The Story of Me

I always get the strangest urge to write the story of my life. I have no idea why, who would want to read about my life? It’s nothing incredible or even out of the ordinary. And yet the urges persist in tormenting me when I could be doing something else. So it goes, I guess, the story of me.

I don’t remember terribly much about my birth I am ashamed to say, but I suppose no one really does. It was in February, it was snowing, the dangerous and wet kind that the people living by oceans know and love, and it was in the morning. All this I know from people telling me. I should never have been born, and that sounds really depressing, but medically speaking I should not be here. Doctors told my mother she was incapable of having children, and nine months later I was an emergency caesarean. I started my life by almost dying. I wasn’t as well versed in etiquette as I am now and had no clue that dying at one’s own birth was frowned upon. As I said I don’t recall much from those early years. Snippets of a half-forgotten memory, a snapshot of a snapshot. I remember the wooden floors of our house in Nanaimo, the Disney wallpaper in my room, spinning around in circles until I would almost collapse. The sun. The grass. Oddly enough I don’t remember the rain. You would think that would figure prominently in the memories of one from the Island, but not until I was older. I remember my mother, and the neighbour girl.

Ahh the neighbour girl. My first love, my first kiss. All at the tender age of three or four. We spent almost every day together in the eternal sunshine of childhood. Eternity lasted until I was four and we moved away from her. I did not see her again for fourteen years.  The memories I had of her stayed in the back of my mind, forgotten, all those years only to spring forward when we got back in touch. The mind remembers more than we know. We may remember the sting of a thorn, but the mind always remembers the smell of the rose. 

I had a friend who burnt his feet on a pile of coals that someone had carelessly left on the beach. I can barely remember his face, I can’t remember the sound of his voice, but I can remember his poor feet. He had to wear moccasins for the longest time afterwards. He was my best friend back then, and I can’t even remember his voice or what we would play. I remember his feet. The mind is cruel. It torments us with half memories and half people. And burnt feet.

I had another friend, a girl with long, wavy brown hair, whose mom used to bake me cookies. She used to write me love letters. I have this vague memory of her face and this profound feeling of beauty. All I can actually remember is her hair. And, strangely, her kitchen. I spent time there, not a lot, but it stuck with me. All of a sudden I miss her. There is a strong ache in my heart where she used to be. In this time of upheaval and responsibility, I just want something simple. Something like a forgotten girl with beautiful hair on an island in the ocean.

Out of all of my experiences in British Columbia, a discussion about roads is the thing that stand out the most and has the greatest effect on my life. I was at the local Kid’s Club, mainly because one of my friends got an amazing stuffed bear from it, where I heard a talk about roads. The pastor stood up in front of us and began to tell us about the two different roads that were open to us. He said there was our way, which led to hell and damnation, and God’s way, which lead to the opposite. This simple statement has stayed with me stronger than anything else. Those words have shaped my entire existence. Everything I have done and am, hinged on this statement. Why? Why did a simple statement have such a deep meaning for me? “There are two roads you can take in life: your way, or God’s way!” For my entire life I have dealt in absolutes. Right and wrong. No grey areas, no middle ground. You’re in the right or you’re wrong. You can’t grow up believing that. It seriously messes you up inside. I’m still messed up from it. My best friend is gay and in my mind I still believe that she is going to burn in hell for something that she has no control over. Black and white. Only thing is though, those don’t exist in real life.

We moved again. This time we moved far away from my ocean, my islands, and my mountains. I never imagined a place could exist where I could not see the mountains. So to educate me on my fallacies of thought my parents moved me to Saskatchewan. My bright blue and green oceans were replaced by seas of wheat, my mountains replaced by the combines on the horizons at harvest. My friends were replaced with ignorant strangers who thought I was an American only because I was not from around their “parts”. I didn’t have many friends that first year. I was picked on because I was a stranger, bullied even. I started to gain weight from the stress and the hurt, which only led to more bullying. Little children are vicious bastards, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I’m done. Writing all this in chronological order? Who actually remembers things in order? I sure don’t. So, stream of consciousness.

I remember a white sports car in our backyard in Nanaimo with my dad getting in and my mom saying that it was his girlfriend when he left. To this day I have no idea of the truth of the matter. I think that may have started my distrust of fathers. Not just mine, all fathers. I have no idea how old I was when this occurred, but it stands out vividly in my mind. The stark whiteness of the strange car in the greenness of my backyard. The casual way my mother said that it was his girlfriend, probably certain that I would never remember this exchange. This is the only time I recall an event like this, so I have no idea why it would stick out so much. A child’s mind I suppose. I think I magnified the situation to be something that it wasn’t, but isn’t that to be expected? You tell a child who doesn’t understood sarcasm or dishonesty that his father is leaving on a date, wouldn’t you expect that child to believe you? I’m pretty sure that it was a lie, but there will always be a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind. Leading me to mistrust my father. I can’t blame that all on my mother though. I’d like to, but that would be too easy.

Spinning around. The hard wood floor flashing around me. A childlike smile of glee plastered to my little face. The world tottering around my little body, the floor getting closer and closer with each revolution. Of course reality came crashing down when I did the same. I have vague memories of getting in trouble for this, and I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of being dizzy since then.