It honestly seems like yesterday that I was lying in that hospital bed at R.I.C. waiting for a therapist to come in and ask me to try to walk, or tie my shoes or to say my name. No lie.
A decade since the night that changed me forever. Some say for the better. Some worry for the worse. Am I glad it happened? Not entirely, but there is a part of me that does think that it happened for a reason. Everything happens for a reason, right? Whatever that reason was/is I can't be too certain about, but I think I've got a pretty good idea.
If it never happened, imagine all the things I would've missed. I would have never moved to Chicago to experience all the things, both good and bad, that I have. I wouldn't have met the people that I have. Wouldn't have fallen in love with her, and even though neither of us hold the love we shared for each other any longer, she made me realize what love actually was. I thank her for that.
A little less than a third of my life has passed since that night, and I feel I have grown from it. Matured from it I guess. Some that only know me after that night might disagree, but they didn't know me before, so they really shouldn't pass judgement.
Am I grateful for the reminders I have of that night? Not one bit. But each time I see them looking back at me in the mirror, I'm reminded just how lucky I am. And that each morning is the start of a new day. And each new day is the first day of the rest of my life. A reminder that each morning I wake up I should be grateful that I did. To know that I'm one of the lucky ones that gets to do that.
(if you have no idea what I'm talking about, go to the homepage and scroll down to the post entitled: IIXXII)
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