Bubblegirl in Austrialia

[Guest guest]

This is from a girl in Australia. I wrote to her some time ago when I

I read an article about her. She calls her problem allergies but it

is very interesting. I haven't read the chapters yet. So sad to see

the young living with this illness but she seems to handle it well.

Life in a Bubble

Season BubbleGirl, 24, has not left her home in eight years. She has

Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, a disease where the immune system

cannot tolerate common chemicals. Its result is deadly symptoms from

damaged T-cells and blood proteins.

BubbleGirl's newly-released autobiography, Absolute Individual: Life

In A Bubble, is set to change the way people view MCS and physical

disability. ''My experience can teach others how to be strong through

tragedy. By encouraging others, my journey feels more worthwhile. If

some chick can survive in a bubble happily, then anything's possible!

My life and home needed drastic changes, but through them I have

secured a quality of life. Any sacrifice is worth that! "

After four near-death experiences BubbleGirl was ordered to stay

home, in a controlled, segregated environment. The book tells of her

chemical accident and the eight years following. Home alterations,

self image, traditions, romance, faith, family and friendship are all

discussed in detail. BubbleGirl shares the changes in a gutsy,

humorous way.

" I can't just tell half the story! The reader is a trusted friend -

given every ounce of interesting (and sometimes embarrassing)

information. People knowing my every thought doesn't scare me; being

helpless in my bubble does. I want to reach and entertain with my

work for years to come. "

" I didn't spend my first sixteen years learning to write, only to

waste it, " she says. " Giving up now is not an option when I have only

just begun to inspire and help others. "

Despite her tragedy, BubbleGirl does not frown upon chemical

companies. She does not condone the banning of chemicals. " It's like

banning fishing because some people are allergic to shellfish, " she

says. " We cannot wipe out the entire species of bees, just because

some react to their stings. It's a matter of those allergic taking

care, and those of sound immune systems to continue their lives as

they are. "

FREE EXCERPT:

I've tried to write this book many ways. None pleased me. I was

writing to

everyone else?s expectations, not my own. How can I write a book that

captures my essence unless I write it my way?

Although the book may not compare to my literary heroes, V. C.

s or

Booth Tarkington, it will depict who I am. I'd rather fail as myself,

than

succeed being someone else.

S. BG

Chapter 1

Before the Accident

I'll begin before the accident because the person inside is who

counts.

I grew up in a semi-country area where everything was happy. Weekends

were

spent among tree branches with my brother. I played Legos, and he made

friendship bands, and we played dolls. We would sneak enough sweets

to make

us sick, sing to our favourite cassettes while on the swings every

Sunday

morning, and play-fight on the family room floor on the days unfit for

garden settings.

At school, I was alone with my books. I was too gruff to fit in with

the

girls. The boys wouldn't play with me because I was a girl.

I spent most of my childhood with my brother, who lead the boys to

play with

me later.

My brother remained in primary school when I started junior high

school.

Without him I had to push out bravely from my security to mix with

others.

A younger brat, whom I believed powerful, bullied me at school. His

slap

across my face with a pencil case and the acid on my seat were worth

the

price to hold onto my individuality. His round face, twisted with

cruel

satisfaction while I gained strength to stay myself, even though it

didn't

appear so then. Where is he now? Wherever, he probably has a long

string of

victims or has been put to shame and become one himself.

In year eight, an older girl named Tahnee told everyone I was her

cousin

because she didn't want initiations to befall me. Next I met Tara's

group,

who were the same as I, and they accepted my horse play and attitude.

Adoring Tara presented me with a friendship bracelet to remind me of

our

friendship before I went away.

My parents moved because nearby places reminded my father of his

almost-fatal car accident. I started the new school with little

distress

since my brother attended, also. I didn't fit in with the popular

kids, so

rebelled, stripping my hair of its colour, as an outward sign to

others who

wished me flat. The white-blonde hair was a stark change to my

original

brown. I was a boisterous, curvy girl of five foot five, whom most

peers

thought deserved no respect.

Together, my brother and I befriended other kids who didn't want to

change

to fit the required shape grouping instilled. My new friends included

a girl

with cerebral palsy, who was picked on, a girl with a cancerous lump

above

her ear, girls who dated and were called filthy names, and boys who

wouldn't

bully others to look cool.

In all of these new friends, I found beautiful people cowering

underneath.

We spent most of our lunchbreaks defending ourselves and each other.

As a

group, the bullying felt like a mosquito bite, rather than half-torn

apart

when alone.

In senior high school, leaving my younger friends and brother behind,

some

girls my age were kind to me. I was liked for whom I was, and my

colourful

stories kept them entertained. If there was a list for embarrassing

moments,

I would have been at the top! I was always falling over or saying

something

at the wrong time.

One girl, Sally, didn't like the attention grabbed. She wanted the

focus. My

stubbornness and Sally's silent jealousy resulted in a blow-up that

surprisingly helped her understand me. At the height of personality

clash,

she saw her faults and my objection to them. In an instant our

likeness were

what caused our peace instead of conflict. It takes a tiger to truly

understand another tiger!

