10 Years

(I wrote this on September 27, 2016, and I liked it enough to share here. =3)

Ten years ago today, I woke up and decided whether or not I would play hookie from school. Yes, it was only September…yes, I was already feeling lazy about going to school. It was my senior year, give me a break. xD But even though we were going to do a bunch of lame stuff, I did want to participate in Drama class and see my boyfriend. So, I decided to go to school after all.

The sun was blazing in the sky that morning; it was a bright blood-red. I had never seen the sun be so beautiful before. I decided in that moment that if nothing else, I’d be glad I went to school and not back to sleep just because I got to see that gorgeous sunrise.

I didn’t know that this day would change my life until sometime during my morning English class, when a haggard-looking stranger whispered something to my teacher, sent her out, and closed the door. I won’t give a lot of details, but I will say two things: it was the first time in my life that I ever heard a gunshot, and later on, it was the first time that I really thought about the possibility of death.

When you’re 17, you think you’re invincible, but it was a very sobering day. I was weirdly calm through most of the day, and acutely aware that I was resigning myself to whatever would happen in the moments to come, accepting it and coming to terms with it. I did not cry a single drop thinking of my own mortality, but what I did think was “I wonder if my parents know how much I love them? I wonder if my friends know?” I regretted not sharing my feelings more. I regretted being so moody and aloof all the time like teenagers were. I’m not gonna lie, I was a bit of a douche when I was a teenager, and I thought about myself (read: agonized about myself) constantly. I rarely ever told my parents or my close friends how appreciative I was that they were in my life; I just kind of assumed that they knew it, and that I didn’t have to try very hard to remind them of that. But when I made it out of there, something profound had changed in me.

I didn’t cry at all that day–not as we waited in the ambulance in trepidation for updates on what was happening in the building nearby, not when I finally got to call my mom and have her pick me up, hearing her start to lose it as I told her what had happened (I do tear up thinking about it now though)–not until I watched the evening news and saw that Emily didn’t make it. I was at my boyfriend’s house for a little while (it seemed like he needed me the most at the time), but after that, I lost it. It was soul-crushing; it wasn’t fair. I remember that I kept repeating, “It’s not fair.” I went home and hugged my parents, and it was the first time I’d seen my dad look scared.

Even to this day, remembering those events and the ones that followed makes it feel like it just happened. For years, I avoided talking about it, mostly because my boyfriend at the time seemed more unnerved about bringing it up than I did, and I didn’t want to cause him pain. Unfortunately, this made it take a lot longer for me to actually start talking to people about it and start to move past it. To this day, I sometimes curse the side effects of this particular event–mild PTSD and anxiety (I never had panic attacks until after this happened), and occasionally I feel guilty about it. That’s right–because as tough as that experience was, I didn’t have to lose a sibling, or a best friend, or a daughter. Millions of people in this country, and millions more across the world, experience heartache and trauma on a much larger scale, and sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve for it to still affect me, ten years later.

Last year, I met a beautiful man who I shared some of this experience with, and he told me that I should never be ashamed of struggles I’ve faced or how they affect me, because good or bad, these experiences shaped me into who I am today (and according to him, I was pretty great). Most of the time, I still try not to talk about it. I feel mad at myself sometimes and ask myself why I can’t just get over it, why I can’t just talk about it without my throat tightening and my voice shaking. I remind myself again that other people (such as the one who gave me this advice) have experienced war, watched people die firsthand…but you can’t really compare things like that. We each face our own struggles, and they affect us profoundly.

And he’s right–that experience is now part of who I am; I can’t imagine what I might be like if I had decided to stay home. And there is always a silver lining; that day, I started being more open with my feelings. I watched a community reach out to each other, and strangers gave me all sorts of things–many bibles, a scarf, an envious collection of blankets, handwritten notes of well-wishes–out of the kindness of their hearts, caring about me when I had never even met most of them. And that was dumfounding to me. I began to be more empathetic to people’s situations. I didn’t make fun of people as much (in my mind I mean–I was never a bully. xD), and instead I try to imagine what they might be facing in their own lives. I try to find a good quality in everybody, even if I can’t stand them.

