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Ill See You

Tomorrow
Ayza Bolanos

Autobiographical Reading and Writing

Brett Williams

09 December 2015
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Table of Contents

1. Womb Emancipation Day 1


2. Thats Not My Name 1
3. Keep Calm And Carry On 2
4. Punk-creas . 8
5. R5 Family 17
6. Were All Stories In The End, Make It A Good One .. 23
7. Ticking Crocodiles .. 26
8. This Is Me 30
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Womb Emancipation Day

On May 30, 1997, around 2:30 in the afternoon, I took my first breath. It was my dads

38th birthday. I was my moms first child, my younger brother coming in two years, only days

before my second birthday. My mom was 40 when she had me but in all the pictures, I swear she

could pass for 20. As my parents held me in their arms, they admired how small I was, but

wondered how such a loud cry could come out of such a tiny thing. They looked into my little

eyes and wondered what type of life I would have, who I would turn out to be. Little did they

know, my life would be one filled with ups and downs, a speeding roller coaster with nothing to

stop it.

Thats Not My Name

My name is Ayza Bolanos; but not really. Legally, my name is Evelyn Ayza Bolanos. The

story of my name is long and complicated, so heres the short version. My dad wanted me to

have his same initials: EAB. My parents knew the E would be for Evelyn since it was a family

name. They went through hundreds of A names until they finally landed on Ayza; which is a

shortened Arabic word meaning enlightenment of God. We arent arabic, we are hispanic, if you

couldnt tell by my last name. When I was born, my parents didnt like calling me Evelyn so they

called me by my middle name. So for my entire life I have gone by Ayza. Legally, I am Evelyn

Ayza Bolanos but to me, only Ayza Bolanos exists.


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Keep Calm and Carry On

Ever since I was young, Ive had panic attacks. My first memory of them starts at the

young age of five. I couldnt fall asleep, no matter how tired I was. It seemed like my mind

wouldnt turn off, like it was competing in a never ending Olympic sprint. I would lay in bed,

tossing and turning for hours, before I decided to run across the short hallway into my parents

room. The door looming over me, it was like a bouncer causing me to take pause in my

endeavour to wake up my parents. Some nights Id retreat back to my bed only to lay there,

occasionally punching my pillows in anger at both my inability to sleep and my cowardness,

until the morning when my nanny woke up and helped me prepare for school. Other nights, I

would push open the door as quiet as I could and crawl on the floor next to my moms face. Id

kneel and look up at her peaceful slumber, again wondering if it was worth it to disrupt her sleep.

Fear would make me catch my breath, fear that she would be disappointed me in, fear that I

would lose her love. When the fear made my breath come in shallow waves, I would quietly

whisper her name, breathing the words onto her sleeping face. If that didnt wake her up, I would

lightly poke her on the side, awed at her warmth. My mom would slowly open one eye and shed

see my face right next to hers. Id whisper, my voice cracking in the process, I cant sleep. I

didnt mean to but you could hear every emotion come out in my small voice. She would nudge

my dad and let me crawl into bed with her, wrapping her arms around me. Encased in a warm

cocoon, Id squirm around in her embrace as she fell back asleep immediately. Even then, I

wouldnt sleep, Id lay there until my dad woke up to go to work sometime in the early morning.

I would get up with him, marvelling at how different the world seemed when sheathed in

darkness and the city was still sleeping. Hed tuck me back into bed before he left and again,
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sleep would evade me. This would go on for days, days where I was so exhausted but sleep was

just out reach of my chubby five year old hands. Soon this was a common occurrence, and my

parents took me to a doctor. They prescribed sleeping pills that drifted me to sleep although they

caused my waking moments to be fuzzy, like I was still dreaming. When I reached my middle

school years, I wrote a research paper on panic attacks. As I told my mom about how the

research matched up with what I felt as a young child, she realized that I had followed in her

footsteps. My mom had experienced panic attacks when she was in her twenties, her symptoms

being carbon copies of mine.

My panic attacks and anxiety stayed dormant until my high school years. Sleepless nights

crept in, an uninvited intruder, and no matter how hard I fought, they would not release me from

their grip. I would stay up most nights reading, trying to be silent, until my dad woke up. I would

hang out with him as he got ready for work, and he would tuck me back into bed before he left,

just like when I was little, kissing me and whispering for me to go to sleep against my forehead. I

would lay there awake until I heard my mom coming to wake me up for school and I would feign

being asleep. I didnt want to confess my struggles to my parents this time. I didnt want to

burden them with my problems, ones I didnt really understand myself. My dad caught on when

it became our daily routine for me to hang out with him as he got ready for work at 3am

everyday. He never really said anything to me about it, but I would see the concern in his eyes

when he would tuck me back into bed. I think he figured that if there was something really bad

going on, that I would say something. I never uttered a word.

My sophomore year is when things became dangerous. Along with not sleeping for days

at a time, panic attacks reared their ugly heads once again. As the year went on, my panic attacks

became more frequent and the effects lasting much longer each time, my recovery time growing
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with each successive attack. Each time I had a panic attack, the stress and fear would pile on me.

