To deny the past is to deny the future. A man does not make his destiny: he accepts it or denies it. If the rowan's roots are shallow, it bears no crown.
– The Farthest Shore Ursula K. Le Guin
I've been cleaning, going through my old books. My old journals. My old highschool year books.
My ten year reunion is this year. In a few months. And I've been worried about how I stack up against my peers. According to facebook, some are doctors. Others teach music. They have succeeded in their fields of excellence.
And I read through those comments left behind ten long, long, years ago. Promises to “always keep in touch.” and phone numbers to places that don't exist anymore.
I'm not who I was, but I'm very much a product of those years.
All the bleeding (both actual and metaphorical)
All the bad choices.
All the hatred and presumed love.
All the cries for help that fell on deaf ears.
All the cries for help I didn't know I was screaming.
If I could go back in time, I know things would be different. That I would have gotten help earlier. That I would have been diagnosed with being bipolar. That skeletons in my parents' closets would come out sooner. I would have learned how to be whole earlier.
But I wouldn't be who I am.
I wouldn't have learned the hard way that love can hurt more than anything.
That it can burn.
That it could throw another person down a flight of stairs.
I wouldn't know how to pick up my own pieces.
I wouldn't know how broken I truly was.
And if I did when I was sixteen, seventeen? What? I would have gone to the hospital and rumors would have spread that I was crazy. Other kids wouldn't understand. The teachers might, but... stigma.
I wouldn't be the same, for better or for worse.
I wouldn't be strong enough to know how strong I am.
Or that love doesn't mean black eyes or bruised thighs.
That love is having someone tell you a bedtime story over the phone,
or rubbing your head until you fall asleep.
Ten years is a very long time.
But I don't regret it. I don't deny it. It's there.
Here's to the future.
