Happy Turkey Day

Cleaning up

Jackson spilled a bunch of water right next to the computer and Colby caught him cleaning it up by himself!

Sam has his first real cold and he is NOT taking it well. Poor baby!

Pictures

Happy Sam
Jackson knew I was taking these pictures! SAm had no idea what was going on.
Here's my cheerleader for morning exercises which take place earlier every day.


I spy with my little eye a peanut butter spoon.




Jackson found a snack on the counter when we were getting shoes on him.



He found more!

I turned my back for a second and look what happened!


I spy with my little eye...a Jackson.
He's under the pillows!

Check out this cool mag

http://issuu.com/inspired-ideas/docs/christmas
This is a pretty cool mag for Christmas crafts. Me likey.

Big Thanks

Thanks so much for all your support! It was really touching to think that so many people we fasting and praying just for Jackson! It has meant so much to us.

He's really been doing well at speech therapy and we're looking forward to see what he does next! His attention has been getting better and better, which is key for learning language.



During Speech:
The ST (speech therapist, Kim) get in Jackson's face A LOT at ST. She moves so that Jackson can see her face and intrudes on his play so that he'll say something to get her to leave him alone. So today, he tried blocking her with his body and when that didn't work, he came over to me, used my and his bodies to block out Kim. It didn't really work, but it was a good idea. Then he turned his whole body away from her and gave her the cold shoulder. She said that even though he's resisting her interaction, it's really good that he is getting as mad as he is because a lot of kids with autism sometimes don't even realize that there is someone trying to interact with them.

Today he whispered, "beep, beep".

At home, I decided to tickle Jackson by pinning him to the ground and stretching out his arms to his sides and tickling him on his tummy, neck and under his arms with my nose. I say I'm "smelling for giggles". Well when I stopped, Jackson signed, "laugh" and "again". So we did it again! We colored for a little bit, then I laid down on the ground. Jackson laid next to me and I thought he wanted to cuddle, so I did. He didn't want to. He made me sit up, then he laid back on the ground, and signed "laugh", "laugh", "laugh". So I tickled him again! Don't tell me why he likes to be tortured!

He just started putting two signs together, which is a BIG DEAL! By the age of two, most kids should be putting two word sentences together at minimum. So combining the two signs is HUGE! He's also been using more of the signs that he already knows! So fantastic!

Speaking of autism:
Remember that when you talk to others about autism or mention that Jackson has autism, be sure to say that he HAS autism not that he is autistic. Because it's true-- whoever you're talking to may not know that autism is not who he is, but that it's something he has. Thanks!

Tomorrow's Fast

This is a friendly reminder for those fasting this weekend, that you remember to fast for Jackson, so that Heavenly Father will help him, and hasten his learning to speak.
Thanks again.

A lot of posting

Yesterday we went to the splash pad at Chino Hills. It took Jackson a while to warm up to the splashing again, but he was so excited once he ran in. Once he ran in, he'd sign "dirty". I said no you're "clean". He said "dirty". He ran through the water again and then said "dirty" then "again".

Sam is a rollin' man. He doesn't know how to sit up yet, but he can roll, roll, roll. I put him on his back facing away from his room and turned to get him a diaper. I walked three steps and when I turned around, Sam was on his tummy 90 degrees to where he started.

The other day he wanted to watch a movie and I said, "no". I was lying on the ground and he bent over me and poked me in the eye. Twice! Later that day I was talking to Becca and Jackson really wanted me. So he gestured for the phone and once he got it, he snapped it shut and hung up on her!

When Jackson was at speech therapy, he got so frustrated at the therapist, he said "no!" very clearly to her.

Sam I Am

When he doesn't like what I feed him, which is most stuff, he likes to blow it out. Yum.



Here's Sam. He has figured out how to manuever himself so that he's perpendicular in the crib. He usually cries when he's like this because he's too long really to be in that position. So he kicks his feet and then smashes his face. Then he cries because he smashed his face so he kicks his feet some more. It's usually only when he wants out. He's also figured out to pull down the bumper. Or he'll push himself up really high on his hands and peek over the edge. Goofy kid.

Halloween

Jackson and Autism

Even as I write this, I'm not even sure that I really want to share it, because it's something deeply personal. Of course it concerns my family. But I'd like your help in a group fast.