It got to the point where I would get excruciating headaches and nosebleeds. I seemed as if

possessed, writhing around inside myself. I would try to hold onto myself, grasping my arms so

tightly my nails would break the skin. My limbs would begin to tingle and then slowly go numb.

My chest felt the exact opposite. Something would invade into my chest, spreading around,

contaminating everything it touched. My heart would be going so fast that I was sure it would

explode out my chest. My lungs would constrict and Id be gasping for breath. I had to remind

myself to breathe even though it seemed so much easier just to stop. I got so restless, I felt like

running for miles. I would be paralyzed, tension freezing my muscles. I felt like screaming until

whatever had attached itself to my chest wall was out of me. I felt like screaming until my throat

was raw and bleeding, until I morphed into something that wasnt me.

At first, my panic attacks contained themselves to when I was alone, and usually at night.

They soon began foraging their way into other parts of my day. They came more frequently and

always unexpectedly. They showed up during class, at family gatherings, even on a train ride

home from Chicago. I was embarrassed and ashamed of my panic attacks. If they happened in

public, I would find some place to hide while I could still move. At home, I would hide in my

closet or underneath my bed. I was a cornered animal, terrified and ready to snap. The shame

burning inside silenced me. My family had always abided by the self-imparted rule of not

speaking out when something is wrong. If you were physically sick or injured, we would call the

doctor, but if anything else was wrong, you kept it to yourself. Bottling emotions was a secret

and a perfected art in my house. Not one single soul knew my struggles.

As time went on, my thoughts loomed over me grotesquely. My appearance changed, I

looked haggard all the time, pale, deep purple bags rimming the bottom of my glassy eyes, my
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face devoid of happiness or motivation. My thoughts then began to take on an even darker form,

they turned to ways I could make the torture stop. I turned the idea over in my mind for days,

each time I would reason myself into thinking ending it was the right thing to do. I thought about

how I could do it, I gathered a collection of pills and hid them away. I knew the ways to cut a

vein to bleed out the fastest. The first step was to write out my notes for my family and friends. I

couldnt leave them without an explanation. I wrote out a list of who all I needed to write a letter

to. The list was longer than I expected, which surprised me. I was taken aback. How many

people would I hurt if I really went through with this? It shocked me enough to throw the thought

away for a few days, until it got so bad that I went running back to it, like an abusive lover. I

could never finish a letter. I just had pages full of letters that were started, but never ended. I

never attempted anything, but at night I would find the knives and hold their cool metal against

my skin. After shaky breaths, I would put them back in their place and tape up my wrists to

prevent myself from doing anything in haste. Even though I knew that it would end everything I

was going through, something deep in me stopped me every time. There was one last shining

piece of light left in me.

I had a close group of friends my sophomore year who lived all over the world. They

became my support group. We had all come together the year prior due to our mutual love of a

small band. Each one of us was broken in our own ways. Some of them had gone through the

same struggles I was having, and they recognized the signs. They began to call me every night.

They worried about me and whether I would do anything. They wanted to help me in any way

they could, they believed that I could get past this obstacle. We would facetime for hours, them

watching over me, like my own personal guards. They saw my panic attacks and tried their best

to help me. They gently encouraged me to call some help hotlines, telling me theyd listen and
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offer me help. I couldnt do that. I could barely speak about how I was feeling, the words

escaping my mind. As they watched over me every night, they started playing music for me and

reading to me. They read me books, blog posts, and poems, anything they could find, trying to

show me words to describe my struggles. They started reading posts from one mental health

organization, and they always seemed to connect to me. It felt as if those words were the ones I

had been searching for. My friends saw that and slowly nudged me in their direction for help.

They told me all about the organization, their own connections to it, and one day I decided to

check it out. It was so fascinating to me that someone knew what I was going through and had

risen above to a level where they still had bad days but could help others. The organization was

called To Write Love On Her Arms. To this day, I am still a part of this organization. My friends

bought me a shirt from the organization when I made it one month without a panic attack. It

seemed like my life was slowly starting to come back together, like I could breathe again. I still

had days where I could feel the panic and anxiety lurking deep, hiding in between ribs, poking at

my heart trying to find a weak spot. Our nightly facetime calls became tradition until my senior

year of high school, when we all got too busy with school and our own lives. I became a part of

TWLOHA, helping spread the message that hope is out there and one doesnt need to suffer in

silence. I spoke out and broke the family rule of hiding our emotions deep inside. My parents

never knew what was going on until I continued to write research papers on the topic and I began

speaking of TWLOHA. To this day, I dont think they really know how far it went or how dark

my thoughts became. I no longer abide by my familys tradition of not seeking help because it is

shameful. Shame will not keep me from sharing my story. My family's rule is not showing

strength but is instead destruction. I am my own person and I will not be silent.
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Punk-creas

I was diagnosed with type one diabetes on February 18, 2008. I had been experiencing

the symptoms months prior but it all came to a head during that fateful day. For months, I had

been growing increasingly thirsty. I would ask the teacher to excuse me from class at least three

times a day to refill my water bottle. It was like I had wandered through the desert for years, not

seeing one drop of water. With all that drinking, it had to go somewhere. I always had to go to

the bathroom. It was a constant replay of gulping down water and racing to the bathroom a few

minutes later. Along with those symptoms, I grew increasingly tired. I would come home from

school and sleep until dinner time. I would awake to eat, only a measly bit, and do homework

and then I would fall right back asleep until the following morning. This continued for months

and eventually my parents began to notice.

