I Used To Be Invincible

I used to know everything. Or, at least, I thought I knew everything I needed to. About myself, about life. I knew what love looked like. Intense highs and lows were ingredients of passion and being truly seen.

I used to be invincible. I dove from planes, got in cars with people I’d just met, and beckoned vampires in a graveyard in the middle of the night. I played with life and love and my future, sure of things staying fine. Once, I even slayed a dragon. Ok, not a really real dragon, but I slayed dragons of self-doubt, and have lived grand adventures. These days, I worry about sinkholes, that my family will die when I travel without them, and that there might be lice on the toilet paper at the airport.

It’s fascinating to reflect back on what we used to be oh-so-sure of and not-so-sure of. Our righteousness in knowing that once we have children, they’ll never misbehave in a restaurant or the grocery store. We’ll never yell or be impatient. Ha! In youth, we’re confident we have enough time to do everything we’ll ever want, and to remake ourselves as often as we like.

I used to be invincible, and knew everything. Oh, the things I used to know…

For a time, I figured past relationships don’t matter, and promises whispered by candlelight meant forever. Each connection does matter though. Every relationship and whispered promise shape us and make us and build us into what we’ll become, sometimes by tearing us into pieces. Now-me is grateful for past hilarity, troll dolls, mountains, beaches, songs, magic, and goofiness. Each experience with another infused me with a belief in childhood magic. Anger, insecurity, and walking away infused me with wisdom and power.

Before realizing we don’t mold our children by sheer will and desire, I thought I’d have the power to make it so my son doesn’t experience my insecurity or shyness.

I knew I’d live forever (I used to be invincible, after all), but figured it was better to die young. Now, I wish time would stand still for a little while. That I’ll remember my little boy when I am old. I hope to know my son as a middle aged man. I hope to meet my grandchildren and tell them funny stories about their dad, and how he once called airplanes “ninees” and water “ah.” How we’d worry whether he’d speak, and joke with them about how sometimes, he goes on for hours about whatever replaces Legend of Zelda in the year 2059.

When I was young, a witch lived under my bed. She could move as much as I did, in either direction, so I had to be careful to not wiggle so much that she’d be able to free herself from captivity. For years, I knew witches aren’t real, until a big, stupid, orange one moved into the White House, and doesn’t care about people moving or playing human at all. The witch wants laws equivalent to burning young girls, women, and brown people at the stake. This is one thing I’d like to unknow.

I’ve spent too many hours and days worried what people think of me, and hid pieces of myself. I still catch myself doing this, but now know that people’s opinions of me only matter to them. At least, I know this intellectually. Knowing-knowing will take more time.

Today, in looking at things I used to know, I understand that the point of living is to live. To love. To hurt. To grow. To be able to look ourselves in the mirror and meet our gazes with more than resignation. To meet our gazes with power, content, and occasional hard-won peace.

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This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, with the prompt “I used to think (and no longer do).