Jackson has been diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. By the time he got an official diagnosis they weren't telling me anything I didn't already know. The biggest indicators were a lack of language and the way he interacted with others. Jackson can jabber with the best of them. I know that many of you are familiar, some very personally, with autism. Some of your hubbies' are going to school and learning about this, so you might have an idea of the details. Here is a general link. We suspected that he might have delayed speech by 18 mos, but he had said words and used them correctly. He'd use a new word anywhere from a week to a month and then we'd never see it again. We were transferring insurance companies AND moving and so we didn't get him tested for speech or hearing until around his second birthday. Oh, and we were having another baby.

We started sign language because I was going out of my mind. I had to do something. I rented Baby Signing Time from the library and Jackson picked it up really quick. Sign Language is language so I felt a lot better.

As soon as circumstances allowed, we got Jackson in to see a speech therapist. She told that he had about a 50% delay in expressive and receptive language. Jackson loves ST. It's all play based so he has a blast, even if he gets frustrated because she's controlling the activity.
So the next stop was a ped. neurologist. As of now, he falls somewhere in the autism spectrum (could be Asperger's as well) but they can't tell how severe it is. They will need to wait and see how much his language develops in order to place him on the spectrum. He does have a lot of symptoms of autism, such as the language delay and the fact that he hangs back from joining in play with other toddlers. BUT he does make eye contact (even if it does fade), he is affectionate and excited to see us, he comes and shows me stuff and wants me near him, he doesn't have tantrums (in fact, he hardly has any- he'll gently scold me by gently pinching the back of my hand, which is what Colby and I do when he's been naughty; it's his way of saying, "I don't agree with what you're doing. Bad Mommy-he usually only does it when I strap him in a shopping cart :) he doesn't freak out with textures or if we don't strictly follow our routines. He's also really bright. We think he's practically perfect in every way. So all of these things are great.

It's strange mentioning it to other people because they all have different experiences with autism and have varying levels of knowledge. I'm not an expert by any means. One woman said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." Well I'm not! Jackson is Jackson. The diagnosis doesn't change anything about him. Jackson is mine forever and armed with the knowledge of the plan of salvation, I know that autism is something Jackson has, not who he is. I also know that Jackson is part of our family for a reason, that Heavenly Father has a larger plan for our family than what I know.
My family organized a family fast for Jackson to help improve his language. He'll be seen by the neurologist in four months and depending on the improvement in his language, they'll be able to place him more accurately on the spectrum. We are so grateful for the opportunity to unite our faith through fasting, especially for Jackson. I know the Heavenly Father is aware of us. I have faith that this fast is important and we will all benefit because of it.

The fast is taking place on Nov 7th. If any of you would be willing to participate, we'd greatly appreciate it.

Jackson's Surprise

Jackson's surprise is happening tomorrow. I've been working on the Toy Story posse for a few nights now. Tomorrow is a trip to IKEA for some cheap frames which will go up during his nap time. Then he'll wake up and BAM! What's that? Oh, it's Buzz on the wall. And BAM! What's that? Oh, Woody's right next to him. Instant smile! I've got a picture printed and ready to go for Slinky dog, but honestly, I'm all painted out.
How come YOU don't have a laser, Woody?

I don't think those were Lincoln Logs. (TS3- go see it!)

You are a toooy! You aren't the real Buzz Lightyear! You're an action figure. You are a child's plaything.
I am Mrs. Nesbitt! Years of Academy training WASTED!
Can someone cover my eyes?

The Claw!

Because It's Really Funny Writing

My sister sent me this email which led to this site. Hyperbole and a Half. When I saw the spider entry I thought of Emily. I looked on the site and saw a Texas entry and thought of Melissa. Anything this funny just has to be shared. Hope you think its as funny as I do! I think I cried on the spider one.

Spiders are Scary. It's Okay to be Afraid of Them. *UPDATED*

I'm fighting a war. A war against spiders. Every night before bed, I check my sheets for them, shoe in hand, ready to brutally end their lives with way more force than necessary. Sometimes I find one and even if I kill it, I still can't go to sleep because it confirmed my fear that sometimes there are spiders waiting in my bed for me.

I used to pretend that I wasn't afraid of spiders. It made me feel cool - like I was braver than most people. If someone called me on my bluff and asked me to dispose of a spider, I would put on my battle-face and do my best to get rid of it without letting the panic bubble to the surface.