One day, I was pulled out of school for a doctors appointment. My parents took me to

my local pediatrician. I felt horrible that day and as I lay on the table waiting for my doctor to

come in, I passed out. When I came to, I had my parents surrounding me along with my doctor

and a gaggle of nurses. They all seemed to have a look of concern on their faces. Right away my

doctor began looking over me. They asked me a series of questions and then asked my parents.

My doctor asked to speak to my parents privately and they all walked out of the room together. I

sat in there, reading the posters on the wall and wondering if I could convince my parents to buy

me something to drink before we went home. They walked back in some time later and the look

of concern that had been on their faces had changed to a look of disappointment. I didnt have

time to question it before my doctor sat down before me. I looked down on her as she asked me

if I was faking everything. It wasnt okay to fake being sick when other kids out there are
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actually sick. I was confused, but that was quickly replaced by a bubbling anger. They thought I

was faking. I wanted to lash out and scream that if they felt what I felt then they would know I

wasnt faking. Instead my anger culminated into tears as I pleaded with my parents that I wasnt

faking, that I was actually sick. I cried and cried, and I think this brought my parents to my side

of the ring, since I was never an emotional child. My parents stood up for me and asked what

could be done to find out what was plaguing me. Finally, my doctor, with a look of disdain on

her face, told my parents that she would arrange a fasting blood draw to see if anything was

going on, but she really doubted it. We left shortly after with my blood draw scheduled for the

following week. I had sobered up and dragged myself to the car. I asked my parents if they

thought maybe I had what my nanny had. I didnt know at the time that she was a type two

diabetic. My parents looked at me quickly and said that they prayed I didnt have that, that it was

just a cold I was having trouble getting over. I didnt know that at that moment, I had just

predicted my future.

Twas the night before the blood draw, and I was dying from thirst. My throat was so dry

that it was painful to speak. I could barely swallow and breathing caused a deep burning in my

chest. Curiously, sleep evaded me that night. I ghosted around the house, each time I ended up

standing in front of the fridge staring at everything I could drink. Finally, after extreme debate I

decided that milk would quench my thirst and it wouldnt mess up with my fasting blood draw in

a few hours. I poured myself countless glasses of milk, quenching my thirst and sighing in relief.

As I carried one last glass to my room, my dad stepped out of his room. He took one look at me

holding a glass of milk, and immediately went and got my mother. She came out a few minutes

later and took the glass away from me. She asked me if I had already drank some and I felt her

disappointment when I slowly nodded my head. I started to cry, or attempted to, no tears came
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out of my eyes and my mouth was so dry I was choking on my own tongue. Then something

surprising happened. My mom took me into her arms and held me. I hadnt been held like that

since I was young. I let myself be enveloped by the warmth of her embrace and it eventually

lulled me back to sleep. I was shaken awake by my mom the next morning and she told me that

my blood draw had been moved to the next week. That appointment went as planned and we

then awaited for the results to come in the following weeks.

My parents left about two weeks later, to go buy our new house in Grand Island,

Nebraska. We were moving in the middle of March and so the final preparations were being

made. I was left in the care of my nanny and abuela. It was a long weekend, so I had a few days

off from school. Various family members came to take my younger brother and I around town,

since my nanny and abuela couldnt drive. I had taken very ill those days but I didnt want to

miss out on hanging out with family. Everyday a new family member would ask me if I had lost

weight. I would say no, but in reality I had become a ghost of my former self. I had lost at least

25 pounds and had become so pale compared to my usual dark complexion. One day, my aunt

Miriam sat me down and started speaking to me as to why I wasnt eating anymore. I told her

that I honestly wasnt hungry but that I was always thirsty. The next words out of her mouth were

questions about if I was anorexic and if I knew that it was important to eat, that I looked

beautiful and didnt need to starve myself to look better. I was adamant that I was not anorexic,

that I knew better than to starve myself to look thinner. I honestly had no appetite, it was just

water that I was always craving. She eyed me suspiciously but I think she thought that she would

intervene in case this continued. Finally, she took me and my little brother out to lunch, where I

gulped down the largest smoothie I had ever seen. That smoothie was the thing that pushed me

over the edge. As the day went on, I felt sicker until it came to the point where I had to beg to be
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taken home. My aunt took my home, where I promptly ran into the bathroom and threw up. I was

throwing up for three days. I couldnt keep anything down, if I even managed to eat anything. I

started throwing up stomach acid, creating a new burning sensation in my throat. My nanny was

keeping my parents updated, who were concerned at the duration of my sickness. Finally on

February 18th, I received a call from my doctor saying that my blood test results had come in

and I should go to Childrens Hospital immediately. I didnt understand what she was saying, so I

called my parents asking what was going on. They told me that my blood sugar levels were

dangerously high and that they had called my older half brother to drive me to the ER. They were

going to fly home immediately, and they told my nanny to get me ready to go. I remember her

rolling me into a blanket and feeding me soup, to at least get something into my system. My

brother came to pick me up and he carried me into his car. Everyone was treating me like a

porcelain doll, with any wrong move, I would shatter. I was a human burrito as I layed in the

front seat of the car as he sped his way to the emergency room of Childrens Hospital Los

Angeles. Once we arrived, my brother took care of all the admission process, while I woozily

stood next to him and then proceeded to throw up all over the floor. The admission process went

much faster after that. A kind nurse then appeared, wheelchair in tow, ready to whisk me away.

