As I write this, it is my birthday. In my twenty-two years of life, I have seen pain, sorrow, joy, happiness, friendships, death, and I have learned many lessons. Nearly everything I know I taught myself. Everything important, anyway.
Will I ever use algebra in real life? Probably not. As much as schools want you to think otherwise, most of it's a crock of crap. College taught me nothing I had not already learned in high school, and high school taught me nothing new compared to middle school.
Don't get me wrong: I love algebra. I absolutely adore math, and sometimes I get the knack for it and pull out one of my many reference books to tear apart some algebra problems with my active mind. I love a lot of stuff that isn't necessary for life, though. Algebra is one of them. Some careers require it, sure, but like I said...that's what college should be for.
What are the important things to learn? How to trust your instinct. When something is instinct and when it is unconscious judgement. How to take care of yourself in an abundance of different situations. That nothing is impossible.
I have always loved to learn. I have a thirst for knowledge that goes beyond whether or not I want to learn. If I go through periods of time where I don't learn new vocabulary or don't go onto science and history websites to learn things about my greatest interests, my mind becomes dull, tired. I have an extremely active mind, one that wants to know the answers to literally everything and anything.
Back in the early 90s, I was on the floor in front of the TV at our second home, the dream home my parents built from scratch, the same home we were forced from only years after we'd moved in. The whitish-gray carpet was rough on my hands, imprinting them with the shapes of the little threaded balls that made up the carpet. I didn't care. I hated sitting on chairs. In most of my earliest memories I am anywhere but a chair: the floor, a saddle, a bed, the kitchen counter...hell, even a potty training toilet.
I was sitting on my butt before the TV, my arms back behind me at an awkward angle only people with “double joints” can find comfortable. I watched the evening news with my parents while they sat behind me on the hunter green leather furniture. The news anchor mentioned something like, “Is anti-bacterial soap actually bad for you? Find out after the break!” This left me confused. My grandma, the sweet and energetic tiny woman I'd known all my life as MaMa (pronounced MawMaw) could write a campaign speech for anti-bacterial soap if she were required to. Anything that kept you and your belongings squeaky clean was something worth having and hanging onto for dear life. If MaMa was behind it, it had to be good for you!
It was the first thing besides horses and drawing such horses that I had ever been interested in. Sad, perhaps funny, but true. I sat before the TV, nearly scratching my head, not hardly waiting for the commercial break to be over so I could find out why, exactly, anti-bacterial soap might not be the best thing since sliced bread.
When the news anchor finally came back on and explained that anti-bacterial soap allows household bacteria to become immune and may, in the long run, end up producing stronger and more resistant bacteria, it was a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to me. Frustrated when the subject changed, I turned to my parents and asked them to help me understand why (and in English, please!) anti-bacterial soap was bad? Even after their explanation, I still didn't understand. And that bothered me.
Quite pathetically, it bothered me for years. I asked my mom on a Girly Day (a day consisting of driving around in her Ford Mustang—or Chrysler Sebring, depending on the year—going to anywhere we could possibly think of to spend money on the most unnecessary and useless items) if she remembered the news piece from years before. Surprisingly, she had, or at least knew what I was talking about. She tried explaining it again, and I still didn't understand.
Finally, one year in middle school, I was in science class, and we were learning about the human body's immune system. I learned how the body adapts to its environment, and that fascinated me. For example, the teacher said, showers are great and feel nice, but if you rely on bathing every single day and suddenly miss two days, your body is caught off guard. If you are subjected to a virus or strange bacterium within those two days, you are more likely to pick it up and get sick or infected.
My mind lit up. The anti-bacterial soap! My God, I finally understood! The bacteria became immune to the ingredients that could hurt it in the soap, and it evolved. How beautiful, how interesting! I quickly grabbed my student planner and jotted down excited notes. It was something new to research!
I was a dorky kid. I was like a boy who wanted to be a girl. My interests included reading, writing, drawing and researching, but I was fascinated with make up and girly stuff because I simply didn't understand it. I hated dolls. I couldn't stand most kids my age because they seemed so immature. Saying this years later brings laughs, but I am as serious as can be. I was ready to be grown up as soon as I was born.
I was the type of kid who didn't want to play with the other kids at family get-togethers. Kids weren't interesting. They talked about stupid things and really didn't know anything. Adults, on the other hand, talked about things my young mind was fascinated in. The stock market, the latest presidential election, real estate markets...heck, even anti-bacterial soap. Things that other uninteresting kids knew nothing about.
I can remember always being against the idea of marriage because every married couple I knew when I was little had kids...and I didn't want kids. I knew I was different for this. My girl friends would have their dolls sitting on their beds, all dressed and nice and neat. Meanwhile, my idea of toys was a set of Hot Wheels, buildable tracks, or a sketch pad and colored pencils. Kids were never interesting to me, and the kids I was friends with were usually at least either smart or interesting.
I told my mom I didn't want kids when I was ten or so. We were in the house that I would finish my childhood in, the one where I would eventually try to take my own life, the one with the hardest lessons to learn. My mom had mentioned something about when I had kids, she knew I'd be this type of mother, or whatever...the message was made. I was having kids. It was only natural.
I looked up from my homework and I said, “I don't want to have kids.”
She chuckled and said, “Probably because you can't imagine being a mother. Just wait until you meet the love of your life and you'll want to have a family. Once you're married you'll feel different.”
I remember not wanting to reply because I knew I didn't want kids. I knew. It wasn't something like the career I had in mind...I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a meterologist, a jockey, an author, or an astrophysicist, but I had plenty of time for that. Kids? I was more sure than anything else in my life: I didn't want them. They weren't interesting, and they were cruel.
Ironically, I believed kids were cruel even before they encouraged me to take my own life. How right I was.
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