing to me in Arabic until I'd fall asleep.
While I lived with my dad I did chores, earned an allowance, went to the mall with my friends, talked about guys, talked on the phone, played with my little brothers, did homework, went to the movies, went to church, joined choir, acted in the school play, did my hair, listened to music, ate junk food, had slumber parties, went to the park, bought gifts, walked around suburbia, went swimming, helped with boyscouts meetings, baby-sat, went to dances, sewed, hung out in other peoples' living rooms, went on dates, went to Birthday parties, opened Christmas presents, went to the library, painted, played with water balloons, baked cookies.....all that; a peaceful, perfect, movie scene life.
I rarely spoke to my dad, even though I was living in the same house.
I had a tentative friendship with my step-mom....though this was short-lived.
A lot of animosity grew between us the last few months that I lived with him.
Before I left California I wrote my mom a letter, I didn't talk to her for over a year after that.
I was such a good actress, pretending to fit in while I was in Texas.
And for awhile I started sleeping again (I had bouts of insomnia for a year or two before I moved in with him).
My mom got me a cell phone the Christmas before I left Texas, so I started talking to her more.
My mask began to come down, I missed San Diego.
There was tension in the house due to the inability to keep up my facade.
I ended up being kicked out a few months later.
My dad called my mom, my step-mom threw away my possessions, and the next morning I was on a plane to Houston.
From Houston I would go to San Diego, to my mother.
I left with no cell phone, two shirts, two pairs of pants, a blow dryer, a pair of socks, and my stuffed cat.
I stepped off the plane to see a woman foreign to me.
My mother, once beautiful, was overweight, wearing reading glasses that I remembered from my childhood, with dark circles around her eyes.
They had been homeless and in jail since I left.
My Grandmother sent my mom to jail, my step-dad had stayed in a mental asylum, they had lived in the woods after that; they were living in a small apartment near the mountains when I came back.
The first thing my mom did is take me to the beach to get pizza.
They had an orange tabby, and my new room was frozen in time.
I went through a severe depression when I came back; I hadn't eaten a good meal in probably over a month, I couldn't sleep, I developed an ear infection and became very sick.
I wore nothing but black.
I explained to my Grandmother that I didn't regret leaving, even though my mom was convinced that I was kidnapped by my Father.
I learned a lot while I was there, and had a lot of good experiences among the bad.
My step-mom threw away everything that I wrote while I lived there.
I didn't write for a year after I came back.
I didn't write 'til the day my Grandmother died.
I wasn't allowed to go anywhere, not even to my Grandma's house, alone.
My mom was paranoid, and OCD all the time.
She wanted everything clean, even she was clean.
She didn't smoke weed for two years.
She started after my Grandmother died.
The doctors gave her Xanax too, I think that they said it was a narcotic; to relax her, so she would stop crying.
Neither of us ever stopped crying.
She ended up addicted to Xanax, and two years later she became very ill while trying to get off it.
I have secrets that I can't say here, so many secrets.....
I used to get in physical fights with my mom during middle school and my first year of highschool.
She used to kick me out sometimes, and I'd disappear for hours.
I drank whatever alcohol was in the house, usually wine, and I wrote dark poetry.
I entered poetry contests on the internet, I got a Myspace, I stopped doing all the normal things that I did while living with my dad.
I had a lot of friends, but never hung out outside of school.
I had a few boyfriends, and I fell in love once.
Three days before my fourteenth Birthday I went out alone for the first time since leaving my dad's house.
I slept over at my friend's house, and I met a Sophmore in highschool.
He was the boy of my dreams, he gave me a gothic dagger for my birthday, he brought me a white rose, he watched the stars and the ocean with me, he carved our initials on the cliffs, he came to see me at every chance he got; he walked from the highschool to the middle school, just so he could walk me home.
My mother found out that the weekend I went to my friend's house that we had all gone to the beach.
They banned me from speaking to her, so we had a falling out.
My step-dad disapproved of the boy, so I broke up with him.
My step-dad is a violent, crazy war veteran; he's capable of all sorts of terrible things.
(I eventually developed a close friendship with him, weirdly enough)
The poor boy loved me and I broke his heart.
I still love him, I still see him occasionally, he never forgave me.
I went through a more catastrophic depression after our break-up.
A depression that hasn't lifted, four years later.
I started smoking weed Freshman year.
I started popping pills.
Throughout highschool I have had sex cross-faded, gotten alcohol poisoning at school, passed out on drugs at school, failed three classes, cried a lot, almost run away, acted in a play, written more than any sane person, had six boys fall in love with me, lost my mind, tried to kill myself several times, gotten really drunk, pissed people off, smoked too much weed, danced on tables, gone to the beach at night, thrown up on a guy's dick, dumped a guy four years older than me, dumped a guy on his birthday, went to one crappy dance, read more books than I can count, watched a million sappy romance movies, smoked a lot of cigarettes, gotten suspended twice, gone to almost an entire year's worth of teacher committee meetings, started a poetry club, and learned so much about myself.
So far, I have a year and ten weeks of highschool left.
I'm still pretty high....
My mom told me yesterday that she's afraid of losing me, I'm afraid of being this neurotic for the rest of my life.
I'm afraid that the video montages composed of my memories playing in my mind will never go away, and that I'll always stay up 'til two in the morning just to worry about things.
That I'll forget everything, and run out of time, that I'll forget how to smile.
I'm scared that I won't be able to write it all down.
I'd like to believe that I deserve to be happy and that someday I will be.
It's eight-thirty, tomorrow is Monday; I still haven't done my two month's worth of late math homework.
I still don't have a functioning relationship with my mother.