My first day of eighth grade; my alarm went off late, my shirt was wrinkled and I hadn't spoken to anyone in months. Walking into first period spanish should have been like breaking the ice, instead I was covered with a blanket of accepted solitude. Ever since my sisters diagnosis I had been quieter. The same stuff didn't matter anymore. I was considered a freak because I didn't go out at night with my ex-trendy-materialistic-friends. I sat in the back of the room, covering my pale face with my dirty blonde hair. My teacher, Senora Mendozza, gave me a look that said "Late on the first day?" I ignored her and opened my book, Emma by Jane Austen. I envied Emma with all my being. Why couldn't I be vibrant and radiant? There had been a time when I tried but at this point, I had given up.
I made my way through the rest of the day in a haze, cringing when I was tossed dirty looks in the hallway. The girls I had once considered my friends now shunned my because I ignored them when they talked about their hair or their shoes. I was dealing with bigger things, things of substance.
My sister was dying. Well, maybe. The cancer had started in her brain and spread to her eye, blinding her when they had to remove half of it. Not only was it hard on her emotionally, but physically she was house bound for a while.
I avoided the house when I first found out, finding any excuse to keep away. When I was home I holed up in my room, became a music and book freak. I knew all the major bands of the 50's, 60's and 80's. The 70's I couldn't bear listening to. By the time I was thirteen I had read Moby Dick, The Sea Wolf and Jane Eyre, books even my parents hadn't thought about reading yet. I was once a strong, ambitious, flirty teenage girl, but now I was ordinary. I wasn't ugly and I wasn't beautiful.
I need more in my life as of now. I can't constantly keep thinking of Allison day and night. It is killing me.

Now it;s getting a little bit better. I'm healing I suppose you could say. I'm working through it.