Mithridates, He Died Old

It's one of those anniversaries that one can't escape.

 

I used to celebrate it with a nice dinner out and dancing with my friends. I sent out invitations in advance and called it anti-Homecoming. I never told them what we were celebrating, just that it was a personal tradition and I refuse to celebrate Homecoming. Then I admitted to myself that this was simply refusing to deal with it and I opted for a quiet dinner with a select few who knew. It turned into warning a few people that I might be upset that day and being right-- then discovering that I was wrong. This year, despite working for five days now on a blog post about that day and the events that followed, it didn't occur to me what the date was until it had passed. Twenty-seven years. Twenty-six years. Twenty-three years.

 

Twenty-seven years ago I was shoved into a pit. Twenty-six years ago, I was buried alive. Twenty-three years ago, I set a plan in motion to rise from the grave. Twenty-two years ago my head finally emerged. Twenty years ago, I took the hand of the person in the pit next door and we pulled for the other because we couldn't pull for ourselves. Seventeen years ago, I let go and started pulling for me. One year ago, I pulled my last foot from the grave. One day ago, the remains of the dirt had been washed away. Today, I noticed that my skin was clean.

 

Twenty-three years of freedom to be free. Twenty-three years because I deserve freedom.