So, Where to Begin?

What in the world is a blog? A place to express your feelings, sure, help to complete tasks, maybe, keep you occupied; absolutely.

But what to write about? What makes me so important that others feel obligated to read the words I write, to log on just to see if Taylor has written something new?

Let's start at the beginning. Well, beginning-ish.

I was eight years old when my sister got that kidney from my mom. She had already been through chronic renal failure, pancreatitis, hip dysplasia, hallucinations and pain so severe a thirty year old man couldn't endure, let alone a twelve year old girl.

I learned young that it was best when Riley was sick to stay out of the way, be helpful, take care of four year old Jameson, quickly grab pillows and pills on those late night emergency runs to the hospital.

I'm fifteen years old now. Not even in drivers ed. Riley is a happy and healthy 19-year-old. You wouldn't even be able to tell she was sick at all. She's well on her way to Wheelock college in Boston, with an enormous amount of gratitude to my mother's amazing friend, Jamie, who paid well over 20,000 dollars for Riley to achieve her dreams of becoming a child life specialist.

Me? Well now that I got that whole thing out of the way...Let's talk about my oh so short life so far. I've been to Catholic school my whole life. Second grade I moved to a new school full of new excitements only an overeager 8-year-old can dream up. I was fearless, funny, and didn't give a damn what people thought about me.

Let's speed ahead to 6th grade, shall we? There are two homerooms per grade. I was separated from all of my friends, as I was in a separate homeroom. Being the social butterfly that I am, I opted for another outlet.

They were "that group." You know the one, where they own the place, run it as they should, giggle and gossip...all the usual pre-teen poplar crowd stuff. I was totally oblivious to this. And I bitterly regret the day I marched up to them and asked to join.

At first they were nice, ever so kindly suggesting that I go talk to the other girls. Me, being the oblivious, fearless, boneheaded girl I was then, politely declined and joined the group.

Of course they talked to me, with the teacher around. On the playground, it was a whole different story. One day, in the winter of 6th grade, one of the girls came up to me. She was their messenger. She smiled as she briskly walked over, her eyes never landing on me, but frequently flying to the other girls happily playing jump rope at the other side of the playground.

"Hey, Taylor. I was just wondering, have you noticed that we kind of don't want you hanging around with us? It's nothing against you. You just don't really fit."

Suddenly I felt like I'd been slapped. Fearless, crazy, confident Taylor was gone. Permanently, as I would find out later. I felt the lump rise in my throat, blinked over and over, pushing the tears back.

"Wha-what? No...I guess I hadn't."

The girl looked down. I could tell she despised doing this, but what could she do? If she disobeyed, she was out for sure.

"Oh. Well...I'm sorry, we just have our own circle of friends I guess. See you later."

And I stared after her, sat on the ground, and cried.

With that one small gesture, the Taylor me, my family, and all of my friends knew and loved, was completely erased.

We'll pause the story for now, I have some dinner to wolf down! But bright and early tomorrow, more is to come. I promise, if anyone is reading this.