LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
This is an essay I wrote for a class on writing I took this past month. The work is copyrighted, so please take note. 
A Knocking At The Door
Every so often, when I was living in the house I grew up in, a few sharp knocks on the back door would snap me out of whatever good book I would be immersed in, and cause me to get up and see who was there. Usually, on the other side of that massive white door, would be my old friend Julie. She was dressed all in black, her wavy hair dyed black as well, and mismatched shoes adorned her feet. I always gave the same forced smile.
?It?s great to see you,? I?d say, wishing I could turn the clock back, when I was reading my book and not thinking about what had happened to this once amazingly funny, kindhearted girl who used to be my best friend.
Julie had grown up the same way that most all of us had in our small Midwestern town, leading a quiet but normal kid?s existence. There was only one problem. She had schizophrenia.
As I opened the door to greet her, thoughts would rush to the front of my mind, recalling a simpler time when things were easier for her, easier for all of us. I was now in high school, she dropped out in the middle of freshman year to ?go away? for awhile. She never came back, and our once sisterly bond dissolved as her disease grew more effervescent. The only memory of our friendship existed on my parents? back doorstep at odd times of the year, whenever she got the urge to stop by and catch up with me, the one left behind. The ?Normal One?.
She would tell me tales of psychiatric wards, how she hated the food and would scream to go home. She always interjected an old tale from the past to make me laugh, maybe so as not to make me feel too uncomfortable. I brought her up to date on our small circle of friends, where nothing much was ever going on. Our group read, talked on the phone, and saw movies. There was hardly room for the drama or scandal that Julie seemed to thrive on in the early days, before we knew what ugly thing had taken her mind hostage. We always just thought she was wickedly colorful.
She could also be mean spirited. During the course of our friendship, she stopped being my friend about three times. Our sisterly bond always ensued, and I felt that even with her odd personality spurts, we would be lifelong friends, the kind you always read about in books or magazine articles. We balanced each other out beautifully.
Her visits always made me sad near the end. The damage, both to her fragmented mind and to our friendship, was done. The conversations were not the same. They were strained and, at times, forced and unnatural. Her visits made me look on the other side of what life as a teenager could have been for me.
I closed the door, returned to my book, but unable to finish the page. I began to cry for her, but mostly for myself.
A Knocking At The Door
Every so often, when I was living in the house I grew up in, a few sharp knocks on the back door would snap me out of whatever good book I would be immersed in, and cause me to get up and see who was there. Usually, on the other side of that massive white door, would be my old friend Julie. She was dressed all in black, her wavy hair dyed black as well, and mismatched shoes adorned her feet. I always gave the same forced smile.
?It?s great to see you,? I?d say, wishing I could turn the clock back, when I was reading my book and not thinking about what had happened to this once amazingly funny, kindhearted girl who used to be my best friend.
Julie had grown up the same way that most all of us had in our small Midwestern town, leading a quiet but normal kid?s existence. There was only one problem. She had schizophrenia.
As I opened the door to greet her, thoughts would rush to the front of my mind, recalling a simpler time when things were easier for her, easier for all of us. I was now in high school, she dropped out in the middle of freshman year to ?go away? for awhile. She never came back, and our once sisterly bond dissolved as her disease grew more effervescent. The only memory of our friendship existed on my parents? back doorstep at odd times of the year, whenever she got the urge to stop by and catch up with me, the one left behind. The ?Normal One?.
She would tell me tales of psychiatric wards, how she hated the food and would scream to go home. She always interjected an old tale from the past to make me laugh, maybe so as not to make me feel too uncomfortable. I brought her up to date on our small circle of friends, where nothing much was ever going on. Our group read, talked on the phone, and saw movies. There was hardly room for the drama or scandal that Julie seemed to thrive on in the early days, before we knew what ugly thing had taken her mind hostage. We always just thought she was wickedly colorful.
She could also be mean spirited. During the course of our friendship, she stopped being my friend about three times. Our sisterly bond always ensued, and I felt that even with her odd personality spurts, we would be lifelong friends, the kind you always read about in books or magazine articles. We balanced each other out beautifully.
Her visits always made me sad near the end. The damage, both to her fragmented mind and to our friendship, was done. The conversations were not the same. They were strained and, at times, forced and unnatural. Her visits made me look on the other side of what life as a teenager could have been for me.
I closed the door, returned to my book, but unable to finish the page. I began to cry for her, but mostly for myself.