I was a very bright girl without any confidence in my abilities. A

terrible

teacher for Maths had chiselled away at my faith. People with doubts

concentrate on those and not the task. I would cry over my books,

trying to

understand the exercises he'd never fully explain. It was so

difficult to

keep my A grade when the teacher didn't try to teach me. When I asked

questions, he'd say, " You can figure that out for yourself. " My

friend,

Callie, who didn't like the teacher either, taught me.

Why am I telling you this? People say I'm an inspiration now I'm an

adult.

Maybe I'm tough now but I wasn't in high school. Although I was

happy, my

life wasn't without problems.

After our before-school discussion, my friends and I walked as a

group to

home group and split off as we got to our classes. This was always

the most

entertaining part of the day. Pupils stared, pointed, and laughed

because I

dressed unusual. Amused to see pants worn under skirts, patterned

leggings

and stockings, bright lacy blouses, big boots, and chunky costume

jewellery.

During high school I changed during several events. The first was

meeting

Jack, who took my heart to a new level. The second happened in my

fifteenth

year, when I went through an abusive relationship. While I moped for

Jack, a

scoundrel found me. Such sweetness and romance this actor showed,

reeling me

in. On the third date he attacked: put-downs, threats to stop me

leaving

him, the blackmail to sleep with him.

I'd always scoffed at women in abusive relationships, yelling at the

TV,

" Just leave him! " Not anymore. He scared me with his threats, even

the one

to kill himself. No matter what I said to the contrary, I couldn't

leave

him. When he told me I was ugly, fat, stupid, or wearing the wrong

clothes,

I couldn't hear the voice inside me saying, " He's wrong. "

I remember every detail of our phone conversation on the November day

that

clarity appeared. Some girls at school had picked on my clothes.

Needing

support, I told him. Wrong!

" I agree with them, " he began. " You wear too much colour when you

should

wear more black and white. You've seen the photos of my ex -- dress

like

that. Cut your hair the same as hers. Of course, you won't be as

pretty

until you lose some weight. "

I turned around to look into the mirror of my dressing table. What he

said

faded into the background and I thought, I don't see ugly. I just

see me.

That night we had a date. Just another night to be treated as his

prisoner.

He arrived in his aloof manner just after seven. Once we were in

private,

the fiend broke from his gentle capsule. My body was given over to

him, for

refusing would cause verbal beating. There I lay, silent in the dark,

not

allowed to move, so he could think of his ex-girlfriend. He said it

was the

only way he could stand to be with me. The slightest movement or noise

caused a fight, which always happened.

The light turned on and he glared. I was the complete opposite to

her -

that's what angered him most. Our arguments were never yelling level,

but

his fierce tone was just as cruel.

" You aren't supposed to move. She never moved, " he scolded me.

" I'm sorry. What that girl at school said to me today really

upset me

and I don't feel like it tonight. "

" How can you expect me to support you? You know I've got things

to

worry about. It's your job to help me, " he told me.

I turned over crying, my body shaking with hurt. " This is a

relationship,

and I want support, too. "

He had no interest in my suffering. " I have no sympathy for you!

You're

meant to care for me, not yourself, you selfish . . . "

" I can't help who I am! I'm sick of being her! Why can't you

like me

for who I am? " I asked.

" Stop crying! You know not to cry in front of me. You aren't

going to

blackmail me that easily. "

" Blackmail you?! "

" It's not my fault you aren't slim or don't know how to dress.

You

aren't going to get sympathy from me. "

" Don't you love anything about me? " I waited as he looked over my

size-ten figure critically.

" Maybe I'd like your legs if they weren't so fat, " he commented

in his

vile tone.

I cried even more. He touched my shoulder to turn me over, and I

wondered if

this was the beginning of change. Maybe he had seen his errors, and

we would

begin a real love.

Instead he kissed me silently before continuing. I was expected to

stay

still and take it, a chore I often endured after an argument. This

time the

light stayed on, against usual practice. He insisted the light be

off, so he

could cover my identity with the imagination of her.

I felt emotionally exhausted from fighting, and my eyelids grew heavy.

" That's right. Fall asleep! " he hissed, waking me up. " Thanks

for the

encouragement! "

" I was just closing my eyes to enjoy it, " I lied.

Instead of yelling, he got up and dressed. Some women might have

found this

upsetting, but to me it was a regular occurrence. Once he was

satisfied, he

dressed and left.

I fell asleep, relieved because I had learned to defend myself. I

realised

he didn't love me. He loved the power he had over me. Sooner or later

he

would begin to punch me as he did his computer or furniture. I had to

get

out. Though I considered possible horrid consequences, leaving him was

easier than I thought. There, too, I learned another lesson.

I immediately told my parents. They hadn't known of the abuse and

most of it

was happening under their roof. They agreed with my decision.

When I confronted him, instead of an abusive conflict, he revealed his

powerless side. He said he wanted to split because he'd met someone

else.

What a convenient way for him to win! He was less powerful than I ever

thought.

