Today, ten years ago, I should have died.
I still go rounds with myself about why I lived. I have a little survivor’s guilt when someone unexpectedly loses a father or mother or best friend. And I struggle with giving myself credit for the things that I have done in the past ten years. I can’t help but think that I haven’t done enough to deserve surviving.
Not that it was even my choice at all….
Because amid the survivor’s guilt and wondering why I lived is a tiny voice that suggests perhaps I was purposely saved. Not accidentally, but purposely. For a reason. I’m not sure exactly what that reason is, but to escape that car accident with a broken nose and a few slight scars on my arm and face? It completely blows my mind.
I should be celebrating–ten years of friends and family and lip gloss and ice cream–but it’s been a particularly difficult week. My newspaper staff met deadline a day early, but I’m still reeling from the adrenaline rush/worry that accompanies such a feat. I’m so behind in my schoolwork that I am going to have to work nonstop all weekend to catch up. And then there’s still the other minor residual sadness from my sister being in Japan, my other sister getting ready to move, and that this week was the exact kind of week that the boy promised to be around for. I wanted him to listen to my irrational rants, tell me everything would be fine, and make me laugh.
But instead of celebrating, I will grade papers and be grateful I have a job that I love most of the time, and good friends who make me laugh on a regular basis, and a wonderful family.
I’m still here, relatively unscathed from that accident, and apparently I have things to do in this life. So I better stop blogging right now and get crackin’.