I misinterpreted most things by choice at seventeen; I couldn’t define good riddance; I chose not to know the difference between stay and go, but played the victim like a champion. You should know we’re fine,
and you should know things got worse. In my college essay I wrote about accepting loneliness, leaving out what I did to cope. In 8th grade, my class voted. I won Most Dramatic. Are we seeing a pattern, yet?
I wrote about my smile and lighting the proverbial dark rooms. Maybe Euphemism is the universal language of adults. You asked for a fresh perspective, sir. But I don’t know what I don’t know.
Maybe I amped up the drama. Maybe I milked the pain. Maybe I still do. Maybe I volunteered a smile to my wayward brother when we forgot how to talk to each other. Cops would call him lucky to be alive. They could never get his name right. At seventeen,
I was the clueless queen of philanthropy. Can your problems build my resumé? If I save your soul, will that save me? We’d dream of running away from home,
impatient to be fully grown, yet still assuming assigned seats at the dinner table. You should know we’re fine, and you should know things got worse. At seventeen, Rock Bottom wasn’t in our over-scheduled itinerary.
In my college essay I wrote about family. My mother always says, “you can’t always get what you want,” but she spoils us mad with all her love. Maybe that’s all anyone needs. Giving up is easy,
But it helps to know the unconditional exists.
You should know I graduated from a fine institution that’s far from perfect. You should know the system brings me down, and the future freaks me out. You should know we found Rock Bottom and you should know we got out.