UC: The First Year (pt 2)

The summer was interesting, as it was the first time I tried to hold a respectable job with having UC. I was able to find work (thanks mom) at a factory working the third shift. It was straight forward work, simply stamping pieces, so I got to sit for 8 hours a day. It also allowed me to utilize the bathroom frequently, as I was still going fairly frequently at that time.

I returned to school with a new vigor (and the hopes of not blowing another semester of crappy grades.) I tried to apply myself into my schooling, but the weight of having UC and constant flare-ups, made focusing on anything very irritating. Sleep wasn't what it used to be (although better than the previous year) and constant trips around the bathrooms had it's toll on some friendships (and their families) as well. [I remember one father who was actually irritated that he had to pull over within minutes of leaving home so I could empty out. He seemed a little irrational about it, and, ironically, didn't last much longer in that family.]

Unfortunately, I would start smoking again that year, and this time for a loooooong time. I remember this year being the first that was emotionally, physically, and spritually draining. My father's health was showing it's first sign of problems and surgeries that would try to correct it. I've never blamed my family for my sickness, no matter how much of a pain in the ass I was as a son: It was never their fault and I hope they never think that. I've always thought about the timing/coincidence of the events that circled around that previous autumn and wondered, how truly connected can you be... how wired are we... how strong is the mind and is it controllable? [Unfortunately, many forays in later years through different psychology classes and studies wouldn't give me those answers, but merely give me more questions.]

The days rolled by, one after the other, with the same focus. This was the first time in my life where I truly understand mortality: At this age, we're supposed to feel immortal, like nothing can hurt us, like we will live forever. Instead, like learning that there is no Oz and only the man behind the curtain, bitterness begins to exude. I wasn't acting like I was immortal: I was acting like I wasn't going to live forever. It wasn't that positive, "I'm going to take on the world and live it." It was more of a "Who gives a shit". Somewhere around this time, I remember thinking, I'm never going to live to 35. [That age would ironically later actually come to mean something.]