I Plead the Fifth

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend last night.  He currently resides in my old hometown in New Jersey and was inquiring about my brief visit.

Having missed the reunion, he filled me in on some of the highlights of the event.  I have seen pictures, and most people I have reconnected with via social network sites.

What I missed were the diners, the stroll through my hometown, and the face to face flustered feeling I would have had not remembering who someone was, or worse thinking, "You were in my grade?"  

My perceptions of who I was seem to change with each person I talk to.

While playing a silly game I had to answer some seemingly harmless questions about when I was eighteen years old.  Who my best friends were, what I wanted to be, what were my fears, who I was dating.  All easy enough questions taken at face value.  I ended up not being completely honest about the answers.

I was afraid of a lot of things when I was eighteen.  I was afraid of dying.  I was afraid I was not going to get in to the college of my choice.  I was dating a woman at the start of my eighteenth year and guy at the end of it.  I was doing a lot of drugs.  Or at least a lot of one drug that wiped out my entire inheritance from my father.

Eighteen was spent in every club imaginable in New York.  Driving my camarao packed with friends in to the city to go clubbing all night long only to walk out into the stinging surprise of reality.  Wearily trying to find my car, many times having to roll a drunken homeless man away so I did not run him over.

Eighteen I made out with my girlfriend at a concert in front of the Spanish teacher from my high school and did not even notice who he was.  To my credit I did take french.

Eighteen I fell in love with a teacher and learned how to really read a book, and which books to read.  My grades improved and I was accepted to the college of my choice.

Eighteen I went off to college in Boston only to have a nervous breakdown and end up weighing almost 100 pounds and in a hospital for three weeks,

Eighteen I quit drinking, and all drugs.

Eighteen I dated a boy from my home town, who preferred the company of my brother than to me.  But he always made up for it with sweet words and gestures.  He made me laugh.  He made everyone laugh. Shortly after eighteen he was in a coma from a car accident and died six years later.

But that was nineteen.

For most of my eighteenth year I lived fast and foolishly.  I was afraid of death because I tempted it too many times and knew what I was doing.  I had my last hangover at eighteen.  My last high school football game where I froze cheering in the snow wearing saddle shoes.  At eighteen I graduated high school. 

At eighteen I had the owner of a nightclub want to throw me a party.  He printed out cards and invitations and the night was to be dedicated to me.  

The party never happened.

At eighteen I demanded second looks from strangers and made my presence known when I walked in to a room.

Eighteen started off with arrogance, some confidence, and ended in near death and complete breakdown of belief in myself.

Some years should I would like to forget, some I would like to relive.  I would not like to relive being eighteen.  

Being the mother to two eighteen year olds I can understand the stresses they are going through.  The changes in friends, habits, and questions of their future.  One is worried to the core about her college applications.  One seems to have no future goals and lives in a more day to day existence.  They both possess qualities and fears I had when I was that age.

I can look back and feel some anxiety as I recall that year.  I can not say I am proud of everything that occurred that year, but I can say I am proud I survived it.  I am proud that in the end I made better choices and stopped doing activities that made me dance closer to death.

I am proud of who I am now.  Who I am now is a result in part of my eighteenth year.

My friend chose wisely and I am sure purposefully when she asked about that year.  It does stand out.  It is not hard to pull up the memories from that year.  Had she said nine, or even forty-two it may have taken me some time to figure out the pivotal points from those years.

Eighteen was full of them.

When I went away for four days one of my own eighteen year old children begged me not to go.  There were tears, and vitriolic messages sent back and forth.  Much of my trip was spent either worrying or being angry.  I could not understand why it was so important for me to stay.

I was not as close to my mother when I was eighteen.  I loved her, and adored her, but parents were not the same as they are now.  My mother barely knew what colleges I was applying to, much less who I was dating or what I was doing in the city every weekend night.

My eighteen year olds have their secrets, but they also share with me.  They talk with me.  They laugh with me.  We are close.  

Upon reflection of my own time spent at that age I understand why I was begged not to go away, if even for a few days.  A few days to me is a lifetime for someone eighteen.  

We both survived.  I survived going back to a place that haunts me, and holds my memories of being eighteen, and my own child survived being eighteen without me.

Both of us learned something, about ourselves and each other.  Both of us survived.

For one moment we were both eighteen together.