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Free write 5/28/17

When I was a kid, one of my cabbage patch’s names was Amy Nicolette.  I remember playing with my dolls, Amy Nicolette included, on different occasions- if my recollection serves me right, one being alone, in my attic.  To the best of my recollection, she had black hair, and she came with a birth certificate.  One of my other cabbage patch kids had blonde hair, and she was the type who had hair that you could mold in the palm of your hand, that you could curl or crimp with styling tools provided in the package she came in.  I remember hanging out with my mom in our basement while she did stuff like iron, and she played my cabbage patch kids record on our record player.  Those days, when I was very young, when the sound of cabbage patch kid’s music filled the air, were magic.  Those types of scenarios, when I was in my own little world, as a kid, where the times when there really wasn’t the same amount of “real” in my brain as someone who would be years older.  I was with my mom, in the basement, but at the same time I was alone, in the dark crypt of our house, painted brown, with poles throughout that I would intertwine with, that I would twirl through.  Those times like the times in my basement were what put the spring in my young eyes, they were what made me happy, belonging to a world where cabbage patch kids were what was going on, instead of stuff like prom and volleyball and getting into college and grad school.  If I had to go back, to those times when cabbage patch kids music was what occupied the basement, it would probably be amazing and boring at the same time, amazing because of the surreal reality that goes along with not knowing what the real world is like, boring, probably, because there are so many things as an adult that amaze me, but the fact that I can’t completely remember those kiddy basement parties leaves me wondering if I’ll ever be as amazed again, but towards something more grownup, instead of a cabbage patch record.

When I was in the hospital, in 2006, I was renamed Amy Nicolette, by a staff member who was a bit on the crazy side, but in a good way.  I was there because my parent got scared about some stuff, like me staying out longer than I told them I would.  I remember, if I remember correctly, that time that I stayed there, I slept a lot.  Usually that’s what I want to do while I’m at the hospital.  I had a friend who I took walks around the place with.  I watched Northwestern basketball, I drank Sprite at a pizza party.  When I was renamed Amy Nicolette, I was in my room, and the staff member who renamed me, if I remember correctly, sprinkled me with water and renamed me, for reasons that still are beyond me.  I don’t know if he was just being crazy or if there was some motive behind it, like if he was an angel who had come down from the heavens to be with me in my time of need, amongst everything that was going on in the hospital, amongst everything that was waiting for me on the outside, waiting for me when I would get out.  I was on lockdown, but I still had things that entertained me- like looking out the hospital window at the cars/SUVs passing through the drive through of the restaurant outside of my window.  I liked to imagine that the people occupying those cars/SUVs were my high school friends, and they were there just to be by me, just to embrace the magic that came with being with me, the space that I was in, that they were near.  Sometimes I wonder if it really was them, on the outside.  I would be able to know if I could go back, to LG Hospital, if the same incidents replayed themselves.  I remember some of the other people in the hospital reminded me of the people that I went to high school with, one being an Egyptian girl (the girl who reminded me of her, I think, was Egyptian) who I spent time with in her room.  I braided her hair (either that or she braided mine), and she had a look in her eyes like she was preoccupied with something else, in a way.  There was an old lady with grey hair who had the type of energy to her that reminded me of a girl with black hair from my first high school who I had some good memories with, on the bus and in school.  I think she offered me candy, and then when she left, there was a guy with her who reminded me of a boy the black haired girl was related to.  Of course these were all coincidents, probably, that came with the magic of the hospital, the magic that came with me going from one stage of my life to another, as something that was in the back of my mind got out, was resolved, at least partially.  One thing that I remember was one time when I was looking out the window to the drive through across the street, I remember it being night time, and there was a car in the drive through, it looked like whoever was in it, was ordering food, and then all of a sudden the lights of the restaurant went out.  That was something that made me question if I was going crazy or if there really were people driving by/going through the drive through to see me.  Looking back, it makes me think.  It makes me think of the people who I went to school with.  Which were real friends, and which were fake?  Now that I have grown up, things have changed.  I bet some people who it looks like I could be best friends with, whether it be a real or fake friendship, I might not have gotten along with before; considering all abstractions that occupy what is going on now.  My name is Amy, but I have been renamed Amy Nicolette, by a staff member in the hospital who kept me company.  That hospital room window was the window to my world, for a little while.  I wonder if I will ever look through such a perspective again.

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.