What They Never Tell You

Growing up in a happy home with smiling faces, your world was syrupy and sweet. Time felt like thick jelly, and each second felt infinite. The innocence and carelessness that offered a certain ignorance blurred the lines between melancholy and being alright. Those were the days of coloring books and learning the alphabet; the days in which you only valued things of the utmost importance, like your invincibility as king of the recess yard. In those days, you fell off the swing for the first few times, creating not only your first scars but your first memories of pain.

The day your grandpa died, your mom sent you to your room. You wondered why, but you didn’t question it, as her stern voice and flitting eyes sent you on your way. You didn’t yet know real sadness or fear, because on the day your own mother saw tragedy, she hid it from your eyes.

When you got your first bike, your parents bought knee-pads and helmets to protect you. When your dad took the training wheels off, he placed one hand on your back and one hand on the handlebars, making sure your grip was tight. He asked you if you were ready, and he started pushing you on your way until he let you go. He told you to have fun. He told you to just imagine that your training wheels were still there.

What he didn’t tell you is that you won’t always have training wheels, and you will never be able to pretend that they are there.

When you celebrated your fifteenth birthday, your friends and family sang to you, and you felt mildly embarrassed yet very excited. Looking back, your years had felt like seconds. The days of hiding behind your mother’s legs had come and gone, so you masked your growing smile with blasé laughter and a roll of your eyes.  These were the days your favorite color was black and the music on your phone was strictly rock n’ roll; the days when your mind was restless at night and jaded in the mornings.

You don’t consider yourself sad, but you know you aren’t happy. You labor on your school work more than you think about your health, and you stay up all night crying and staring at your ceiling, marking the first time you feel sorry for yourself.

When your dog dies later that week, you are overcome with grief. This is the first time you feel hatred, real hatred — hatred for the man who drove away without as much as a glance back. As you bury your most loyal friend under your favorite tree, his tags lay next to your heart on the gold chain you had never really worn before, and your blurry eyes can’t help but stare at the skid marks on the street. When your mother places the small stone in the ground before you, she places a hand on your shoulder and one hand on her heart. She asks you if you’re alright and stands there waiting for an answer though she knows you won’t reply. She tells you that he’s in a better place. She tells you to imagine that he’s still there, if only your heart never lets him go.

What she doesn’t tell you then is that there are some things you will have to let go, no matter how hard you try to keep them.

When you finally graduated from that damn highschool, you moved away from your parents and set out to begin the rest of your life. Your mind was flooded with relief and even dreams of your new freedom.

Many things clouded your judgement, for those were the days of reckless actions and sleepless nights. Those were the days in which a good time was foreign nowhere, your own blood being no exception. This was the first time you really felt alive.

There soon came a time when your childish doubts succumbed to the threat of your growing experience. You ordered one more drink, and one more after that; the lines soon blurred together, and you settled for hitching a ride rather than walking in the cold.

What your best friend didn’t tell you is that he’d had one too many drinks, but his face wore a calm, sane expression, and you trusted him all the same.

From the passenger seat, you watched in awe as the headlights illuminated the trees. The old forest that surrounded the back roads you knew so well blurred together, faster and faster, more and more by each fleeting second. This is the first time your heart raced faster than your ever curious eyes as you watched your best friend’s hands move all too slowly, grabbing blindly for the steering wheel.

These seconds felt like years, and your knees hitting the dashboard reminded you of when you fell off your swing for the very first time.