They wheeled me through a maze of hallways on various floors of the hospital until I reached a

small examining room. My burrito form now resided on a small bed, where I asked my brother to

hold my hand as they poked me relentlessly, a sickly pincushion, to find veins for IVs. I spent a

week in Childrens Hospital, but the days all blur together for me. There was no concept of time

inside those sterile walls. I had three IVs and one spot kept free of IVs for any blood draws,

which seem to occur constantly. My IVs kept getting blocked and full of kinks every time I

would move my arms, so my doctors took pieces of cardboard and taped my arms straight. I
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looked like a zombie with my arms stick straight in front of me at all times, although I was a

pathetic looking zombie as I could not feed myself. I reverted back to when I was little and had

to have someone feed me, inevitably spilling all over myself. According to my family, my

parents were stuck in Nebraska due to a freak blizzard and they had called all my family to try to

get any family member to stay with me, calling the school, and finding another family member to

take care of my little brother and take him to school everyday. My brother didnt come once to

visit me during my stay, either due to his indifference about me or his fear of anything relating to

a doctor.

One afternoon, I remember my parents burst into my hospital room. They looked frantic

but also worried. The way I looked must have been terrifying to anyone, especially my parents.

They rushed me, giving me hugs, smoothing my hair, and kissing me. It was nice to see them

again and I started showing them how I had become a human pincushion and how the inside of

my elbows had turned a perpetual black and blue.To this day, the way they looked at me is

ingrained in my mind. Their hair was sticking up at all angles, their movements rushed and jerky.

The thing that stands out was the look of utter fear and desperation in their eyes. I was having

fun in the hospital and I had not realized the full repercussions of why I was there. My doctors

and nurses were nice, I got to watch TV and sleep all day, and go make crafts in a room down the

hall. It was like vacation, only the reasons behind it were much more dangerous.

One night near the end of my stay at the hospital, a nurse came in to check my blood

sugar. I was tired of being poked and prodded, why couldnt they leave me alone and let me

sleep. The nurse crept up to me and carefully woke me up so she could get access to my veins.

The hospital was a vampire, always wanting my blood, never satisfied with what I relinquished. I

began to cry out for my parents, begging them for it to stop. I looked in their eyes as they
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complied with the nurse to hold me down so she could get her sample. I stared them down,

pleading with them to stop. Please, I would whimper, at one point my voice breaking. At that

moment their hearts broke. The nurse had gotten what she came for and promptly left after

giving me a stern look. I continued to cry until eventually the exhaustion overtook me. The next

morning when a new nurse awoke me, back for more blood, my dad sat down on my bed and

looked at me with sad eyes. He described to me in hushed tones how my mom had cried herself

to sleep the night before, how she had been a wreck since that fateful call a few days ago. He told

me I couldnt keep crying out because it hurt. It hurt my mom and it hurt her even more to see

her baby in pain and having the knowledge that she could do nothing to change it. I solemnly

nodded, shocked at the knowledge that my mom had been crying. It never occurred to me that

my parents could cry. I knew they had their faults like every other human, but I never could think

back to a moment where I saw them cry or even mention crying. When my mom walked back

into the room a few moments later, the way I looked at her had changed. I saw her vulnerabilities

even though she did a good job at hiding any evidence that tears had streamed down her face

only hours earlier.

Before I could be discharged from the hospital, my doctors had to come and speak to me

about my diagnosis. My team of doctors walked in, carrying balloons, and a small stuffed animal

that they had all pooled their money to buy me. The main doctor took a seat on the edge of my

bed and began speaking to us. The unique thing was that most of the time, my doctor was

speaking to me and not my parents, making sure that everything clicked. They explained what

diabetes was and tried to answer my questions such as how I got it and how long I would have it.

They were prepared with research printed out for my parents to read through but also picture

books for me. I didnt know anyone with diabetes that was a kid. Halfway through it clicked that
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I had predicted this a few weeks prior when I asked if I had the same thing my nanny did. They

brought in an orange and a syringe to teach my parents how to give me my insulin shots as well

as how to check my blood sugar. They gave me all the necessary items, which they conveniently

placed inside a box. The box was easily my height, everything in there quickly becoming

essential to keep living. Lastly, before wheeling me out of the hospital, they set me up with

appointments for educational classes so I could continue learning about this disease that was now

my life.

