When I Was 15

Once upon a long time ago, in a time that seems like whole life away, I was 15. There were none of these worries of the world on my shoulders; none of these scars I bear, visible and hidden. There were only wide open eyes to what the world had to show. I was in between the wonder of wishes and the knowledge of realism. I was right smack in the middle the joys of being a child and the yearnings of adulthood. If I had known just how hard life as an adult would be, I would have tried to stay right where I was.

When I was 15, it was 1983. In my sheltered world, a world that I knew well, life was good. There was no need to know that life outside of my bubble was both terrifying and beautiful, but I knew it was anyway. I knew that there was more to life than just living on a mini farm and attending a 2-room schoolhouse. Things were happening...

Mt. Kilauea began slowly erupting in Hawaii, and its lava is still flowing to this day.
Apple Inc. released the Apple Lisa personal computer.
The final episode of M*A*S*H aired, setting a new world record for the most watched television broadcast in U. S. history.
Michael Jackson first performed the "moonwalk" at Motown 25 and his video for "Thriller" was broadcast for the first time.
Sally Ride became the first woman in space aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger.
Vanessa Williams became the first African American to be crowned Miss America.
Microsoft Word was first released.
President Ronald Reagan made the proposal to develop technology to intercept enemy missles, which was dubbed "Star Wars" by the media.
McDonalds introduced the McNugget.
"Flashdance" and "Return of the Jedi" were box office hits.
Chrysler started production on the first minivans, the Dodge Caravan and the Plymouth Voyager.
Carrie Underwood was born.
Karen Carpenter died.

I was 15 and had already visited another country. I was selected as the junior representative for our local Pathfinder club (for all you heathens out there, think Boy Scouts meet Girl Scouts with room for Jesus in between) to attend the 1st Inter-American Division Pathfinder Camporee held in Oaxtepec, Mexico. It was my first time on an airplane (I've only flown one other time since then) and my first time out of the States. Talk about a culture shock. The biggest city I had ever visited was Tampa and here I was in the middle of Mexico City with only a handful of people I barely knew, embarking on a several hour bus ride to a place in the country large enough to accommodate several thousand kids and chaperones from North, Central, and South America. We visited Aztec pyramids, historical sites, and a museum of history. It was there that I learned the value of a peso and the art of bargaining for trinkets. It was there that I learned you could get lost in a big city and find yourself there too. I also learned you could find almost anything you wanted if you asked the right person. It was my first experience outside of my comfort zone and I will never forget it.

I was 15 and I had already tried pot and discovered I liked it. I think I won't expand on this subject right now more than just saying that the 90's were yet to come...

I was 15 and I was developing who I was. Country music (which was grandmother approved) was being replaced with Rock and Roll (which wasn't). My cousin introduced me to Pink Floyd and it was the first time music touched my soul and changed my life. I had been "husky" for as long as I could remember and still battle with that problem to this day. My friends were Converse, I was "bobo" shoes (you know, no-name brand). I was poor, but unlike today, I didn't realize it. I was 15, so it didn't matter.

I'm no longer 15, but today, my daughter is. I hope that she hasn't experienced some things that I had at her age, and hope that she can experience others. She has already been to our nation's capital, and this year, there's a possibility of her visiting larger cities such as New York and Chicago. She harbors a love for animals and she has wicked artistic talents. She's eligible for her learner's permit. She is in (gulp) high school. She is becoming a beautiful young lady and is noticing boys. She is developing her own persona, but still is an off-hand carbon copy of me. She's 15 and she's my little girl.

I feel blessed to have her and my son both in my life. Sure, life in a broken home...no, not broken, just life in two separate homes...is not easy, but we've gotten used to it. I feel blessed that they both have their good health. It could be a lot different.

I heard yesterday of a little girl who probably will lose her battle today with her undisclosed-to-me sickness. I can only assume that cancer is to blame. My heart goes out to everyone close to this little girl. I can't imagine the grief; the guilt of being helpless to fight this cruel thief of such a young life. I heard about this and all I wanted to do was go to my kids at their mom's house and hug them and tell them just how much I love them. But I didn't. I merely came home to my myriads of cats and dogs and fish and birds and put my fingers to talking.

I was 15 and had the future ahead. She is 15 and her future is rapidly approaching. She is 15 and shouldn't have to worry about adult things like jobs and bills and loss of love. All that will come in time. All that can wait until later. And God willing, I will be there when her future becomes our present.

