Yeah, it's that time of month again.
The other day, I was lying next to my mom on her bed, talking to her before she went to sleep, and she was sitting up next to me, back against a stack of pillows, taking a sip from a glass of wine every once in a while. She started to talk to me about colleges. I wasn’t too excited about that, because honest-to-god, I don’t care where I go, I’ll make myself happy wherever I end up. It kills me inside whenever I see kids worrying so much, wasting so much precious time and effort over all this college bullshit. If I thought I could win people over by just saying that, though, believe me, I wouldn’t have waited this long. Back to my story, though.
So, I’m lying there, my bored eyes drifting around the room while I pretended to pay attention. I listened to every word she said, of course, partly out of respect, and partly because it was more interesting than just staring at her curtains. There’d been a meeting of some sort at the school that night. I started to mentally grit my teeth, to prepare for a long pseudo-lecture that I wasn’t going to take much away from one way or another. Life has a way of not pitching how you expect, even if you’ve got your eyes open for curve-balls.
Even so soon after, I don’t remember exactly what she said.
“I never thought I’d be here now,” maybe.
“I never thought I’d have to deal with this college stuff,” perhaps.
“I never thought I’d get to deal with this college stuff,” more likely.
Then, “I never thought you’d last this long.”
Definitely, choking back a tear, “I mean, I thought you’d be dead before middle school.”
Then I was holding her hand, as much for my own well being as for hers, I think. There was some shock, obviously. Not a lot. Perhaps not as much as you’d think when your own mom tells you that she expected your life to be over before you’d finished your first year of double digits, before you ever went trick or treating without an adult, before you ever got a real report card, before you ever got your first high school credit, before your first dance, your first kiss, your first job, your first car, before you ever even learned to drive. When the person who gave you life tells you that she expected you to be gone before you ever even had any memories that you were scared to death of losing, shock is assumed.
Maybe I wasn’t as shocked as most people would have been.
Maybe that’s because I’m not most people, though.
**
I don’t know how many times I’ve almost died, how many times I’ve lingered at the edge of death, knocking on its door for who knows how long before telling whatever sent me there that there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was done and gone yet. I don’t know how many times I’ve fought my way back from the brink, not because I’m brave, but because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t give up because I was just too stubborn and thick-headed to accept the fact that playtime was over.
What I do know, though, is that it’s a goddamn miracle I’m alive. I know-- oh boy, do I know-- that I should be dead. In terms of probability, in terms of odds, I’m sure I should’ve died a few hundred times over. I know, even if I do forget it sometimes, that every day of my life is a fucking gift.
I forget it, sometimes, I really do. I forget how lucky I am, I get caught up in the everyday worries of being a teenage high-schooler, and I suppose that’s forgivable. She reminded me, though, those words reminded me more vividly than I’ve been reminded in a long time.
No one expected me to get this far. Everything I do, every second I do something, every second I do nothing, every meal I eat, every joke I tell, every person I make smile or laugh; those are all fucking bonuses. They’re extra.
This isn’t borrowed time. This time is mine. This time’s ours.
**
In a few months, I’ll be sixteen.
I was supposed to be dead-- dead in a coffin and buried-- when I was eight.
“It seems so pointless to me, you know?” She laughed a little bit, taking another sip of her wine, tears slowly running down her reddening face, “All of these parents are so freaked out about their kids getting into the perfect college, and me?” She looked at me, a tear rolling into the crease of her smile, “My baby is going to college.”
I squeezed her hand, the words “my baby” meaning so much more to me now than they did that morning, when they were just another little cutesy thing that bothered me a little bit.
**
Do we still have to do all that college bull? Yeah. Is it any less of a pain in the ass? Not really. Does it matter if I don’t get into [insert college of choice here], in the big picture? Not in the slightest.
I don’t think I need to spell this out for anyone.
I don’t think I need to waste any more of anyone’s time.
Get it?
**
Maybe you already know this, though.
Maybe your parents just won’t get off your case. So? Print this, give it to them, maybe some emotion can win them over where plain-old logic can’t, just do whatever it takes to make sure that you don’t waste too much time worrying about the future, because, corny as it may sound, you could be dead tomorrow.
Maybe you’ll live, though. Maybe you’ll double, triple, quadruple, [prefix here]-le your life expectancy, who knows? I don’t, you don’t, no one does, and it doesn’t matter.
