Early years.

It’s not like I was an unwanted baby.
My mother had waited ten years for a child. After six miscarriages and several false alarms later, she thought it was over. Then I decided to show up on an echo.
At birth, I was declared clinically dead for about twenty-three seconds until a nurse realized that my umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck. As soon as my airway was cleared, I let out a shriek so earth shattering that the doctors all covered their ears.
Even in the womb I had been carefully planning my early, memorable exit from this world.
Suicide attempt number 1, foiled by an apprentice nurse in pink scrubs after her first week.

My mother did not let go of me until I was old enough to run away from her. I could only get so far though, until I would trip and scrape my knees. The tears would bring me straight back into her arms. My father would carry me on his shoulders and bring me to the park. He would baby-proof the whole house, putting that soft mushy stuff on the corners of all of the coffee tables. God forbid that something would happen to daddy’s little girl.
I’m sure I wasn’t exposed to a single germ before I started hanging out with other kids.
Oh god, the other kids.

I should have been homeschooled. The feeling of belonging to this world wears off really quickly once you hit kindergarten. Especially when the boy sitting next to you in class spills his glue on you on purpose while chewing up all of your favourite pencils. I didn’t want to go out to the playground at recess because everyone seemed to have prince charming except me. When we would line up two by two to go back to class, I’d be the one standing next to the smelly boy who eats worms and sand for lunch.
Suicide attempt number 2, foiled by a lunchroom monitor. I did not accidentally slip on my spilled milk. I’m not that daft.

Things did not look up for me in high school. I was the girl who’s mother was the French teacher that everyone hated. I bet you anything that she took that job to keep an eye on me. High school was my chance to disappear off the radar though. I had friends, let’s not go there, but its not like I belonged there in any way.
Suicide attempt number 3, foiled in gym class. If only Sally Kemble knew how to smash a volleyball like a decent person.

Really though, I have no idea why I am such a miserable excuse for a human being. I sit at this desk nine hours a day, my career is decent and I make enough money to make any twenty something jealous. Why do I feel so out of place? So useless and unimportant? I think it could possibly be due to the fact that my best conversations are had around a water cooler, that my husband left me for the chick who works the Tim Horton’s drive through and I still can’t fit into skinny jeans.
Now all I can do is hope that death by multiple paper cuts will look good on my tombstone.