I think I learned my propensity for fear at an early age. My
first learning experience with my lack of invincibility came when I was five. I
was playing next door with a neighbor boy. I climbed on top of a chair so that
I could jump to a branch. The chair was one of those old metal framed folding
chair, the kind with the vinyl bands to make the back and seat of the chair.
Soccer moms were never without a set of them. We had at least a dozen in our
garage. They came out for everything. We brought them to my brothers’ soccer
games, Fourth of July celebrations, Air Shows, neighborhood bar-b-ques. We had
chairs for adults and chairs for kids. I pulled out one the little chair’s. I
hauled it over the tiny fence separating my parents’ yard from our neighbors
and stood it up below the branch I want to grab. I don’t know why I was trying
to grab this branch? Maybe I just wanted to hang on it, or I wanted to accomplish
the feat of touching it. The tree was too small for me to climb, so I know that
wasn’t the goal. But the mind of my five year old self is hard to figure out.
Anyway, I was all set to jump when my mom walked out of our house.
I saw my mom and panicked. I knew if she saw me on top of
this chair I was going to get a strong tongue lashing. In order to avoid being
yelled at, I jumped. My jump failed. White people cannot jump. To prove how bad
we are at jumping and anything jumping related (See: Basketball), the fates saw
fit to break my arm. I was in a cast for the rest of summer. Upside is that my
cast was hot pink and totally badass.
A few years later I was in the hospital getting ready to
have my appendix taken out. I was terrified that I might die. I was too young
to really understand what was happening and why it was necessary for the
doctors to cut me open. I begged my mom not to let them. Promised I would make
good grades and keep my room clean. I didn’t understand why I was sick. I felt
fine the day before, but now I was being prepped for surgery, my blood was
being drawn and I was sitting in a hospital gown. I remember seeing another kid
outside of the x-ray room. I don’t remember the gender, but I remember them
being younger than me. The kid was really sick, something more serious than
simply needing their appendix removed. My mom told me how scared that other
little kid was, and that an x-ray wasn’t a big deal, they don’t hurt so I needed
to put on a brave face to show this other child it would be okay. In the end,
it was okay. I had my appendix removed and I don’t miss it. I have a small
scar, but I think it adds character. Who needs tattoos when you have scars?
Next time I broke my wrist. I went to the skate deck with some
friends. My mom didn’t want me on roller blades because she told me they are
dangerous. People were breaking their wrists and arms, they were not safe. I
told her I wouldn’t get roller blades; I would just rent regular skates. When I
got to the skate deck, I saw everyone else on roller blades, so I paid the
extra dollar and rented them instead. I was spinning with a girlfriend, she let
go of me, I lost my balance and fell, hard. Broke my wrist. Fuck.
Then, a year later I decided to get back on roller blades.
My elementary school has a steep hill separating the upper and lower
playgrounds and the field. I decided to skate up and down this hill. Get some
speed up and then fall in the sand. Well, on my last run a friend thought it
would be funny to jump in front of me and move out of the way just before I
crashed into them. Kids are geniuses. I fell backwards and slid on my back all
the way down the hill. I was bleeding profusely. For some reason our music
teacher was on campus, even though it was a weekend. She found us and gave me a
ride to my house a few blocks away. I still wasn’t supposed to be on roller
blades, so I told my mom I was skating again. I am not sure why she believed
me, why I was ever allowed on roller skates again or why a few years later she
caved and finally let me buy a pair of roller blades. Nor am I entirely sure
why I thought I should keep getting on roller blades. Stupid.
I cannot count the number of times I have hurt myself doing
stupid things. I broke my other wrist ice blocking; I have sprained my ankles
more times than I can remember. From an early age I learned that actions have consequences
and we are not immortal. We are humans, we hurt and bleed and eventually die.
And while that is maybe a little dramatic and definitely morbid it has been a
thought that stays with me. I carry this with me in everything I do. I am
terrified of the consequences. I play them out in my head, I go over every detail,
I analyze every possible scenario.
That is why I am so hesitant and scared when my friends tell
me I should have a more honest blog or that I should start a website similar to
TFLN or SMDS, called Text From My Friends or something along those lines. Sure,
most of our conversations are absolutely hilarious, but they are not always the
most friendly or PC. Others say my soul mate and I should start a podcast, and
I agree. I think people would love to listen to our ridiculous rants and
conversations, but once again I worry about how many people we will offend.
Both of say some super racist things and talk trash about our family and
boyfriends and friends and coworkers. And while we love these people in our
lives, we need each other to vent when these people get to be too much to bear.
Part of me wants to bare it all on the Internet, leave myself exposed, I am not
sure the risk is worth the reward.
So, this is where I stand. I want to create an anonymous
forum for me to lay it all out there. Friends of mine have told me I should,
including friends with political aspirations. Yet, I am still completely hesitant.
Obviously I would not post this anonymous blog on my own social media. I would
need to find other anonymous ways of marketing it. But of course, if it does by
some miracle become popular, I know it won’t be long until people piece together
the puzzle. Even if I change names, the subjects will still know themselves and
could probably figure out some of the others. Therefore, I would be afraid of
being too honest. Dealing with the aftermath of secrets and lies is not a road
I want to travel.