Because it’s true, what they say: these years are the best of your life, if you make them.
The best part about that sentence is that it doesn’t matter when you read it. If you read it twenty years from now, it’ll still be true.
That’s the beauty of being alive.
So, I’m lying there, my bored eyes drifting around the room while I pretended to pay attention. I listened to every word she said, of course, partly out of respect, and partly because it was more interesting than just staring at her curtains. There’d been a meeting of some sort at the school that night. I started to mentally grit my teeth, to prepare for a long pseudo-lecture that I wasn’t going to take much away from one way or another. Life has a way of not pitching how you expect, even if you’ve got your eyes open for curve-balls.
Even so soon after, I don’t remember exactly what she said.
“I never thought I’d be here now,” maybe.
“I never thought I’d have to deal with this college stuff,” perhaps.
“I never thought I’d get to deal with this college stuff,” more likely.
Then, “I never thought you’d last this long.”
Definitely, choking back a tear, “I mean, I thought you’d be dead before middle school.”
Then I was holding her hand, as much for my own well being as for hers, I think. There was some shock, obviously. Not a lot. Perhaps not as much as you’d think when your own mom tells you that she expected your life to be over before you’d finished your first year of double digits, before you ever went trick or treating without an adult, before you ever got a real report card, before you ever got your first high school credit, before your first dance, your first kiss, your first job, your first car, before you ever even learned to drive. When the person who gave you life tells you that she expected you to be gone before you ever even had any memories that you were scared to death of losing, shock is assumed.
Maybe I wasn’t as shocked as most people would have been.
Maybe that’s because I’m not most people, though.
**
I don’t know how many times I’ve almost died, how many times I’ve lingered at the edge of death, knocking on its door for who knows how long before telling whatever sent me there that there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was done and gone yet. I don’t know how many times I’ve fought my way back from the brink, not because I’m brave, but because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t give up because I was just too stubborn and thick-headed to accept the fact that playtime was over.
What I do know, though, is that it’s a goddamn miracle I’m alive. I know-- oh boy, do I know-- that I should be dead. In terms of probability, in terms of odds, I’m sure I should’ve died a few hundred times over. I know, even if I do forget it sometimes, that every day of my life is a fucking gift.
I forget it, sometimes, I really do. I forget how lucky I am, I get caught up in the everyday worries of being a teenage high-schooler, and I suppose that’s forgivable. She reminded me, though, those words reminded me more vividly than I’ve been reminded in a long time.
No one expected me to get this far. Everything I do, every second I do something, every second I do nothing, every meal I eat, every joke I tell, every person I make smile or laugh; those are all fucking bonuses. They’re extra.
This isn’t borrowed time. This time is mine. This time’s ours.
**
In a few months, I’ll be sixteen.
I was supposed to be dead-- dead in a coffin and buried-- when I was eight.
“It seems so pointless to me, you know?” She laughed a little bit, taking another sip of her wine, tears slowly running down her reddening face, “All of these parents are so freaked out about their kids getting into the perfect college, and me?” She looked at me, a tear rolling into the crease of her smile, “My baby is going to college.”
I squeezed her hand, the words “my baby” meaning so much more to me now than they did that morning, when they were just another little cutesy thing that bothered me a little bit.
**
Do we still have to do all that college bull? Yeah. Is it any less of a pain in the ass? Not really. Does it matter if I don’t get into [insert college of choice here], in the big picture? Not in the slightest.
I don’t think I need to spell this out for anyone.
I don’t think I need to waste any more of anyone’s time.
Get it?
**
Maybe you already know this, though.
Maybe your parents just won’t get off your case. So? Print this, give it to them, maybe some emotion can win them over where plain-old logic can’t, just do whatever it takes to make sure that you don’t waste too much time worrying about the future, because, corny as it may sound, you could be dead tomorrow.
Maybe you’ll live, though. Maybe you’ll double, triple, quadruple, [prefix here]-le your life expectancy, who knows? I don’t, you don’t, no one does, and it doesn’t matter.
Because it’s true, what they say: these years are the best of your life, if you make them.
The best part about that sentence is that it doesn’t matter when you read it. If you read it twenty years from now, it’ll still be true.
That’s the beauty of being alive.