Was I ever fifteen?

Age fourteen was my perfect year. That was the year I was editor of the school newspaper, I was in accelerated math and English courses, was surrounded by my little clique of intellectual friends, participated in all the intramural sports (even basketball) and rode my bike for up to 75 miles a week. I’d gotten awards for my writing, been awarded advanced placement for math, English and science for the next year in school. Schoolwork just came to me naturally, as though I already knew things and just had to be reminded. And I had my first boyfriend (who was to last for five years).

Age fifteen was when reality hit. My father had a heart attack, and then three months later had a stroke that weakened him for the remaining fifteen years he was alive. The family income went down, the school work got harder, my little clique became a much more loosely-knit group as we advanced to a new school and more people were introduced into the mix. I found out that having a boyfriend had its downside, that nobody liked a smart-alec, and that schoolwork wasn’t always going to just come to me naturally. Age fifteen was the year I first contemplated suicide, in a selfishly abstract way (wouldn’t they be sorry if…). It took another four years to realize that my death wasn’t worth the pain it would cause, but that’s another set of circumstances, and another story.

Age fifteen was when I first developed a habit of picking at my cuticles until they bled. My fingers always looked ragged and raw, and I hid my hands in my pockets so people couldn’t see them. My boyfriend tried to help me to quit this by giving me a polished worry stone on each one-month anniversary of when we first got together. I was supposed to rub a stone every time I felt the urge to start mangling my fingers.

I know I have several different colors of quartz, a bloodstone, and I think a piece of malachite. It’s been a long time since I’ve opened the pouch and looked at the stones. I’m ashamed to admit I don’t even remember the anniversary date anymore.

My boyfriend’s attempt to cure me didn’t work, and I continued my little self-destructive habit until I was in my mid-twenties. At that point it seems I just spontaneously stopped on my own. I carried the worry stones about in my pocket all through high school though, and I still keep them in the little leather pouch I was given with my first worry stone.

All of which is a long-winded way of saying that I was fifteen once, and while it’s survivable, it isn’t an age I’d wish on anyone.