I was wheeled out of the hospital and into the warm Southern California day, into

freedom but what was actually probation. I went home and it seemed completely different. My

family was there waiting for me, wanting to see me and hear about how I was doing. It was like I

was under interrogation in an unknown environment. I hadnt had this type of attention from my

family unless it was for an academic achievement and even then, those were so common, it was

just another typical thing. I was overwhelmed by the attention and how foreign my own home

seemed to be. I immediately fatigued and went to bed. The next day was more of the same, with

the exception that I went back to school. My class bombarded me with questions and they gave

me handmade cards that they had crafted earlier that week, while I was still in the hospital. The

effort touched me and a smile slowly made its way across my face. During lunch time, my mom

came to the school to check my blood sugar and administer my insulin shot. We both didnt

know what we were doing, thankfully the school nurse took pity on us and taught us. I was still

too scared to give my own shots, and that fear would course through me well into my middle

school years.

My days soon turned into routine. My blood sugar had to be checked every three hours,

including during the night. Being poked by needles became my norm. I developed a reaction to
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the insulin shots, a few short weeks after my diagnosis. My injection sites would become red,

angry, swollen welts. I would cry due to the pain. My dad became the one who would give my

shots and I could tell he was hesitant to give me my shots. Id whimper and sob everyday and

this transitioned to the night, when I was supposed to be sleeping. I began crying myself to sleep,

just like that night in the hospital. Id wait for exhaustion to take me away, away from the

burning in my chest and the heaviness in my heart.

I didnt know anyone my age who had diabetes, the feelings of being an outcast began to

take its hold on me. After my move, no ones parents wanted to have the sick girl over. It would

become their responsibility to take care of me. Most didnt want that burden. I didnt have many

friends due to that fact. It seemed like my only friend was the school nurse and principal. I left

class so often to see the nurse that my class forgot about me and would leave to go on field trips

or recess without me. My lack of friends caused my parents to enroll me in a diabetes camp. The

camp was one of the best things that had happened to me. It was filled with kids with type one

diabetes. They were my people. They knew the struggles I had and for some this was the only

time they had to interact with kids who knew what they were going through. As I grew older, I

continued going to this camp, even as the other kids didnt come back because they thought they

were too old or too cool. For three days every year, we get to immerse ourselves with people

who know what it's like to live with diabetes and still try and do everything a normal person

does.

My diagnosis irrevocably changed my life, both for better and worse. My diabetes has

made me so sick sometimes, that I have to be admitted to the hospital for days at a time. Diabetes

has brought me close to the brink of death more times than recommended. However, it has also

shown me the career path I want to travel on. After my initial diagnosis, I wanted to become a
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doctor. I wanted to be as nice as my team of doctors were, I wanted to make a difference in the

lives of patients. I have switched from pediatrics, endocrinology, cardiology, and neurology so

many times, but I do know that medicine is where I want to be. My diagnosis has persuaded me

to write countless research papers on the topic, take medical classes, go to medical camps, join

research teams, and essentially ignited the fire in me to pursue medical school. Ive joined JDRF,

spreading awareness for type one diabetes. Diabetes has been the biggest change in my life and

Im not sure if I would change it if I had the chance.


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R5 Family

My freshman year of high school, I found a small band on Youtube. Little did I know that

they would come to change my life. I was going through music videos on Youtube on lazy

afternoon when I stumbled upon a cover of a popular Justin Bieber song. It was catchy and the

guys in the video were cute. Their cuteness played a part in me looking up who they were, if we

are really being honest about it. I was sucked into this band, called R5. I watched every single

video they had on Youtube and being myself, did intense research on who they were. Their music

was so catchy, I listened to it everyday. I quickly immersed myself in their music and fandom.

With this day and age, the internet was full of information about the band. I was able to find the

few fans that the band had, and I got the nerve to start talking to them. I made one friend in

particular, and we emailed multiple times daily. From there it escalated to the point where I was

spending all my time online, talking to my friends. When I tried talking about them at school, no

one really understood but no one at school understood my love for this small family band.

Around Christmas time of my freshman year, R5 had come out with a tour announcement and

they were going to Denver. I did all the research immediately, building a case to present to my

parents. I calculated the costs, what I could contribute, and the logistics of it. I pleaded my case

to my parents and they said theyd think about it. On Christmas day, they let me know that they

would let me go and if I wanted to I could bring along one of my best friends. The joy that

consumed me was incomparable and for the next few months my excitement grew to

insurmountable levels.

The fateful day came in May of my freshman year. My best friend was coming with me

to see the band and we had been preparing by listening to all their songs on Youtube and talking
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to my friends who had gone to their earlier shows. I had become well known in the ever

expanding fandom as I was one of the original fans and had coined the moniker for the fandom,

the R5 family. The band had even acknowledged the group of us who had come up with the term.

We were all close to each other, we were the family we had picked and chosen to love. When we

arrived in Denver, my excitement was at an all time high. Adrenaline pounded through my veins

as showtime neared. When the doors opened, I ran in and instantly claimed my stake at the front

of the stage, in a spot where my favorite band member would be standing not one foot away

from me. The show was incredible and much more intimate than I imagined. Afterwards, I ran

through the merch line, quickly spending much of my remaining savings. Then, I queued up to

be able to meet the band, take photos, and get things signed. Meeting them was the highlight of

the night as they knew who I was based off my username. They took their time talking to me and

made the whole experience memorable and something to cherish. After that concert, I was

hooked, it became my drug.

