Alive: A Journey to Redemption

By Paige Turner

The first book in The Redemption Series — Seventeen year old blogger, Vinnie Olesen, spends way too much time with her head buried in books and not nearly enough time communicating the feelings she has to those around her, causing her to explode like a bottle rocket. Will she come out on top or will she give in to the urge to give up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paige Turner
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999534226

Book preview

Alive: A Journey to Redemption

ALIVE: A Journey to Redemption

✦ ✦ ✦

ALIVE:

            A Journey To Redemption

Paige Turner

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2018 by Paige Turner

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This book is purely fictional. Any resemblances to actual persons — living or dead — are completely coincidental.

Jenga is a registered trademark of Pokonobe Associates

First Printing: 2015

ISBN: 978-1-9995342-0-2 (paperback, revised edition)

ISBN: 978-1-9995342-2-6 (ebook, revised edition)

Paige Turner

84 Oakville Avenue, Apartment 215 London, ON N5V 2S5

aramblerinbloom.wordpress.com

DEDICATION

To the patient: Auntie Kim, Burke, Mom, Alyssa, and Jessica, you guys are absolute rockstars

To the ones who believed in me: Daniel, Quintin, Keeley, Brandon, thank you!

To the love of my life: Emily, I couldn’t have done it without your support

And to the bands that inspired this book: too numerous to name, but I will be forever grateful for the impact the music’s had on me

PROLOGUE

Life is like a game of Jenga.

Most games start with a pretty solid foundation — like a kitchen table or the living room floor — but some games are played on a wobbly TV tray on a bumpy road in an RV on your summer vacation, and regardless of how doomed it feels, if you’re interested enough in the game, you’ll play with what you have.

All games are essentially played the same though, no matter where your tower was built.

Players start pulling at your blocks from the moment you can stand on your own, from the kids in kindergarten calling us stupid face to the first person to ever call you beautiful.

Every single person we encounter takes something from us and in turn they leave something behind, and those things either build us up or break us down.

Personally, I was a kitchen table tower. The odds were in my favour, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter where you start. And it doesn’t really matter how high, or how strong your tower appears to be because everybody’s game ends the same way; just a bunch of scattered pieces on the floor.

Some games just last a little longer.

✦

I don’t know how long I’ve been watching cars drive in and out of Chappling now, but I watched the sun fade from gold to pink and then give way to the moon, and I felt the chill replace the warmth in my lungs, and I’m sure now that this is the way my game will end; not with a misplaced block or an accidental elbow to the table, but because I’m just so tired of playing the game.

I stand up, brush the snow off my jeans, and step toward my fate. A bright yellow light swallows my vision, and a horn sounds to urge me back to safety, but I pay no heed to its warning. Then all I see, feel and hear is darkness.

✦ ✦ ✦

CHAPTER ONE

JANUARY 24th

Posted by: VinnieTalks

This post is a review of: nothing (personal post)

My rating: see end of post

If you came looking for my review on the new GASPINGFORAIR album, you’ve come to the right place at the wrong time.

Unfortunately I had to postpone that review until I get home due to one little hitch; I haven’t actually heard the new album yet.

Tell me, friends, when has GFA let us down in the fifteen years they’ve been making music? The correct answer is never. But, I will still make a proper review as soon as possible.

If you came looking for details on where I’ve been this month, you’re in the right place at the right time.

My mom said there are some wild stories going around town about what happened, and she didn’t feel comfortable sharing what happened without my permission so I thought I’d clear things up quick.

The rumours:

1. I was attacked by:

A.) The panther that escaped the Wessbergen zoo.

B.) A troll under the River Street bridge.

C.) Some thugs after school.

All of the above options are sadly false. They’d make for better stories than the truth I’m going to share in this post, but alas, the truth must be told.

2. I dropped out of school to focus on my music.

This is technically false, but since we’re on the subject, you can buy my Totally Real mixtape here (link unavailable)

3. The police escorted me to the psychiatric hospital in the middle of a violent mental breakdown.

This is also false, but we’re getting closer to the truth now.

I’m not entirely sure how I got here, but it’s true, I’ve spent the last month in the Briggstin Psychiatric Hospital.

Wait, what? Why? I can hear your questions already, and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to answer them, but it’s harder than you might think it would be.

How do you condense four years of pain, plus a month in the hospital into a relatively short blog post? I’m going to do my best, but I can’t make any promises on the length of this baby.

Maybe you’re thinking, If it’s so hard to talk about, why don’t you take it easy and scroll WorldsWeirdestBloggingSite like the rest of us? Take some time to catch up on the things you’ve missed. In time, it’ll probably get easier and you can talk about it when you’re good and ready.

Yeah, all right, I know that’s wishful thinking. Nobody’s thinking that other than me, but I’ll respond to my caring imaginary friends anyway: the hospital has an intense web filter and most of the content is this stupid site is b l o c k e d. You guys are some kind of messed up.

I guess I have no room to talk considering where I am right now, but some of you should also consider seeing a psychiatrist; it probably wouldn’t hurt.

Anyway, I figured since I can’t enjoy myself on the Internet, I should get to what everybody’s actually thinking: Vinnie! Tell us what’s going on!

At this point I’m sure you’re probably annoyed with my stalling tactics, but I’d just like to make note that it doesn’t get any easier to talk about; not after hours and hours of therapy, not after late night talks with the nurses that held your hair back when your migraines made you vomit, not even after far too many hours in group therapy. It doesn’t get any easier.

