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.

Car Accident

For one of the many applications my mother forced me to fill out for internships and such, the essay question was, "Describe fully an experience or event that has had a significant impact on your life and how you changed as a result."

I thought I would put my response here, with some modifications, since it describes my experience well. I've had many people ask what happened over the past 11 years, and I feel I should explain properly, not just for others, but also for myself.

It was a very hot August 1st, in 2002. My mother and I were driving back from my summer camp early since I had an appointment. On our way there, we found out that the exits we would normally take were being blocked off. Possibly due to some construction or accident. Because of this, my mom had to take a new exit we weren't familiar with, and we came to a 3-way stop sign. I'm still not sure as to who didn't stop or who should have stopped, but we ended up colliding with a school bus. My memories of that moment are far from pretty, and I have quite a few. 

We both pulled through, but not without scars. Hers were internal, permanently impacting her vision. Mine were external, permanently marking my face. I was seven years old.

I don't really think the event actually hit me until later. Car accidents are one of those things you see happen to others, and you always assumed that it would never happen to you.

When I first got home after the accident, I was too afraid of my own reflection, with the new and scary distortions. My dad covered up my mirror, so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Everyone I met would be curious and bombard me with the same question: "What happened to your face?" It would aggravate me because I just wanted to forget. But as a kid, I bounced back after some time and took joy in the fact that I was the only kid in school allowed to wear a hat during the day, to protect my face from the sun.

Immediately after the accident, my parents and I went to many plastic surgeons, asking about ways to reduce or fade the scar. But the procedures they mentioned involved reopening the wounds and stitching them back together more neatly. My parents and I weren’t comfortable, so we left it alone.

As time went on and I became a teenager when appearance is everything, my self-esteem dropped and I would subconsciously be stressed about my face, and how it was no longer symmetrical. What would people think? Did I even look pretty? Was my scar the reason boys didn't like me? 

After some time, the scar faded to a point where I stopped noticing it. Occasionally, I would get an inquiry about my face, but it wouldn't bother me. I began to accept my scar as a part of me, and I slowly moved on.

A few years ago, my parents brought up the topic of fading my scar again, asking if I wanted to look into that process more seriously. I didn’t even need to think about it. The scars I’ve received show that I have overcome something and moved on. One quote that I love is “Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.” It's taken me a while to believe it, but I now know. I am stronger.

What I Wish

When I was a kid, Santa Claus was a jolly old man who generously gave gifts to everyone for free and the Tooth Fairy was a magical woman who happily gave money in exchange for teeth. It sounded strange then too, but when you're getting presents and money, you don't ask questions. But now, Santa Claus is a fat, but surprisingly fit, stalker, who "sees you when you're sleeping," and the Tooth Fairy is really your parents, who now expect you to pay them back.

I used to think about that time a lot, just because being at that age everything was so simple. No future to worry about. You were happily oblivious to everything. You were forgiven easily.

More recently, especially in the past two years, everything seemed to have become harder in contrast. This was the time to decide where you want to go in life, and how you can make it there without breaking your parents' wallets. Sometimes it's hard to get out of bed, because I already had an idea of how the day will go. And sometimes, it's hard to go to sleep, because I knew that I hadn't achieved the goals that I had set for that day. I felt frustrated, and a little pressured.

To the point where I wanted a wish. One wish to be a kid again. 

Obviously, this could not happen, since my life isn't as interesting as Aladdin's. But if my wish was granted, by some sassy blue genie, with the voice of Robin Williams (because let's be honest, he's the best genie), would I be happy with the results?

I probably would have said yes last year. I could go back in time, be a little kid. Not stress about my future, and do easy math homework again! Hakuna Matata; no worries.

But, no. That part of my life is over, and it's time to move on. With these last few weeks of senior year coming up, and everyone getting prepared for college, I've come to accept it. Although I'm not a full-blown adult yet (still have yet to do my own laundry, and don't even get me started on cooking!), I'm on my way, excited and ready.