Blogception

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.