Life

Life, to me, is unbelievable.  How is it that a woman can get pregnant, grow a tiny human being in her belly, give birth to it, and have it grow up to be its own person?  When I think about having a baby, I imagine a tiny little girl, all cute and sweet and innocent, and all mine.  Growing up the way I want her to, always making healthy choices, having fun, doing well in life, being successful, being happy.  

But the truth is, this is purely imagination.  Your child will not conform to your expectations.  Your baby girl will not stay perfect and charming and angelic all her life.  Somewhere along the road, things will start to change, and you’ll start losing control.  Drugs, drinking, sex, whatever.  I think about myself, only sixteen.  I’m still a baby in the eyes of the universe.  But yet, sometimes, I act like I’m an adult.  Like I’m mature enough and capable enough to deal with my own life and my own emotions, and do things that adults do, or that people really shouldn’t do at all.

I want to be little again.  I want to be four years old and at my birthday party in a little gold dress, eating meatballs with my family and smiling at my Beatrix Potter bunny cakes.  I want to be pure and happy and loved.  I want to start over.

I’m not one of those people who believes that mistakes make you who you are today.  I believe that mistakes are just that, mistakes.  Avoidable.  Regrettable.  Sometimes irreversible.  In just sixteen short years of life, I’ve already made mistakes that can never be altered, that will stay with me, always.  I wish I could take them back, but I can’t.  

Recently, I found out that a friend of my sister’s has leukemia.  Hearing news like that makes me realize just how f*****g lucky I really am.  My life really could be so much worse.  I’m lucky to have someone who loves me unconditionally, who sincerely listens to me and cares about me.  Really, it makes all the difference.