I don't pretend anymore.

I HATE spiders. Spiders are like little pieces of death wrapped in scary. Even if a spider was like

I'd be all

Sometimes when I express the hatred and fear I feel when I think of spiders, someone will be like "But spiders have families too!!" Like somehow that will make me become sympathetic and understanding toward spiders. But that's exactly the point. Spiders have families and their families are also spiders. We should kill spiders because they have families.

When I was younger, my mom would say "Sweetie, don't be afraid. You are way bigger than a spider." Well guess what, mom? I'm bigger than a grenade too. Were you trying to raise me to be some sort of unconquerable war-machine that isn't even afraid of grenades? If you were trying to do that, you failed. I'm afraid of a lot of things that are smaller than me - like bees and wolverines and centipedes. I'm even kind of afraid of ants a little bit.

Spiders are fucking scary. That is a universal truth. I don't know why. I don't need to know why. All I know is that when this:

comes crawling across the floor at me, my brain interprets it like this:

That is a spider with a swastika and the words "I KILL YOU" carved into its flesh and it has knives and guns strapped to its legs. That's how scary spiders are.

P.S. I just saw a spider on my stairs and I tried to squish it but I missed and now I can't find it.

UPDATE: Remember how I was like "P.S. There was a spider on my stairs and I tried to squish it, but no"? IT WAS ON ME. At least I think it was the same spider. Maybe it was just a part of the other spider's clone army. I don't know. The point is that I was like "happyhappyunaware" and then I looked down and there was a big, black spider crawling on the couch next to me and I ran away yelling "getitgetitgetit!!!" because I'm super brave. Then Boyfriend was like "I know what would be a good idea! I should try to stab the spider with my knife!" and he pulled out his pocket knife and tried to stab the spider and he missed and the spider ran away and now there's a fucking spider in my couch.

UPDATE: Okay, this spider is a survivor. First, it escaped being crushed by me on the stairs. Then it got away when boyfriend was trying to stab it with a pocket knife and it ran behind the couch. Tip: don't try to stab spiders - squish instead:

Boyfriend and I tore the room up looking for it and we couldn't find it. Then, I looked up above me and there it was. On the ceiling. In a completely unreachable spot.

UPDATE: Now it has a friend.

UPDATE: Boyfriend just killed the spider's friend using a box of Samoas© Girl Scout cookies.

The original spider is still too high to reach. (You're welcome for the free advertising, Samoas©)

UPDATE: The spider has been slain. It was an epic battle. First, I made a spider-free island in the middle of the living room where I could watch the action while still being reasonably sure that I would not become part of it. Then Boyfriend made a long, poke-y weapon and he climbed up behind the couch and went in for the kill. The spider did not die easily and its death will probably be avenged in some fashion by its clone army, but for now it is gone.

The Party

At some point during my childhood, my mother made the mistake of taking me to see an orthodontist. It was discovered that I had a rogue tooth that was growing sideways.

My mom and I were told that the tooth, if left unchecked, would completely ruin everything in my life and turn me into a horrible, horrible mutant.

Unless I wanted to spend the rest of my natural life chained in a windowless shed to avoid traumatizing the other citizens, I was going to need surgery to remove the tooth.

I was accepting of the idea until I found out that my surgery was scheduled on the same day as my friend's birthday party. My surgery was in the morning and the birthday party wasn't until the late afternoon, but my mom told me that I still probably wouldn't be able to go because I'd need time to recover from my surgery. I asked her if I could go to the party if I was feeling okay. She said yes, but told me that I probably wouldn't be feeling well and to try not to get my hopes up.

But it was too late. I knew that if I could trick my mom into believing that I was feeling okay after my surgery, she'd let me go to my friend's birthday party. All I had to do was find a way to prove that I was completely recovered and ready to party. I began to gather very specific information about the kinds of things that would convince my mom that the surgery had absolutely no effect on me.

I'm pretty sure my mom was just placating me so that I'd leave her alone, but somehow it was determined that the act of running across a park would indeed prove that I was recovered enough to attend the party. And I became completely fixated on that little ray of hope.

I remember sitting in the operating room right before going under, coaching myself for the ten-thousandth time on my post-surgery plan: immediately after regaining even the slightest bit of consciousness, I was going to make my mom drive me to a park and I was going to run across it like a gazelle on steroids.

And then she would let me go to the party.