I went back home, but part of my heart stayed at that concert. I was always wondering

when I could go to another one. I was patient, biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to

pounce. The moment, or in fact moments, did not arrive until my sophomore year of high school.

In the time I was waiting, I became closer to my friends in my little R5 family. We all began

talking on a daily basis whether it be through phone calls, texts, tumblr, twitter, or facebook. We

were all silly together but also encouraging. Each of us had our story and we felt safe enough

with each other to tell them. We would all have giant group video calls, someone playing music

and it would become a giant dance party. We even had movie nights where all of us would watch

the same movie on our own computers. Distance did not stop our hearts from connecting to each

other.
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The first moment I saw an opportunity to see R5 was Labor Day weekend during my

sophomore year. My friend in Chicago had let me know that she had heard from the bands

manager that they were going to be performing a free show in Chicago on Labor Day. Instantly, I

made a plan and presented it first to my mom. Once I had convinced her, she went to my dad. He

asked me why I wanted to see the same band again. I conveyed how this band was important for

me and how it was an opportunity for me to meet some of the people I held near to my heart. My

dad allowed me to go and once again I was off to a new city to see my favorite band. Chicago

was a whirlwind of a trip. The entire day of the concert started at 6am and ended somewhere

around 10pm. The day was full of squeals, giggles, pictures, hugs, and so much more. I spent the

day in the 100 degree weather dancing and singing my heart out with a group of friends I had

just met that day but felt as if I had known them for years. I got to spend time with the band I

loved and who now recognized me well enough to waive me past security to hang out with them

for a few. The band was comprised of four siblings and one close family friend. I was close

enough to the band that their actual family knew me by name and actually went out to buy me

and my group of friends food. After I had made it home from a long but memorable day, I took to

the internet. I tweeted everything that had happened, writing my own log of events, so I would

never forget, even when I was old and senile. My other friends from the R5 family were jealous

but also so excited for me, to both see the band again but also for meeting some of our friends

and getting to spend the day with them. Going home from Chicago was difficult, nostalgia

threatening to drown me. My chest ached with the knowledge that that day was over and I would

never be able to fully re-live it. My heart was also heavy with the knowledge that the next show I

went to would probably be a big one, since R5 was gaining more attention. It was like watching

your children grow up and live their dream, you were happy for them, so happy you thought your
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face with break from the smile on it, but also you wanted them to go back to when they were

only your little source of happiness.

My sophomore year continued and the opportunities continued to pop up. I continued to

plead with my parents to let me go, but it became more of a bargain. It was a compromise, me

promising to keep my grades up and to get a job as soon as I turned 16, and my parents trying to

bargain more out of me, promises to be better and take care of myself more. It came down to my

parents wanting to see me happy. They knew that going to these concerts, meeting my friends,

seeing this band that had rapidly become my friends, made me so ecstatic, that I couldnt contain

it. I was like a kid on a sugar high, bouncing off the walls, singing at the top of my lungs, and

laughing so hard I was rolling around the floor. My parents let me go to another concert in Los

Angeles that December. I went to two concerts in two days, waking up at 5am and staying out

until 2am. I didnt need sleep those days, I was in a mania, my joy so thorough and deep that it

could keep me up for days before I even felt a hint of being tired. I met so many of my friends,

including the friends I had first started talking to when I initially joined the fandom. It meant the

world to me. I also had the chance to hang out with R5 and their friends. They had a big

Christmas party, that they invited us to. My mom gave me permission to go and we all stayed out

late, talking, eating food, and being silly. The memories from that night are so clear in my mind,

I can feel them, even though it happened three years ago.

That concert was the end for a while, until spring break of my junior year when I

travelled back to Denver for another R5 concert. They were getting bigger, so the places they

played at were a lot larger. The intimate feeling they had created at shows managed to stay with

them. I felt like a proud mother when they made the announcements of their first album and their

first world tour. Pride swelled in my heart overtaking the small ache that they would no longer
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remember me, that they were no longer mine. As my senior year of high school, my group of

friends in the fandom started to drift apart. Many of us were entering our senior year of high

school or freshman year of college. We began to get wrapped up in our lives and our futures. We

would contact each other occasionally, the usual messages of how are you doing, we need to

catch up, and occasionally an inside joke would be tossed about, causing us to reminisce on days

past. As we drifted from each other, we drifted from the band that had connected us all. They had

gone global, hearing their music on every radio station and seeing their faces on TV, whether it

be on the news or their music video playing during commercials. I doubted they still remembered

who I was, if they even had time to think back to their first days. Occasionally, I would tune in to

their news interviews and it was like catching up with an old friend. It brought back memories

and the sadness that would come with it made me take an even further step back from them. I

went to another concert during my senior year and you could sense things had changed. The

show was still great but the crowd was no longer filled with friendly faces, but instead it was a

sea of strangers. The band no longer had time to do signings afterward as it also impeded their

safety. The way things had changed caused me to stop requesting to go to their concerts. It

wasnt the same little safe haven that it once was. It only reminded me of the changes that had

occurred throughout the years, how I was different too. Some friendships I made have lasted all

this time, although we dont catch up nearly as often as we should.