I have come face to face with my mortality, and I realized that life is extremely short, and it should be lived to the fullest, without fear of the future or messing up. Just go for it, do what you think is right, and always allow kindness to be in your heart.

If you made it through this whole thing, thank you for reading! I love you guys.

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The Baby Smith Egg

I was reading a strange and hilarious story that reminded me of my childhood and one of my own strange experiences, and I thought to myself…I will tell others about this, so that they may judge me. xD I wanted to write something a bit more light-hearted.

 

I would include a picture of what I’m talking about, but it’s apparently so weird and out of character for humans that not even GOOGLE could find a picture. It shamed me a little. So instead I’ll just tell you the story.

Once upon a time, when I was 10 years old, I had a brilliant idea. My family and I were celebrating Easter, and of course an Easter egg hunt was involved! To be honest, it was never much fun because I’m an only child, and hunting for eggs by yourself in your own yard without any competition just feels kind of silly. The pro was that since we lived in the mountains, crows would pick up the eggs that I couldn’t find the next day, and watching them take off with this huge, brightly colored object–acting INCONSPICUOUS about the fact that it was hot pink or orange or blue–was amusing.

We were dying eggs, as per the norm, and then I had found in the pot of one of the fake plants in our house, an Easter egg! From like two years ago. The boiled egg was so old that the yolk was rattling violently against the inside of the shell. I remember that I had wanted to keep it because it looked like the planet Earth by complete accident. Can you believe it…two years old, and this egg was in great shape, AND didn’t stink!

It was from this realization that I decided I would make more of them. I would keep my hard-boiled eggs as pets. The first would be called Baby Smith.

(I feel like an idiot writing this, please don’t judge me.) The ‘Smith Eggs’ became so involved that they had their own hierarchy history, from the Princess Egg, who was the smallest and brightest shade of pink, brighter than any of the other Easter eggs, that was maliciously murdered by my cat when I left the room for 5 minutes, to the foreigner named Pepito and his wife’s tragic hot tub accident during their honeymoon, and all the eggs in between.

My favorite was Eggis Presley. I had glued a black feather to his head that looked like a pompadour, at least to me (and was SUPER enticing to said murderous cat). He was a rock legend; all the other eggs loved him.

And then…it happened.

The cat struck again in the dead of the afternoon, batting Eggis around violently a few times and then leaving. Eggis was broken and scarred, but THERE WAS HOPE. I did what only seemed like a good idea at the time and pasted white-out over his wounds to keep him alive. I put him in a tiny music box (egg-sized) and hooked him up to a drawing of a heart monitor with a piece of yarn. 

My cat struck again…while Eggis was recovering in the hospital. It was very tragic, and we knew that it was his time. My mom erased the line I had drawn on his heart monitor and replaced it with a flat line. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The next day, we had a lovely service for him and buried him betwixt two pines in the front yard, with a cross over his grave. Those damn crows dug him up only a few hours after and carried him away.

 

I mean really, you can’t make this kind of thing up. xD There were a few others that followed, including sports/eggball legend Baby Jumbo, who was…uh…allergic to the ‘flu immunization’ my best friend and I gave him with a sewing needle, and he exploded. Pepito got ran over by a Legos bus after he fell out of it (possibly drunk) on his way home from college. His wife, who had died in the aforementioned hot tub incident, was tragically misaligned with a freak knee accident (my best friend got out of the hot tub, I held her out and asked ‘Can you hold this a minute?’ and she accidentally flung the egg into the air with her knee). I wrote all of this history down in a tiny, one-inch tall book, in size 2 font, for the ‘other eggs to read.’ 

Eventually, my best friend and I got over this and moved on to our next weird thing (hamster parties), but uh…yeah.