" What happened? " my parents asked when I finished the phone

call. " Did

he fight to keep you? Did he threaten you? "

I sighed in relief. " No. He said he met someone else. "

My mum thought for a moment. " But I thought you said he was having it

off

with a friend of his before this? "

" He was, but he says that's the reason he's leaving. I think it's

because I stood up to him. "

Near the end of the school year, I had time to reflect what had

happened. I

didn't feel shame and disgust. I'd had classes at school about abuse.

I knew

it wasn't my fault, except for not having the strength to leave

sooner. I'd

found inner strength, which I harvested over the holidays.

The following school year was easier. I'd learnt to be happy with my

identity and to defend that. I still had my friends, and I was adding

new

ones. Maybe they'd finally seen my charm.

My only disappointment with the new year was another class with that

Maths

teacher. After two months of him, the deputy principal found me

crying about

it to my friends. The woman was well acquainted with me, having me in

her

Ancient Studies class.

" What's wrong? " she asked my friends.

I swallowed a sob to answer. " I'm not going to class. "

" Why not? "

" Mr. P. is too much for me. "

" What does he do? "

" He always lectures me about my confidence, and I'm sick of it.

I ask

for the flippin' answers, and I get his lectures about confidence. "

" When do you have him next? "

" Now, but I'm not going. Punish me for wagging if you want, but

I'm not

going. "

The motherly woman was surprised at my unusual outburst of

insolence. ?I'll

give you a pass to the library,? she said, ?but I want to see you

about this

later. "

The deputy principal took me out of English later that day for our

discussion. " What is going on? " she asked.

" Why don't you ask him how I am as a student? You'll see the

problem. "

" I want to hear your side, " she said simply, looking straight at

me.

Calmer, I explained. " I had him last year, and he caused me nothing

but

trouble, " I said, remembering the tears shed in the dusty

classroom. " Every

time I put my hand up for an answer, he came over and gave me a

lecture. I

want a math formula, not his opinions. He thinks I know the answer but

forget, lacking confidence. You had me for Ancient Studies. You know

I have

enough confidence. "

" Maybe you misunderstood? " she offered.

" You can see for yourself. Ask him what I'm like as a student,

and I

guarantee he'll start talking about my confidence levels within five

minutes. "

The next time she asked to see me, she changed my schedule. He must

have

shown his true colours.

Rosie was part of my next lesson. She was a passionate, talkative

person,

much like myself. Fellow students thought her boyfriend was

perfect

for Rose. I'd been introduced to him once.

Rose and split up, though nobody was told. When he called me

for a

date, I was dumbfounded. He had used my birthday as an excuse to ring.

, better known as Pat, and I arranged to go to the beach

together the

next afternoon.

On the way to Chemistry, the day after our beach rendezvous, Telia

nudged

me. " How'd the date go? "

" Shhh, " I replied. " We don't want Rosie to know, or it'd hurt her

feelings. "

" She already knows. I wouldn't have given him your number unless

I

thought Rosie would be okay with it. "

" How come you gave it to him anyway? "

" He came over specifically to ask for it. Him and Rosie broke up

two

months ago, so I thought it was about time he began to date again. "

Rosie confronted me the next day at school, her friend Peta with

her. " I

heard you're dating Pat. "

" What? " I asked, looking at her puzzled.

Rosie nodded her head to friends as we walked past them. " Don't

pretend. I

know all about it. You don't have to protect me. "

" We've only gone out twice. "

" I don't mind if you date him. He likes you. "

" Are you sure? " I asked.

" You weren't the reason we broke up. "

" I thought you'd feel weird around a classmate dating your ex. "

Rosie laughed; Peta too. " You know Peta's boyfriend? I used to date

him

before she did. We constantly swap guys! "

I smiled. " I'm glad there aren't any bad feelings, but I'll be sure

not to

talk about it in your company. "

and I started dating openly. He picked me up from school; and

it was

known that I belonged to him. Rosie's friends called out boyfriend

stealer

in the school halls.

Telia told them she gave my number and encouraged him. " If

Sea were

a boyfriend stealer, she would have gotten his number and called him

herself; she's not sneaky. "

Rosie should have corrected them, but she would walk with them and

pretend

it wasn't happening. These labels angered me. I wouldn't want a man

who

didn't choose to be with me! I told them so, but it didn't stop.

To my family and friends, my dating again was a good sign. They

didn't see

what I saw in black-haired bony boy. did thoughtful things

like

arrange picnics and take an interest in the things I did. Maybe his

nice

features meant more to me after my ex's abuse.

Absolute Individual: Life in a Bubble, Australian edition is avaliable

through Dymocks city stores throughout Australia (give them the ISBN:

1-9211-1837-7 and tell them the distributor is Zeus Publications). OR

buy it

direct online at www.poseidonbooks.com and it will arrive at your

door.

Absolute Individual: US edition is avaliable at Fultus.com, Amazon,

Amazon

UK, and Noble, and Target America. Plus thousands of other

stores

using ISBN, 1596820403

E-book editions are avaliable at Fictionwise.com and Amazon.