I must have done a really good job pretending to be okay even while I was still unconscious, because I was released well before the anesthesia wore off. My mom had to hold on to the back of my shirt to prevent me from falling over while we walked out of the hospital.

I first started to regain consciousness while we were driving on the freeway. I didn't know what was going on, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered that I needed to do something important.

THE PARK!! I didn't recall exactly why I needed to go to the park, but I had spent so much time drilling the concept into my head that even in my haze of near-unconsciousness, I knew that getting myself to a park was of utmost importance. I tried to communicate this to my mom, but the combination of facial numbness and extreme sedation caused me to be unable to form words properly.

I yelled louder and more urgently, but my mom still couldn't grasp what it was I wanted.

It was at this point that I decided to open the car door and walk to the park by my damn self. The only problem was that instead of being stopped safely near a park, we were hurtling down I-90 at 70 miles per hour.

Luckily I hadn't had the presence of mind to unbuckle my seatbelt, so instead of toppling to a bloody death, I merely hung out the side of the car and flailed around ineffectively.

A little shaken up by the incident, my mom decided that it would probably be a good idea to pull off at the next exit and get some food in me. We found a Jack in the Box and she led me inside.

It was pretty crowded, but my mom didn't want to get back in the car, so we found a table and she told me to wait while she stood in line to order our food.

I sat contentedly at our table for a few minutes.

But then I forgot what was happening and panicked.

I had to find my mom. I had to tell her about the park. I tried to call for her, but I still couldn't quite remember how to say words.

I began stumbling around the restaurant, shouting the closest approximation to the word "mom" that I could come up with.

My mom hadn't yet figured out what I was trying to tell her, but she knew that I was yelling and stumbling into the other patrons and generally causing a scene, so she firmly told me to go back to my seat.

I had remembered why I wanted to go to the park, so I obeyed my mom, thinking it would increase my chances of going to the park, thus increasing my chances of going to the party.

When my mom returned to our table with our food, some version of the following conversation ensued:

Me: Carn we go to the parp now?

My mom: The park? Is that what you want?

Me: Yes! The parp!

My mom: No. Eat your food.

Me: But moun - I can roun arcoss the porp. I can do it! I can go to the partney!

My mom: No you can't.

Me: I can! I can! I CAN!!!

My mom: Look at you. You can't even walk. You can't form a coherent sentence.

Me: I CAN ROUN ARCOSS THE PARP!!! I CAN GO TO THE PARPY!!!

My mom: You are not going to that party.

Me: NO!! NO! NO MOUM! I CAN DO IT! I CAN GO!

My mom: I said you can't go to the party. Now eat your food.

Me: MOOOOOOOUUUUUMM! WHY? WHY ARE YOU SO MEEEAAAAAAANNN?? WHY ARE YOU SO MEEEEEEEAAAAAAN TOOO MEEEEEE???

My mom: Stop it.

And then I started to cry big blubbery tears into my milkshake. It was at that point that my mom noticed all the people glaring at her and realized that, from an outside perspective, it appeared as though she was not only refusing to let her poor, mentally disabled daughter go to a park and/or a birthday party, but was also taunting her child about her disability.

And that's how I got to go to a birthday party while very heavily sedated.

Texas

I have a distinct tendency to become sick or injured dramatically. This was most certainly the case the first time I ever visited Texas.

It all began at a track meet in Eugene, Oregon. Despite suffering from a debilitatingly itchy, full-body rash brought on by a Flintstones vitamins overdose, I had the race of my life and qualified for the NCAA Midwest Regional meet in Austin, Texas.

I was beyond excited. My days were filled with farfetched fantasies of how I was going to win regionals and then qualify for nationals and somehow win that too. I visualized myself on the podium, bowing my head gracefully to accept my gold medal as the National Anthem played delicately in the background and confetti fluttered around me.

I don't even know if that's what happens when you win a national championship, but that's the way it worked in my fantasy. My entire existence was focused like a laser beam on that one race, sometime at the very end of May.

However, there was a small part of my mind that recognized a few crushing disadvantages, chief among them the reality that the race was in Texas at the beginning of summer and I had been training all year in frigid Montana. Add to this that I would be attempting to race a 5k despite the fact that I have never been good at handling the heat even when lying motionless on my floor in my underwear in front of a fan, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

But the reality turned out worse than anyone could have predicted.

