welcome to shecKiiville

A scared, pregnant friend lived with me. I watched her feel helpless, grasping for her life, eventually resorting to the only option left.

I checked a friend into rehab after relapsing, on the verge of killing himself after a morally questionable action.

I even helped a friend deal with his mom’s suicide, the only woman he loved.

In seemingly impossible situations, I always found the words and actions to deescalate it. Analyzing situations objectively was a personal strength.

Then came fall 2010, the week the baseball field flooded. For the first time in 25 years, no words came out.

Because how do you respond to, “(She) tried to kill herself after the guilt of having your baby aborted — and not telling you about it.”

I feverishly rushed home, rolling through every stop sign while speeding and honking at drivers.

When arriving, I didn’t bother parking properly, leaving the car haphazardly outside the garage.

I saw my dad in his office, located just left of the house door, smoking his cigarette, playing Freecell, looking pissed off at life.

“Dad!” I yelled, hoping to get a smile. “I shot one-under-par in my high school match!”

He hasn’t smiled much since first trimester. It didn’t help when the second trimester had the same 3.50 GPA with three Bs, especially since my dad never had one.

“How many bogeys?” he asked, almost robotically.

“Two bogeys. Three birdies,” I replied, less enthusiastically. “I drove a par five in two for the first time, though!”

As if it was from a movie, he takes his cigarette and puts it out, creating a dramatic pause.

“You could have shot three-under par,” crushing what would’ve been the best day of my freshman year.

This is the 10th revision of this entry, one that will set this blog's tone.