Strange

It's funny how so much can change in just a year. I wrote this a year ago:

Heading into my senior year of college, I'm trying to come to terms with some inner turmoil.

I'm finishing up my Bioengineering degree, hopefully with good grades. I'm the captain of my dance team. I will be leaving college in a short 9 months. Possibly, assuming I graduate.

I was asked by my parents if I want to add a major, possibly something in business. I could take an extra year, giving me more time to raise my GPA, and also giving me an extra summer to get some work experience. I'm seriously considering it, as I personally don't feel ready to leave college just yet. I'm sure every college senior feels nervous to leave their home for four years. But, naturally, I feel like I'm the first person to feel this way. Everyone around me looks so sure of themselves.

I am now an alumnus of my university, with my Bachelor's in Bioengineering. I may not have gotten the best grades, but I did graduate. And I got a job.

I had to move far away from my home, and learn to adapt to a new state. But it's already been a month, and I'm beginning to feel at home. With my new job, new apartment, new friends, new life.

Life is strange.

Car Accident: Take 2

I wrote about this a while ago. But I think I was so focused on writing it for other people, that I subconsciously censored myself. This time, I will write it for myself.

The people I surround myself with are kind, understanding, and polite. So of course, none of them would ever dare to ask me about the scars that I have, even though my scars are far from invisible and they may have always wondered. I am grateful because I know they all care about me. But at the same time, I am so desperate to talk about them. I want someone to ask me, and give me that chance to talk about my experience, without holding anything back.

In 2002, when this car accident happened, my problem was the complete opposite. Elementary school kids couldn't care less about being conscientious and polite. As soon as I came back to school, I got so many questions about the scars I had, and about why I looked so different, and about how I got them, and about if they'll ever go away, and about if they hurt when I got them, and about if they still hurt now, and so on. And I hated it, because it was a constant reminder of how different I looked from everyone else. I just wanted every to shut up, and move on like everything was normal.

My problem then was that kids had no filter, but my problem now is that that's all adults have.

I remember about 95% of the details from the accident, but whenever someone does inquire about them (if they ever do), I only mention the "main" points. I do this out of fear that if I say too much, it will make them uncomfortable, or they may look at me differently.

No one wants to know how I woke up with glass scattered everywhere and blood on my hands and legs. Or how I had thought my mother was dead when she was unconscious in the front seat, with her mouth hanging open and eyes closed. Or how I, a 7-year-old kid, kept crying out for my mom while emergency services lead me out of the car. Or how I was put in a neck brace and airlifted out of the scene, only knowing this because I could feel the brace around my neck and could feel my ears pop. Or how I was stripped of my clothes on the examining table and I only realized that I was hurt when someone touched my face and I cried out in pain. Or how I woke up in a hospital bed with my dad sitting next to me, crying.

Or maybe I'm scared that if I say these details out loud, there could be a chance of something terrible happening again. Fear is a funny thing.

I hope that by writing these details down, I can find a loophole to that fear. I hope I can take ownership of what happened and further accept it. That doesn't mean I'm happy it happened. Or that it didn't hurt.

But I know that I would not be the strong woman that I am today without it.