A couple of my teammates and I boarded the plane at 5:00 AM. I had barely slept the night before because I was so excited about my race.

When we arrived in Texas, I stalwartly ignored the heat waves radiating off the tarmac. "I'll deal with it somehow..." I thought.

After we checked into our hotel, I went for a little run to shake out my legs. Immediately upon exiting the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel, I finally had to acknowledge the reality that my body is the opposite of good at dissipating heat. It doesn't even try. It's like it doesn't care at all about my well-being and comfort. Less than a mile into my run, I was reduced to a shambling jog. Breathing was like trying to insufflate syrup through a coffee straw. It was at this point that I began to panic a little.

I stumbled back to the hotel and took a shower to cool off. The shower water was lukewarm and smelled like it had been siphoned out of a duck pond. It was less than refreshing and made me smell like a swamp monster. Still soaking wet, I lay down on my bed and tried to eat a banana. My innards groaned like the Titanic just before it split in half. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice began to scream "you're gonna die!!!"

After weathering another sleepless night, I dragged my protesting body out of bed and down to the lobby, intent on ingesting massive amounts of caffeine. The coffee tasted like it had been made with the pond water that came out of the shower, but it served its function. Aching joints and creaky innards aside, I felt like I was ready to take on the world.

This was the high point of the entire trip. It was the last moment I felt even vaguely lucid.

The rest of the day was spent waiting in agonizing apprehension. My bloodstream was a putrid slop of stress hormones and enraged white blood cells. Something was obviously not right. I tried to blame it on the heat. I tried to blame it on my nerves. It was more than that; an immune-system assault so massive that it singlehandedly managed to shatter my dreams and my dignity all in one shot.

The hours leading up to my race went pretty much like this:

And by that, I mean that I sat in my hotel room all by myself in a terrifying, delirious stupor, which I later found out was the result of a 104.5 degree fever. In spite of my obvious illness (and perhaps due in part to my delirium), I remained steadfastly determined to go through with my athletic conquest. I did not come all the way to Texas to let some stupid illness get between me and my dreams of glory.

I don't remember how I got to the track. I know I was supposed to walk there because it was only a few blocks from the hotel, but I have no recollection of the time between sitting in my room and actually arriving at the track. What I do remember are the fireflies I saw on my warmup. Let me tell you something - if you've never seen fireflies before, you probably should try to avoid seeing them for the first time when you're out of your mind with a fever. I had no idea what was going on.

I also remember being hotter than I had ever been before. I felt like I wanted to tear off my skin. The ambient temperature was nearly 100 degrees even though it was starting to get dark and the humidity felt suffocating. I was still unwilling to admit to feeling less-than-adequate, so I stumbled around campus like a drunk, trying my hardest to keep my spirits up. "I can do it!" I thought. "I just have to believe in myself!" It was pathetic.

The more I jogged around, the higher my internal temperature crept. By the time I changed into my uniform and racing spikes, I could barely focus. The fireflies flitted around, taunting me with the unsettling feeling of not being able to tell if I was hallucinating or not. In a last ditch attempt to maintain homeostasis, I packed my sport bra and racing briefs with ice cubes.

Before I knew it, there I was on the starting line of the biggest race of my life; melty ice water trickling down my torso and the inside of my legs, uniform packed full of ice cubes. It looked like I had some sort of strange disorder that made me all lumpy and caused me to continuously pee on myself. It was not one of my prouder moments.

When the starter's gun went off, I sprinted off the line with the rest of the girls, ice jiggling around inside my clothes and flying out of my briefs onto the track.

It did not take long for my championship dreams to fizzle out to a barely audible whine in the fuzzy depths of my consciousness.

I fell further and further back from the rest of the field, but kept doggedly pursuing my quest for greatness until the moment I passed out.

I remember trying to punch the volunteer who dragged me off the track before I completely lost consciousness. The next few hours were a blur of concerned coaches and doctors and tubes and thermometers.

That night, I couldn't sleep again. I was so afraid that I was going to die alone in my hotel room that I crawled down to the lobby of the hotel and tried to sleep on one of the couches there.

My logic was that if I started dying, maybe someone would notice and help me.

Still delirious the next morning, I woke up and immediately decided that I needed juice more than anything in the world. I would have shanked an infant for juice.

