Ghostly

Not My Fault

I had to write a memoir for my English class and I’m posting it here because its my blog and I do what I want

I remember the color of the walls. I remember that I could see out the window into a sorry excuse for foliage.  Ice plant and a retaining wall.  Maybe it was meant to make people feel better. It sure wasn’t working for me.  I remember it hurt.  Olive Drab covered the walls; the bench I sat on was blue.  It was a Wednesday, or maybe a Thursday.  Either way, I didn’t want to be there.  It smelled like sickness masked by antiseptic. And it hurt.

I had always had joint problems, attributing the pain to my clumsiness, to my accidents.  Never thought it wasn’t my fault.  In 6th grade it hurt when I ran.  Each time I ran past another backstop, it just hurt more.  Coach B was nice, and he let me sit out sometimes.  He had long hair and the only thing I remember about that class other than the pain is the pine trees.  There were pine trees along the outside fence and on days Coach B was being nice, I was allowed to sit under them.  The patchy grass of the athletic field nor the expansive blue sky nor the shady pine trees made it hurt less.  Everyone thought I was just complaining.  Just being a dramatic little girl. They all had advice, and it all stemmed from them blaming me.  So I learned to blame myself.  That made it hurt even worse.

“You just need to exercise more.”

“You need to learn how to deal with it.”

“You need to stop worrying other people with your problems.”

“It probably doesn’t even hurt that bad.”

My fault. My fault. It had to be my fault.  In the room that smelled like sickness with glass containers lining the counter opposite me, it hurt. And they told me it wasn’t my fault.

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