lucky 13

It was the summer of 1986 and it was my 13th birthday. This one is a little difficult to recall because it’s one of those “blocked” memories. Here’s what I do remember. a party. all of my friends at my favorite childhood home in the woods. I believe I was in the family room. my parents had wrapped 13 gifts for each year of my life. sweet, right? well, not to me. I wanted one thing that year-a diamond ring. My parents were not rich but not poor-they could afford that ring. as i opened each gift i grew angrier by the minute. no ring. no ring. no ring. the last (13th) present i opened. the diamond ring. but it was too late—i was gone. off in a depression. i wish i could remember the rest. i’m assuming my parents comforted my friends and the party was over while i cried in my room with purple carpet and rainbows. or maybe i cheered up, but doubtful. A year or two later that ring was stolen. I think it was a sign. Gifts are just gifts. Things are just things. we know that’s not what matters in life. I should have appreciated their sweet idea, buying and wrapping 13 gifts. instead, i was selfish. this is also the same year i began telling my parents constantly that, “I want to die!” and so I was dragged to a psychiatrist at 13. truly an unlucky number one might think. but i never think about that ring and haven’t for many, many years. and i thank my parents for “dragging” me to that doctor because I don’t know if I’d be here today had they not made that choice. 13 was not unlucky year-it was just part of this very long road I’ve been traveling.