This band had changed my life. They honestly may have saved it. They provided me with

a group of friends who were there for me when my soul felt dark and ugly. They gave me people

who I could entrust with my life, who could raise me to my heights and save me when the lows

dragged me into a grave. They shaped me into the person I am today, confident, outspoken, and
Bolanos 23

friendly to all. This band is unexplainably near and dear to my heart, to even attempt to explain

what they have done for me whole take me thousands of pages.


Bolanos 24

Were All Stories In The End, Make It A Good One

It seemed like everyday was leading up to this one moment. The cumulation of all my

days has lead to this one moment, where I would walk across a stage, hopefully not trip, and

receive my diploma. I had been chosen to give the speech at my graduation. At most schools, it is

a privilege given to the valedictorian. I was the valedictorian at my school, but graduation

speeches were given to people who auditioned for it. You had to write your speech and present to

the entire English department and freshman students. I entertained the idea for a while, before

finally deciding to write a speech at the nudging of my best friend. It took some time to write the

speech, trying to first of all meet the requirements but also create something unique. Its a

difficult task, trying to avoid cliches but still make your speech impact every classmate sitting

out in the audience. The word choice had to precise and meaningful. After weeks of writing and

many editing sessions later, I finally had the speech I would go on and give in front of my entire

community.

To me, giving this speech was a great honor. It felt as if every struggle I had, let me come

to this moment. It gave new light to everything happens for a reason, a phrase I toyed with

believing in. I woke up that morning with anticipation of the day to come. As I got ready that

morning, I was rehearsing my speech, putting emphasis on certain phrases and making sure my

voice wasnt going to waver. My phone blew up with the sheer amount of text messages from

friends and classmates saying that we had made it. We arrived early to make sure my family

could get a good spot and for me to make sure my speech was placed inside the podium, waiting

for me. It wasnt until we got to my school that I realized in my nervous state, I had forgotten my

cap, medal, and cords. I had to call a friend to pick them up and then I thanked them profusely
Bolanos 25

for doing this for me. The day was a whirlwind but it also seemed to move no faster than at a

snails pace. I awaited the arrival of my group of friends. As they arrived, one by one, we all

hugged and helped each other put on our caps and gowns. Once the whole gang had arrived, we

attempted to take pictures. Most came out blurry and with us all laughing or crying. I ran around

with my best friends talking to family and friends. Words of encouragement were tossed at me in

every direction, for both my upcoming speech but also life in general. I was pulled aside time

and time again to talk about the past and the future. Finally, it was time to line up to walk in. As I

stood there, I could feel the familiar trickle of anxiety starting to bloom in my chest. I tried to

shove it down, jumping up and down and taking such deep breaths, like I wasnt sure when I

would come up for air next. I was near the front but not the very first so I could follow the lead

of my classmates. As I walked down the aisle to my seat, I focused on smiling, not tripping, and

making eye contact with the familiar faces in the crowd. I found my seat and as my best friend

moved to sit down behind me, we performed one of our legendarily embarrassing handshakes. I

sat through speeches made by the board of administration and then I knew the time had come.

The principal called out my name and I stood up. Everyone around me was yelling words of

encouragement and clapping me on the back. I could hear the hoots and hollering of the audience

and saw the standing ovations from some close friends. I quickly made my way to the podium,

praying I wouldnt trip up the stairs. As I stood up there and adjusted the microphone, it dawned

on me that I should wave. I gave off a dorky wave and said a booming hello. It was much louder

than I intended, making me take a step. I quickly apologized and began my speech with a laugh.

As I went on through my speech, I looked up at the audience. In those moments, I consciously

tried to remember them. I can still see the sea of people in front of me, smiling at me, flashes

from cameras, and the silly faces and thumbs up from my classmates. As I stood up there, I knew
Bolanos 26

everything was changing. I could feel the waves of nostalgia pounding me, threatening to drown

them. Yet, I felt like I was floating above it all like a mist. The future being a fog and I was

enveloped in it, becoming a part of it. I never thought I would make it to this moment, and here it

was, playing out right in front of me.

I finished with my speech and the audience roared with applause. I had the biggest smile

on my face, so much so, that my face hurt a little bit. I stepped down to my seat, floating on a

cloud. After that, I knew that I was going to be okay. Moving on from high school would hurt

and things wouldnt be the same, but I would be fine. Soon, it came time to walk across the stage

for my diploma. I stepped up with a new found confidence. I had a huge smile in all my pictures

and you could see the joy on my face. As I stepped off the stage, my teachers ran up and hugged

me and wished me the best for the future; they knew I would go far. My parents beamed at me as

I walked past them. I sat through the rest of the ceremony, yelling out encouragements to my

classmates as they received their own diplomas. Soon, the ceremony was over and people

streamed out the doors in droves. I ran around finding friends and family and taking pictures

with every person I passed. The day had given me such a high, but also brought with it a bone

deep exhaustion. It was a milestone that I will never forget.


