Lesson #5: Appreciate the Time

TIME. Something people claim they never have enough of. Something people wish to pass by. Time is defined as a measurable period during which an action or process exists. It is also defined as an appointed, fixed, or customary moment for something to happen, begin, or end. Time is unpredictable.

The time was 1:31 p.m. When I left Pittsburgh that day, I was to attend a funeral. Someone’s time here on Earth had ended and I was headed to support a friend through this difficult time. Hold her hand and lend my shoulder to cry on. I left at 12:30 p.m. to make it home, change and be at the funeral home by 3 o’clock for the viewing. You can plot each detail, account for traffic, bad conditions, but you cannot plan for the erratic.

I remember the days complaining of no time. Days were full of constant running, work to classes back to work and then off to practice or rehearsal. Time is now all I have. The days have never seemed longer. I have all the time imaginable and absolutely nothing to do with it. The expression, “you always want what you can’t have”, is in fact very true. Why is it though that we always long for what we can’t have? You hope for open time and when you get it, you beg for your old, hectic schedule to return. As a collective assembly, we are selfish of wanting. Noting is appreciated, it is expected.

Rarely do we take the time to stop and appreciate the things that surround us. We are in such a rush to scurry through, hustling from place to place or moment to moment. We never take in a moment, let it play out. We push on through to the next, never truly appreciating what the previous moment may have had in store.

Have you ever taken the time to sit at the window and watch the snow fall? Watch as each individual snowflake falls to the ground. Some cling to the branches, others dust the side walk. Some pile on top creating inches, while others never seem to stop falling, they dance about with the wind. Each snowflake falls with such grace, floating, hanging in the sky. Choose a snowflake and watch as it falls. The snowflake’s path is unpredictable, never certain where the flake may land.

A falling snowflake is similar to the idea of time. Time moves with grace, we are the ungraceful. Time lingers, we choose not to see that. Time is unpredictable. We never know where it may take us, where we will end up. Time is ongoing just as life is. Your path is yet to be laid out. One moment can change the path, shifting life in a new direction. Time creates the moments. It is our decision to act upon the moments.

Let time linger, play out the moments. Stop for the kiss in the parking lot. It’s okay to be a few minutes late for the movie. Pull off to the side of the road to take in the sunset. It’s not every day that the sky possesses that color scheme. Lay out in the back yard and watch the eclipse, that’s what DVR is for. Pause for the picture in the park, your dinner party can wait. Accept the dance, who knows when you’ll be asked again. Take in every aspect of the first “I love you”, there’s nothing like it. Take in your surroundings, where you were, why you were there. Remember his eyes. Recall his voice, his smile, and the feeling it brought to you. Appreciate the moments.

Take the time to watch the snow fall. You never know when the last flake will descend.

Lesson #12: Taking Off the Mask

“You have to be strong, you can’t let anyone see what’s really going on in there,” I tell myself. “You don’t want them to think you can’t handle this.”

Strength is something I am forced to possess. Not the kind of strength that allows you to show off at the gym or the strength that enables you to untwist the too-tight soda cap. I’m talking about the kind of strength that aids in hiding emotion. The ultimate test of strength isn’t the amount of weight you can withhold but how well you can choke back the tears.

One of the hardest parts of ‘dealing’ is talking. Constant questions:

“What happened?”
“How are you doing?”
“Are you okay?”
And the oh-so-inspirational departing remark, “You are so strong.”

I am so strong; at least that’s what they tell me. They don’t see me though. They see the façade I put on. They see the mask I wear. The mask called strength. This mask allows me to hide my true feelings. Showing true emotion, breaking down that barrier exposes me to vulnerability and vulnerability isn’t something that looks good on me.

The last thing you grab when leaving the house is usually your keys, phone, purse, or wallet. The last thing I am sure to grab before departing is my mask. I never go anywhere without the mask. The mask is what provides protection. The mask allows me to shrug things off, come back with comedic remarks, laugh at the sadness, make jokes about the pain.  The mask is my vibranium shield. Fire anything at me and my mask is sure to respond.

I have found though that my mask is not invincible. The mask has a kryptonite, loneliness. Loneliness pulls the mask off, leaving me exposed. Exposed to what I hide underneath. When the mask comes off, the tears come out. All the emotion rushes to the surface and I am faced with what I have been pushing aside. I am forced to deal with what happened and where I am today. What causes the greatest pain is the why. Why did it happen? The why is what causes the most tears.

The funny thing about loneliness is that it sneaks up on you. The kryptonite can be hiding anywhere. One moment you’re completely content with yourself and the amazing progress you’re making. The next you’re curled up in a ball on the bed in tears, confused and conflicted. The effects of the kryptonite last anywhere from a few minutes to hours and are typically broken by a puppy kiss or an unexpected phone call, reminding me that things are getting better. I have to keep in mind where I have come from. Sometimes you just have to go through the bad to get to the better.

“You are so strong,” they say. “I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

It’s not something you choose to do. You don't have a say in the matter. It’s something you’re forced to do.

"You don’t want to see me without the mask on. That's not a pretty site,” I tell them.

Lesson #10: The What Is In Life

There’s always going to be “what ifs” in life. It’s easy to ask the “what ifs”. What’s hard is accepting the “what is”, the point that your life has come to. The life that your past has so generously concocted for you.

What if I hadn’t been so shy?

What if I hadn’t been a “band nerd” in high school? Would I be who I am today?
What if I had spent more time with him at the nursing home?

What if I had never moved out? Would I be better off now?

