Fucktober First

October 2002. I got a Happy Halloween card from my grandma. Later that day my mom, my grandma and myself get run off the road by a guy who fell asleep at the wheel. Our car flips off the freeway, travelling over 150 feet in total, to land, thank God, right side up. We find ourselves in a field. Two Spanish-speaking men, probably illegal immigrants, find us first. Once the police arrive they have already disappeared into the hot afternoon. I feel hazy as I rewind the last four minutes over and over-- a bump- my mom says "Oh God"- panic- relief- another bump- harder- panic- and then- side- top- side- bottom- dust and glass fall around my face like spring showers without the cool relief. The dry October grass crunches under my feet as I hike up the side of the hill we just flew from. Traffic flicks by and my mom calls for me, afraid for how close I am to the flow of cars. But my dad is coming to get us and I need him to hurry. Suddenly my floral shorts are innapropriately cheery for today. My grandma is being harnassed into a stretcher and I can't know if she is going to be okay. I don't even remember anyone asking me if I was okay. I know my mom did, but I can't remember what I said. The guy and his girlfriend from the other car are lying in the grass, thrown from their shiny silver sports car. The police said that because they didn't wear seatbelts, their lives were probably saved. I feel sick, like I swallowed too much dust and glass. Someone up there likes us, my mom says. That's how I am supposed to feel. Saved. Safe.

October 2004. My dad, grandpa and two neighbors go missing while on a camping trip. For a week I do not know if I will see them again. I pray to God for the first time in my life. I don't remember what the last thing I said to my dad was, but I wished it had been more profound. There are news trucks on my street, so many my mom and I can't drive up to our house. My mom is on TV talking about it. My grandma is playing golf. People at school don't know what to say to me but the principle is very concerned with how I am doing. I had never liked her much until then. When they find them lost in the snow I make welcome home signs with my neighbor in the principle's office until my mom can pick us up. When I see my dad again, I can't remember what it was I said to him, but I wish it had been more profound.

October 2005. The first time I saw Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring was with my best friend from middle school, her brother, and her brother's best friend. Less than three years later her brother's best friend committed murder. For the first time in my life I knew a criminal. Not just knew a criminal. Spent time with a criminal. A murderer. How could I know a murderer? How could I ever have sat next to someone in a dark living room watching Lord of the Rings who would then go and kill someone. It simply wasn't possible. I rode home on my bicycle crying, with the fantasy of defending him in court. This man is innocent. I know, I know him. He couldn't have done it because he knew me. I rode home on my bicycle crying, with the fantasy of visiting him in jail years from now. Maybe wearing a red and white dress and lipstick like in film noir. Asking him, why? Why? How could you do this? You were a good man, a good man. And good men are not supposed to go bad.

October 2008. What was supposed to be a minor injury is diagnosed to be a severed Achilles tendon. I cry, looking in the mirror over my shoulder for the last time at my un-scarred ankle. I am recommended for emergency surgery and am under the knife within 24 hours of being diagnosed. I have never, ever felt pain like this. I miss school, I miss parties, I miss my friends, I miss doing my own laundry, I miss taking normal showers, I miss standing, I miss walking. I am drugged, weak, and immobile. I am lonely, depressed and cannot cope with being permanently damaged. I still do not know if I will ever fully recover. When I get my stitches removed and see the scar for the first time I think, it is so long, who will look at that and still think I'm beautiful?

October 2012. I walk home from class when a man finishing a sandwich balls up his wrapper and throws it at me. He is angry and he frowns at me and I have nothing to say as I stare at the garbage at my feet. He steps toward me and I pass him quickly and he yells "have a good fucking day" at me. I feel the heat of his anger rise in my cheeks and I hear myself squeak back, "you too". A ridiculous response to a man who clearly does not want my to have a good day. An older man watches with vague interest as the situation sinks in. I am embarassed and mad but that shifts to sadness. This man has just thrown garbage at me. I feel defaced, disrespected, and violated and I am overcome with emotion. Twenty years old and nearly six feet tall, I am walking down the street with tears rolling down my face. I hiccup as I trip over a curb and the tears jerk and drip on to the cement. I pass a busy busstop and for every pair of eyes that stare at me, a pair of tears stream down. I stand at an intersection and recover myself. Of all the shitty things that have ever happened to me in the month of October, I realize none have them have been personal attacks on me. All of them were situational. All of them could have happened to anyone in the world, and have. But today was different. And it was not a good start to this motherfucking month.