Bolanos 27

Ticking Crocodiles

My future has always been something that I couldnt imagine fully. It never really seemed

like an attainable dream for me. I always had a plan for my career which would be interwoven

tightly with my personal life. However, the aspects of my personal life are unknown to me still.

My career goal is to become a neurologist, at least for now. To get to that point, I have to

go through fourteen years of education. I am going to graduate from UNO with honors in 2019

with a bachelors degree in neuroscience. My next four years I will attend medical school and get

my M.D. Afterwards, I will do one year of internship and two years of residency in a teaching

hospital. Finally, I will finish out my education with three years of a neurology fellowship. My

life will essentially be my career. I have no qualms about that. My career is something I would

love to spend everyday of my life doing, so the plan is to spend everyday of my life doing that.

When it comes to my personal life, thats up in the air. The image I have of my future is

always shifting and evolving. For medical school, I would love to go to a prestigious institution

such as Harvard or John Hopkins. However, the more logical choice would be to go to UNMC

here in Omaha because it would be more cost effective and I can stay close to my parents and

little brother. Im still unsure of where Ill go for medical school, but I have time to decide.

However for my internship and residency, it is recommended to go to the East or West coast to

learn how different areas of the US practice medicine. For my fellowship, Id like to go to a

teaching hospital located in an area where I would like to settle down. Preferably, I would like to

live in an area with warm weather but close enough to my family so they can visit. The thought

of children would dance around in my head, influencing my decision.


Bolanos 28

Starting a family has always been something I know I want, the only problem is when I

would do it. By the time I am done with my education I will be 32 years old which a little old to

have kids because of all the complications that are possible, especially with me being diabetic.

By the time I finish my schooling, Id like to be married. My husband will probably be a doctor

or work in the medical field since that is where I will spend most of my time. Ideally, he will be

older than me so that way we arent going through school at the same time. My husband will be a

tall handsome guy but he will be a bit nerdy like myself. He has to be smart but not in a way that

is obnoxious. We will have things in common like favorite books and movies but we will also

differ in some ways because I dont want to marry my clone. He will calm me when I get too

anxious and pump me up when I am feeling pessimistic. He will be patient when Im not and

comforting when my words come out cruel and sharp. While he will be all these things to me, I

will be those things for him as well, offering my best when he is at his own low point. I dont

imagine some epic love story, the kind you see in the movies, but just a normal love story of guy

meets girl and they fall in love. It will become one of my favorite stories to tell, filled with crazy

hand gestures and lots of laughs. I know for sure, that the man I marry will be someone I will

love with all my heart, making every dark thought I ever had about love not being real shatter

when I look at him.

With this man, I would have preferably two children, a girl then a boy. I dont know

where children fall into my timeline but I know I want some. Imagining having a tiny person in

the world who is a miniature version of you and the one you love, its so intoxicatingly

wonderful that I cant wait until that day comes. They would be clever and have their fathers

eyes. I pray that they wouldnt get my anxiety or depression or diabetes. As they grew up, I

would enter them into sports and music, activities I only wish my parents could have afforded to
Bolanos 29

put me in. As they got older, I would let them choose what activities they wanted to pursue but I

would enroll them into a wide variety so they got a taste of everything that the world had to offer

them. My parents would help me heavily in raising my children, because I obviously would still

not know what I was doing at that point. I hope my children would be kind and loving to others.

Theyd be clever and smart and hopeful. I may be describing the ideal for a child but thats what

I can imagine even though I know my kids will be far from perfect, just like me.

Throughout my life, Id also like to travel. I plan to study abroad during my time here at

UNO, ideally Europe because I havent been there yet. I also plan to travel back to my parents

home country of El Salvador to visit family often. My desire to travel will also intertwine with

my career. I want to do a stint with Doctors Without Borders, traveling to a foreign country

providing medical care for people who typically wouldnt get any. I dont have a preference over

where this would take me, although if it took me to a country that I didnt know the language, I

would love to learn the basics of that new language. Traveling and immersing myself in the

culture of a new place is something very important to me and I plan to do that until I die. My

retirement years will definitely be spent traveling.

Every night before I fall asleep, I imagine what the next day or the next few years will

bring me. Sometimes its a comforting thought and I fall asleep with a smile on my face. Other

nights its so terrifying that I stay up for hours trying to calm myself down. My future has always

been something that is just out of my reach and when it does come, Im shocked that its actually

here. The future is scary to me but I am hopeful that it will all turn out for the best.
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This Is Me

There is more to me than what I have written in this paper. Maybe someday, Ill sit down

and type out everything. Writing this paper has been an experience and I would honestly do it

again. Seeing how I have changed since I was little, everything I have overcome, it has been eye

opening. I only hope that I continue moving forward. I hope that in a few years, Ill still be alive,

and I can read through this again and admire how much has changed since this. These pages are

filled with my story. This is me. I hope its good enough. I hope Im good enough.

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