What if I hadn’t transferred schools?
What if I hadn’t tried out for cheerleading? Would I have met the friends I have today?
What if I had been more outgoing in class? Would he have talked to me more?
What if I hadn’t invited them out to the bar that night?
What if I hadn’t gone black Friday shopping?
What if I had gone shopping in Greensburg, instead of going in Pittsburgh?
What if I had stayed and taken a nap when she asked?
What if it hadn’t rained that day?
What if the patch of oil hadn’t been there?
What if I still drove the Buick instead of the Cobalt?
What if I had left 5 minutes earlier or later? Would that have changed anything?

It’s quite easy to spend hours pondering on the “what ifs”, running through the questions over and again. What’s the point wasting hours though? You can figure out exactly how these questions can be answered. Plan just how to avoid the incidents but what you cannot do is actually change the past. The past is set in stone. What we can do is take the past, reflect upon it, and learn from it. The faster we accept the “what is” in life, the more time we have enjoying that life.

What is: I am 21 years-old. I was in a head-on-collision two and a half months ago.  I was on my way home from black Friday shopping in Pittsburgh. It was lightly raining that day. At 1:31 pm I hit a patch of oil on the road which forced me into the other lane. I hit head-on with a pick-up truck. My speed was 45 mph, as was his. We hit at an impact of 90 mph. I fractured my femur and tore the tendons and ligaments in my knee. I lacerated my liver. I broke my jaw, fractured my nose in three places, and shattered the orbital floor of my left eye. I am recovering. I have a supportive family and the most wonderful group of friends. I have an amazing boyfriend who has stuck by my side through my worst days and never fails to make me smile. I hurt every day though, whether physical or emotional, some days worse than others. I am trying to stay strong and keep positive but sometimes I break. I’m not perfect and that’s okay. I may not look 100% me or feel completely myself, but I still am me.

I’m the new me. I’m the me that is choosing to accept the “what is”, rather than waste my time contemplating the “what if”. I’m the me that is grateful for all the incredible things I have in my life. I’m the me that now stops to take in the moments of life, rather than rushing through without awareness. I’m the me that is blessed to be here. I’m the me that survived.

Lesson #16: Remembering

“You hit a patch of oil on the road,” they say. “You went into the other lane. You hit head on.”

 

“You were on 119, almost home,” they say. “You are in the hospital in Pittsburgh. You're going to be okay.”

“What happened?” they keep asking.

“I can’t remember,” I say.

Remember. Memory. The one thing I long for the hardest right now. If only it would come back to me. If I could just dream it into existence, then I could answer everyone’s questions. The constant nagging would end. I could answer my own questions, the ones that tend to keep me up at night. What happened that day?

Our memory is something we never really stop to think about. It is just something that exists. But it is so easy for things to slip from our memories. Small details that once made a memory dissipate. Dates, times, words, tend to fade. What makes a memory? Why is it that your mind selects certain moments to put in the save box over others? Why is it my mind chose to avoid the time of 1:31 pm, November 23^rd, 2012?

“This type of thing happens all the time,” they say. “Your mind closes off to avoid the trauma.”

 

“It may come back to you over time,” they say. “Some experience dream recollection.”

Dream recollection? My experience might come back to me in a dream?  Aren’t dreams viewed as light, fluffy, upbeat interruptions of sleep? You wake up from a dream yearning for something or excited for what may happen. You don’t wake from a dream shaking and screaming, terrified of what did happen. My “dream recollection” would be more of a nightmare. To remember might scare the shit out of me at first. I may wake in a sweat, gasping for breath. It may hurt to remember, but I know remembering will help me to heal. I want to heal, to be able to move on.

I don’t want to remember. I need to remember. I need to know why I was in the oncoming lane. Was I forced over? Did I swerve to avoid the patch? I need to know if I tried to dodge the truck. Did I see the truck? Did he see me? Did I break? Did I attempt to diverge back over? I need to know who was there. Was I conscious when they found me? Did we talk? I need to know.

 “Have you had any memory recall about the accident?” they say.

“No. Nothing,” I respond.

“You know, you may never remember and that’s okay,” they say.

It’s not okay.

“I just need to remember,” I say.

Lesson #1: Scars

Scars are not meant to deface us, they are meant to define. They’re reminders of our journey, the struggles we have endured and overcome. They build character and strength. They cut, bend, and shape us to be our future selves. Scars remind us to cherish what we have. Not only are they reminders but life lessons as well. They teach us not to take advantage, not to underestimate. They instill wisdom and test limits. Scars are both exterior and interior. What one sees on the outside, another feels on the inside. A map from the past, leading to the future. Each scar is connected with a feeling: achievement, excitement, fear, anger. These feelings are what give definition, what define who we are.

Each scar holds a different meaning, an experience to grow from. The scar on my left ankle, a result of a shaving mishap at the age of 12, taught me to be more cautious, razors tend to be sharp. The scar on the front of my left leg, due to a curling iron drop, taught me that curling one’s hair is not something to be taken lightly; it is in fact a complex activity.

The scars that taught me the greatest lessons though are those most visible, the biggest. The ones that just don’t seem to fade as fast.

The scar across my right knee, the product of collision, taught me that hard work does pay off. Each day toward a set goal may be a struggle. It might hurt like hell. But one day it won’t hurt as much, and that goal that seemed unreachable becomes achievable. The scar down the center of my stomach, a result due to the seat belt, taught me not to take life for gradated; any second could be your last. You must cherish every moment. The scar stretching across my nose, from the impact of the airbag, taught me that the most important part of beauty is not on the outside, it is what shines through from within. The scars on my left hand, due to the shattered windows, taught me that life can go in any direction you want it to. You just have to have faith and take things into your own hands.

My scars define me as a fighter, a survivor. My scars are what give me strength and remind me that I myself am capable of overcoming anything. My scars are what tell my story, the story of who I am.