The E.R.

The lobby is empty except for a few random figures, scattered throughout the rows. There is an old man a few seats behind me with swollen eyes and a runny nose. There is a middle aged women with a crying toddler in the back left. I sit in the front row facing the reception desk. We seem to have nothing in common, yet we now suddenly have everything in common- we are all in desperate need of medical attention. I am wearing my favorite purple skinny jeans and an old Tshirt. My hair is pulled to the left in a loose braid. My worried mother sits beside me filling out my forms. What are we doing here. I ask myself. What in the world are we doing? I steady my eyes on the little pin on my messenger bag with a smiley face. Happy? What is that? This is too much. All too much.  I have to do photo shoots. I have to write. The first day of school is tomorrow. I have to go to college. I have to get married. I have to have kids. I find myself trembling while trying to get a grip on my mind. The more I try to calm myself the more out of control I seem to be.
"Kelly Reed?" The lady behind the desk calls. I step up to the desk and she places a hospital band around my wrist. I sit back down and wait.


So this is what we get for thinking too much? This is what we get for having dreams- for pushing ourself all these years? This is so unfair. I just want to go back.  I just want to ride my bike and smile again. Is this some sort of joke? One night, and it's all just gone? 


"Panick Attacks among high schoolers are actually quite common." A petite young doctor with short brown hair tells me. I nod my head and keep my eyes on the tile floor, as my red keds swing back and forth into view. I am given a relaxer and some tylenol. I think about how ridiculous I must look to the doctors; A seemingly normal girl sobbing her eyes out like the world is coming to an end when she is perfectly healthy. Well, you know, maybe the world is coming to an end. Be quiet, Kelly, I respond to myself in my head.  A nurse comes in with a case of syringes and tells me that he will be drawing some blood. I watch attentively as the needle pierces my skin and deep red blood flows through the tiny tube into each container. He collects the six tubes and places them in a plastic bag. That's your blood, from your body. You are alive, you are living. I tell myself. It is useless. The tears keep flowing and my mind keeps locking. I can tell this will be one that I can't get myself out of. This is not a situation that I can work through with my own reasoning or logic. No number of hours biking late at night could fix this. No number of pages filled in my journal or chords strummed on the guitar could fix the trap we'd fallen into. This was going to need someone much more powerful. Then the truth hit me hard. This was going to need God.