For some reason, I thought that it would be a good idea to walk to the grocery store by myself. I didn't even know where the grocery store was. I just kind of picked a direction and started walking. Every now and then I made a turn. I felt like I was trusting my instincts, but really I was just wandering around hoping to stumble across a grocery store. About a mile or so from the hotel, I began to notice that the houses on the street I was walking down had bars over all the windows. There were bullet holes in a couple of the cars parked along the street and broken glass littered the sidewalks. That's when I realized I was not in a very good neighborhood. And I was lost.

This might not be a big deal for some people, but for a weak and possibly dying girl who spent most of her life in the woods of rural north Idaho, it was pretty terrifying. I quickened my pace, which really only served to propel me faster in an unknown direction.

Amazingly, I did eventually find a grocery store. It was the most confusing grocery store I have ever been in. First of all, most of the signs were written in Spanish. I speak a little Spanish, but it did me very little good because there was no order to anything in the entire store. The shelves were packed with various foods and toiletries, but none of it was grouped into any sort of easily-recognizable category. The dry pasta was next to some random shampoo bottles and a box of Reese's peanut butter cups. A few aisles down from that, there was more shampoo, but now it was accompanied by salsa and something called "energy balls" which appeared to be homemade chocolate balls with coffee beans stuffed into them, rolled up inside a plastic sandwich bag. Birds flew freely throughout the store and a centrally-located tank of live lobsters made the whole place smell like rancid seawater. It was like some horrific wonderland of confusion. I was never going to find juice and I was never going to be able to go home. I sat down in the middle of what appeared to be the "yellow things aisle" and began to weep quietly.

Eventually a kindly man found me and asked me what was wrong in Spanish. I tried to explain to him that I was lost and I really wanted some juice, but in retrospect, I'm pretty sure I asked him if I could "play puppy," which doesn't make any sense at all in that context. Obviously perplexed, he led me to a lady named Angelica who had the best mullet I've ever seen and, perhaps more importantly, could speak English. I asked her about the juice.

Angelica led me to a slightly refrigerated back room where the juice was kept. I selected a gallon jug of strawberry-guava juice, opened it right there in front of Angelica and began chugging. She looked displeased, but I was obviously not well and I think her sympathy won out in the end. I followed her back to the cash register, paid for my juice with a sweaty wad of dollar bills and began the journey back to my hotel.

All I can remember from this point in the trip is staggering down the street clutching my guava juice, trying my best to stay conscious in the hot sun.

Just as I don't know how I found the grocery store, I have no idea how I eventually ended up back at my hotel. I don't think anyone even knew I was gone.

Later that evening, a few teammates woke me up and reminded me that I still hadn't celebrated my very recent 21st birthday. This being the case, I was expected drink (read: buy alcohol for everyone else). Being impulsive, I reluctantly grabbed my wallet and walked with my friends to a gas station (which carried juice and was only about three blocks from the hotel in the opposite direction). I tried to buy a six pack of beer but my newly legal I.D. was turned down because it was out of state and I "looked like a goddamn 16-year old." The cashier ended up selling the beer to my friend who was only 20 and had a fake I.D.

Back at the hotel, I tried to halfheartedly drink a beer and talk with my teammates, but I think I just ended up passing out on the floor. We had to wake up to catch a really early flight, so I didn't get to sleep very much. I woke up feeling even worse than I had the day before, in a half-conscious stupor. I remember lurching around the airport with my eyes closed, dragging my backpack on the ground, trying to just stay reasonably close to my teammates' voices.

We had a long layover in Denver, so I tried to get some sleep under a row of seats near our terminal. The airport was really quiet at such an early hour, but our terminal was right next to a moving sidewalk from which a very loud, automated voice emanated roughly every minute. It was an annoyingly cheery robotic female voice warning people, in English and Spanish, that the moving sidewalk was coming to an end and to watch their step. It seemed completely unnecessary and I think that's what really ended up getting to me in the end.

It had been three days since I'd gotten over a few measly hours of sleep and it felt like that stupid lady-robot was forcefully robbing me of every bit of psychological integrity I had left. After an hour of trying to sleep unsuccessfully, I finally got up to try to find a solution. Anything. If I didn't sleep, I felt like I was going to implode and explode at the same time, and whatever came out of me was going to be dangerous, possibly some sort of plague demon.

And that's how I ended up having a complete psychological meltdown in an airport.