Crash and Burn
More than a year after a motorcycle accident nearly killed me, I finally got the answers I'd spent months demanding. The driver was cited, went to court, and received a deferred sentence. Case closed, apparently. Except my life didn't just go on. There were weeks in the hospital, months of recovery, and a hole in my memory where the accident should be. I thought getting answers might bring closure. Instead, I'm sitting here wondering how the fuck you let go of a version of justice that's never going to materialize.
The Miles Between
A year ago, somebody nearly took my life. Yesterday, I was riding my motorcycle to work, bitching about the cold, and going about my day. I didn't even remember what day it was until somebody pointed at the tattoo on my arm.
One Fucking Year
One year ago, an evening motorcycle ride left me broken on Cerrillos Road. Broken bones, surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and nights spent crying when nobody was watching. But somewhere in the hardest fucking year of my life, I found love, purpose, and something I hadn't truly possessed before: a sense of my own worth. I'm not grateful for the accident. I'm grateful I survived it.
The List
Almost a year after the motorcycle crash, I showed Dawna the list of everything that had been broken, torn, punctured, crushed, or otherwise fucked up that night. I expected her to understand what I survived. I wasn't expecting the fucking list to remind me how much of it I'm still carrying.