This Traumatized Me, More Than It Traumatized the Three of You.
For the majority of us that pursue our parents dream of their child obtaining a higher education, the time spent in college is a learning experience. In no way am I talking educational wise. I have two degrees and all I retained from them is knowing the 4th, 5th, 6th and 8th amendments from one degree and oral fixation vs. anal retentiveness from another.
Fine. I only remember the 5th amendment and I only know about oral fixation because I have it. (Get your mind out of the gutter. Oh, it’s just my mind?) For many, college is a learning experience in the way that you learn a lot about yourself, who you are, what you want etc. That was not my experience. My experience consisted of drinking a lot and sleeping a lot.
Note: While I very much condone college binge drinking. If I can give one piece of advice to those in college now, it’s this; wear. sunscreen. Just kidding, here it is; just because it’s your last final ever as a college student, it doesn’t mean you should go to the bar an hour before and pound dollar Miller Lite bottles until you need to show up. Especially if that final is your Farsi final.
My junior year and into my first senior year especially consisted of a lot of drinking and a lot of late night eating, since I was 21 at this time. This led to daily phone calls with my mom. Usually, we would take turns. One day I would call her and ask her to put money in my account, the next day she would call me and yell at me to get a job this went on for the majority of my college career. I’d say this was the most prominent issue between us from about 2004-2008. On my behalf, I will say, I did have brief periods of employment, via Sports Authority and Blockbuster, but at this time in my life I was not employed at either of these places. I was doing paid skin studies.
That's right, skin studies. This place near my school would take some kind of make up or lotion they were testing and put a patch of it on your back and you would come in twice a week or so and see if you had any reactions, then at the end of the study, you get a whopping check for $125.00. I loved doing these bad boys. It helped since I had turned 21 and needed more beer money than ever and my mom wasn’t comprehending my constant need for more money when she was the one who was paying all my expenses.
One morning, I had to go to the skin study place and get my patch checked out. I wasn’t feeling too up to par, perhaps it was because six hours prior I had just finished doing beer bongs and smashing red cups in my opponents faces after every flip cup game my team won. I was driving over to the place when I got this weird outer body experience, like something bad was going to happen. The patch had been itching a little, so I was worried maybe I had gotten some kind of localized leprosy from the product being tested on me. I get to the place and the doctor, or scientist, or McDonald's manager, whatever their titles were said everything was fine, she puts a new patch on and I leave. I’m driving out of the long driveway and stop to get on the main road. I look both ways and the next thing I know, my 1998 Ford Escort has hit a 2005 Dodge Caravan on the driver side back seat.
This is where my trauma begins. My first thought was that my mom was going to kill me, I was on her insurance, it was going to skyrocket, and she was going to kill me. I follow the van to the side of the road and get out, visibly shaken up. I walk over to the lady and she rolls down her window a little. Why not all the way you ask? Well it was 2006, so people were still a little skeptical of black people approaching their cars. I start apologizing profusely and asking if she’s alright. She tells me she’s fine and then she goes “Are you okay?” I thought to myself "Wow what a nice lady, wondering if I'm okay, she clearly doesn't see color." I then notice that she has turned herself to the backseat passenger, her three year old son. He is back there crying and replies with a firm “No.” “Dude, I didn’t even hit your side kid, you’re fine, shake it off. Boys don't cry!” That is what I wanted to say, but instead I came out with “Oh my God I’m so, so sorry.” His mom opens her door to get out of the car to go to his side and calm him down and when she gets out, I see it. She looked like her water was about to break. Her stomach was huge. It turns out she was seven months pregnant. All sorts of things were going through my head, and they basically went in this order.
“Guess I have no choice, but to be Pro-Choice now.”
Understanding that there was a high chance I had just committed a third party abortion and killed this fetus inside this woman, I did the only thing I could think of besides curse words; I did the same thing that I did with her, and then her son just moments ago. I once again said “I’m so, so sorry! Are you alright?” …with straight, non-wavering eye contact to her stomach. The baby didn't respond, I figured the papers would say "fetus was pronounced dead on the scene." The police finally came took down our information, she said her and her two children were fine, they didn't need an ambulance and we went our separate ways. I got into my car and turned on the first street I saw. I parked and broke into massive tears, like I was the one who just aborted a baby only to regret it and wonder if there was anything like a baby back guarantee. I called my mom. She was surprisingly, eerily calm, and she said “It’s okay, I just signed us up last week for All State’s accident forgiveness.”
A couple of weeks later we got a statement from All State about fees and such, apparently they had to pay out some money because the lady was experiencing some discomfort in her stomach/uterus area later and went to the hospital. That was the last I heard of it, I was never arrested for wrongful death, so I'm assuming that the child inside of her is a lovely six year running around the streets of Springfield, PA as we speak.
*This is not an endorsement for All-State Car Insurance
The Time I Was Roofied.
No need to really explain why it's traumatizing to wake up in the morning, not remembering anything that happened the night before and your arm is in an unbearable throbbing pain. You go to the bathroom and see that the seat is covered in blood. The thoughts that go through your head are as follows:
"I woke up alone. Did I bring a guy back here and murder him in my bathroom, chop him up and then throw the pieces of his body out back?"
"Did I hemorrhage and mis-carry a baby I didn't even know was inside of me?" (oh glory to God, if that was the case I would have been perfect for that show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.")
"Did I try to play a joke on my roommates by slicing one of my wrists and lying over the toilet, waiting for them to find me? Finally, after 8 minutes, and a couple of blackouts, I realized no one wondered where I was, so I bandaged it up and went to bed."
Luckily, none of these were the scenario that played out, all I did was try to walk to our front door, couldn't, and fell HARD into the side of our house, only to be taken care of by one roommate who bandaged me up and another friend who took pictures of her squirting Johnson and Johnson's lotion into my butt crack.
When I Told My Mom She Was My Life Insurance Beneficiary.
(this happened 20 minutes ago)
I haven't talked to my mother in a couple of days so she called just to make sure everything was okay. She kept saying how she was worried because she hadn't heard from me. I told her not to worry, because even though I'm 27 and she lives 3,000 miles away, she's still my emergency contact, so if anything ever happened to me, she would get the call, and also get a hefty payout of $50,000 thanks to my job's life insurance policy they hook their employees up with. Once I said this I was definitely expecting an "Oh, God forbid" or maybe an "I couldn't imagine my life without you in it." or even the classic "Parents are never suppose to bury their children." I didn't get any of those. All I got was "...Well after having to fly your body back here...and the headstone, luckily we already have a plot for you..." then she trailed off to talk about taxes.
Goes to show you, no matter how old you are trauma can happen at anytime.
The Heater Room.
Speaking of oral fixations…no, just kidding. I'm still not ready.