Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2013 19:20:48 GMT
orla sinead fitzpatrick ,
full name: Orla Sinead Fitzpatrick
nicknames: Orlie, Ors, Fitz
age: Twenty-three.
birthday: February 13.
education: Studied sports medicine.
occupation: Model | Personal trainer
marital status: Single.
current city: London, England.
hometown: London, England.
parents: Martin & Nora (deceased) Fitzpatrick.
siblings: n/a
other: beeker, jack russell terrier.
January 1, 2006
The New Year was celebrated in Camilla's basement. It was tradition, the six of us had spent countless New Years in the comfort of each other. We were at ease, taking in the warmth of the fireplace, while we babbled on and on without any sense. Someone stole chocolate candies filled with gooey liquor, and for the first time in our young lives we had been allowed to fill our flutes with actual champagne rather than the usual fizzy ginger ale. When midnight came, we wrapped our arms around each other in a joined hug and swayed with enthusiasm while signing Auld Lang Syne. We acted stupid, and drunk, though we were hardly. I remember forcing Alexi and Cillian to slow dance, standing on the pool table while sharing a Britney Spear's song with Cam and Raya, and sitting in the closet with Jake having a stupid conversation about how furbies would eventually take over the world. When everyone else fell asleep, I drifted between life and a nightmare, and eventually decided to call my mum to pick me up.
It's funny how I remember so much about that night, but I barely remember the accident. The things I do know are so factual, you probably read them in the newspaper. We were hit coming home, it was approximately 2AM. A man named Gerard Dubois pushed us off the road, through the guardrail and into a ditch. He was twenty years old, and heavily intoxicated. I can recall feeling my clothes become wet with blood, and shards of glass pressing into my skin. But I don't remember the song that played on the radio, the crash of the car as it crushed into foil, the squeal of the tires, or my mothers screaming as she died. In the back of my head I thought I heard sirens, coming to the scene an hour later, the rest is a thick fog.
I didn't know how long it had been when I woke up. My father's hands cupped mine, and my blackened eyes noticed his were red from crying. When I tried to talk it hurt, it took me a moment to notice there was a tube shoved down my throat. The rest of my body was in agony; bruised, battered, red with sores, my shoulder and my knee swaddled in cotton. My dad, he was so sweet and careful at first, explaining that I had been out for a week in an induced coma, that I had had internal bleeding. Then he quickly deteriorated, telling me he was so glad I was going to be okay, and that he was afraid that he would lose me too. That's when I knew, my blank stare disguising the terror that filled me, my throat tightening around the straw. My doctor came in and repeated that I had intensive surgery. I had once had a promising career in sports, but that ended when he said my knees had damage, I would need to do physiotherapy. In that moment I didn't care. This news was mist compared to the hurricane of my mother's death.
I delivered my mother's eulogy in a neck brace and supported by crutches. I was straight-faced, and solemn, for the first time in my life I was quiet. I spoke about her strength, and selflessness, how I hoped I could be half the woman she was. In my head, I honestly didn't think I deserved sympathy, so it wasn't something I accepted. When my friends asked about it, I put on my biggest smile and told them I was fine. I didn't deserve tears, so I barely cried. I aided in my mother's death, or I think I did. So while I was filled with saddness, self-hate, and guilt, I encosed it.
2006 was the biggest year of my life, in many ways. In the first four months I spent a lot of time in the hospital, rehabbing my one knee. I'd spent a good majority of my childhood in the gym, dedicating my time to gymnastics and missing out on a good chunk of fun... the year before I'd become a Olympic hopeful, I'd choose practicing on the bars over formals with my friends. They'd whine about it, I don't think they understood that it wasn't a chore. It was my sport, I loved to do it, I would give anything to be able to do it again. I was good at it, it was my confidence, and my rock. The doctors gave me hope, but it was only hope, that slipped through my fingers. I tried so hard to make it work, but my leg had too much damage, and that September I was forced to give it up. It broke my heart; losing my mother then losing the only thing I loved.
I had planned my future on being a gymnast. I would go to the Olympics, and when my career was over, I'd train others. I wouldn't go to school, as why would I need to? My back-up was non-existent, I obviously didn't intend on an injury. When it the accident happened, and I realized my dreams were no longer reachable, I was horrified. I felt like a fish on dry land, fluttering and splashing on the concrete like i lost myself. No one could begin to understand, I never blamed them for that... I was envious at their undisturbed paths. Everything had been snatched from me
Getting that modelling contract gave me purpose. I was sitting in a coffee shop, studying as I had to build a new future on something, and she approached me. That's how it started. I was drowning, and this was my life preserver.. Which sounds stupid, but at that point it was all I had. I was given something, and I built a life on it. I posed, they shot, and it blew up.
2006 was huge. It was devastating, soul crushing, and then renewal. It was shedding old skin, and revealing myself as I am now. Falling, and standing back up. I thought I'd lost it all, but really it was just life showing me I could be more, that I wasn't defined by my career choice. I really did find myself that year, I found my backbone and my strength.
Latest work
In the opinion of a loved one, "Orla is one of the sweetest people you'll ever come across. Charismatic, and beautiful, she has the ability to make you feel important even if she has just met you. You find yourself spilling your soul to her, and she'll just nod like she understand, and she cares. I love that she doesn't take herself too seriously; she'll be the first one to stand up and do karaoke, bust out a goofy dance move, or have a giggle fit over a knock knock joke. It's hard not to love her."
In the opinion of an enemy, "The least genuine person you'll ever meet. She has a quick temper, that comes into play when you least expect it. Dramatic, is one way to describe her. She uses her good looks to her advantage, and you can tell.. always the fucking girl that everyone wants, but rarely gets."
In the opinion of myself, "I'm dishonest, judgmental, and pretty. It's a lethal combination."
CIARA , LONDON , CANDICE