These past four years have been hard, but August to December were especially bleak, and I stopped seeing a point in living — if I’m being honest, I guess I still don’t, but I’m working on it now.

I’d like to believe you’re all smart enough to connect the dots, but I’ve gone to high school with a lot of the people that are certain to read this, so I’ll go ahead and finish this picture for you.

I attempted suicide.

All right, maybe it’s not as much of a shock to you as it was to me.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but despite the fact that I spent four years thinking about death, actually taking that step was unthinkable to me, until I did it.

You see, death was a comforting thought for years; I obsessed over methods and the things I’d say in my note, and who I’d send the note to, and where I’d do it. It was so easy to escape in my head to a world where Vinnie Olesen didn’t exist, and it was wonderful.

I hate myself.

There’s a huge difference between thinking and doing though, and I never really thought I’d do it. I don’t think anybody understands that unless they’ve been there themselves, and I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

Something changed inside me the day after Christmas. My What If? switch got flipped to the Do It setting, and before I even knew what was happening, I was standing on the side of the road taking steps I never truly thought I’d take.

Don’t buy what they tell you in the movies. Suicide is not brave. It’s not glamourous. It’s not something to fantasize about or strive for.

I’ve been through a lot of pain in my life, but my attempt was physically and emotionally the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, and the aftermath hasn’t been great, either.

This is the part of the post where I should tell you about my stay in the hospital, but between my injuries and the new medication I honestly don’t remember anything about the first fifteen days I was here, so I’ll just do my best to fill you in on the parts I do remember.

These last two weeks have been pure misery, coated in the meanest kind of torture, wrapped in dog poop, hand signed and delivered by Satan himself.

All right, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement, but it hasn’t been peaches and sunshine, either.

Group Therapy was probably the highlight of the whole experience, mostly because it was a joke. J-o-k-e, joke!

Nobody talked about their problems in Group Therapy. We made up fake ones to see who could come up with the best story and win our twisted game of Topsies, or we vowed our silence at breakfast and stuck to it until the doctors dismissed the group with no progress made.

After Group Therapy there was Creative Healing, which is just as lame as it sounds. We worked on decoupage projects, dipped our own candles, painted canvases with our fingers, and made clay depictions of our pain for an hour and a half every day.

That might’ve been my favourite part if the art therapists hadn’t gotten mad at me for for painting whole canvases black and turning my blocks of clay into lifeless blobs, meant to represent the nothingness I felt inside me. They said it showed lack of effort, and they threatened to keep me involuntarily for another month if I wasn’t willing to try harder.

Try harder, I did. From that point forth I made cracked clay hearts and painted dull rainbows on every single canvas they put in front of me, hoping I’d fly under the wellness radar for the last few days of my first term and they’d let me go home.

And despite the fact that the canvases and blocks of clay in my head are still as black and lifeless as ever, I’m on my way home today.

My therapist says I’m one of the lucky ones in terms of post-attempt side effects, but nothing about this feels lucky.

In the past month I’ve experienced awful migraines and random blackouts, among other symptoms. The doctors prescribed a couple different medications to stabilize me, but wait! The side effect drugs all had side effects of their own, and those were almost as fun to deal with as the original side effects; migraines, dizziness, lethargy, suicidal thoughts, plus nausea and vomiting.

Then came the anti-depressants, along with an anti-anxiety medication, and with those medications came more suicidal thoughts and migraines! Ooh, yay! My favourite!

Obviously I’m being sarcastic. If I didn’t want to die before I came to the hospital, whoo boy! But again, I’m working on that now.

So, if you’ve wondered where I’ve been this month, I’ve been doing this. Living in constant pain and trying to pretend I’m getting my life together.

Anyway, I hope this cleared up the majority of your questions because I’m done talking about it. When you inevitably see me out and about again, please save yourself the breath and save me the time, and don’t ask. The only thing you’re going to get out of me is a link to this blog.

As promised, my review: negative twenty-seven stars out of ten. I would not recommend this to anyone under any circumstances, ever. Not even my worst enemy. Not even if you killed my mother.

Over and out,

Vinnie

The publish button turns from green to grey as the server processes my request to make the post public, then the editing screen fades into a never ending feed of grey ‘uh oh! Content blocked!’ boxes. This site is useless even when it’s not blocked, but especially when it is.

Panic and dread hit all at once when it settles in that everyone can see what I’ve written today if they so choose, but I know if I didn’t put it out there, I know I’d never be able to go out in public again. I couldn’t deal with the questions and leering glances I’m sure to get back in Chappling if I didn’t at least have somewhere to redirect people.

✦ ✦ ✦

I’m a little surprised when I look up at the clock and see that it’s almost noon already. It took nearly two hours to write my post, but I guess it makes sense. I fumbled with my words for what seemed like forever, and I second guessed everything I said and how it might be perceived by others for just as long.

It’s one thing to say you hate an album that everybody seems to love, and I can boldly say that I am disgusted by the actions of a beloved celebrity on my blog with no hesitation or fear of backlash, but it feels different knowing that the feedback from this post will come to me, about me.

Maybe I shared too much; maybe I should’ve taken the easy way out and told everyone I was attacked by the troll under the River Street bridge after all. My injuries would cooperate nicely with that story, and I could explain the headaches away with a ‘it clubbed me in the head!’, but I chose to tell the truth. It feels stupid now and I’m tempted to delete the post, but in my heart I know I made the right decision.

Then again, maybe it’s not too late to write and record a mixtape. It probably wouldn’t be very good; it’s been years since I wrote my own music, but I don’t think anybody expects GASPINGFORAIR levels of