Happy birthday, sweet child of mine.

You are 15.

Poke

Poke.

It's just a little thing, maybe no bigger than a gnat, perhaps a mosquito, but often times ends up being as big as an elephant. It annoys. It irritates. It eats away at the delicate lining of your soul. It can be everything to you and nothing to others. It is what jabs its finger into your side; just a little poke. But poke after poke after poke after poke and that spot on your ribs starts to really hurt.

Poke.

Usually the fingers that do the jabbing are someone else's. But sometimes you look down and realize the finger that jabs is at the end of your own hand. The incessant poking may have been started by someone other than yourself, but without even thinking about it, you take up where they left off. Self-inflicted wounds are the ones that go mostly unnoticed by both outsiders and the one doing the poking.

Poke.

I heard my son yell, "Nooo!" I had just come in from being outside and the thought of what to fix for supper was on my mind. I stepped into the living room to find him pointing at the television. A familiar face was on the screen; a face of one I'd grown up with; one that had once been an alien, an old lady, an adventurer stuck in a board game, a wise-cracking genie, a symbol of Neverending boyish youth, a spinach munching sailor, a mentally disturbed homeless man...so many faces. I saw the words at the bottom of the screen. I heard the newsman saying what I didn't want to comprehend. This familiar face was no more. We stood there in silence for a moment, taking time to let it sink in.

Poke.

I don't know the first thing about clinical depression. I know about being sad. I know about being depressed over something. I couldn't imagine it being a constant part of my life. As far as I know, I don't know anyone who is being treated for depression. But I bet there is someone. People are more adept to hiding things than to sharing things. Why? Maybe because it's easier to keep it inside; maybe because it's easier to keep it hidden from the world, than it is to let it out. And when you're good at hiding things, it's hard for others to see what kind of pain you're enduring.

Poke.

I, and a lot of my friends, lost someone we loved several years ago. I had known this friend for a while. Not as long as most of our friends, but long enough to still care for him and call him my friend. I don't know what he was going through or why he decided to remove himself from the reality of his suffering. And as real as it was, I didn't see it. I didn't see the worry, the hurt, the obstacle he couldn't get over. I never saw signs pointing to his ultimate decision.

Poke.

I can say that I've had some pretty rough times and still crack a smile. My problems seem to be short-sighted. Of course, I have ongoing problems, but their effect doesn't seem to last long, and they definitely don't last forever like I think they will. Good times will come back, and when they do, it's the bad times that define just what the good times are. I've always said that I love myself too much to hurt myself. And it's so true. Even in what I define as the lowest part of my life, I still loved myself. Now, I may not like myself at times, but I don't have to like myself to love myself.

Poke.

My daughter came out of her bedroom and asked what was going on. We pointed towards the television. It was real. We had just been talking about him the morning before on our way to her bus stop at my son's school. I believe his name came up while trying to think of another actor, but we talked about him too. My daughter looked at the television, and then came to me in the kitchen and put her arms around me, put her head on my shoulder, and we both just stood there, not saying anything. He wasn't someone who we knew personally. He wasn't a friend or family member. He wasn't in our lives. But yet, he was. He impacted us with infectious laughter; my kids for as long as they could recognize him; me for what seems my whole life.

Poke.

It was just a few weeks ago that something was poking me. The poke was hitting me about midway down the front of my left ribcage. Someone had gotten an honor that I felt should have been bestowed upon me. Something that had been mentioned to me years ago. Something that would have improved finances, albeit, not by much. It's not so much the point that it wasn't offered to me. It's not that it was offered to someone else. It is the fact that there was so much secrecy involved. That hurt. There was no reason that I could see to keep it hidden from me. That was the jab on my left side, a little to the side of my center of my chest. But the poke continued even after I had gotten over the situation. Poke, poke, poke. But I realized that it wasn't an outside force doing the poking. The poke now came from within. I knew it was unhealthy. I knew it had to stop. The only way that it would stop would be for me to accept what was done, forgive those involved, and continue loving myself. And that's just what I did.

Poke.

It's easy for me to say, "Get over it. It's not that bad." It's easy because it's not my life; it's not my pain and suffering; it's not me living with a feeling of low self-worth, or enduring an unknown source of the poking that becomes too much to bear. It's not me that feels like things would be better if I just removed myself from being someone else's source of misery. It isn't me.

And, by God, if it's you, please let someone you love know; let someone who loves you know.