Curiosity killed the parent
When I was four, there was little difference between me and other four year olds; I had dimples in my cheeks and curly brown hair that sprung from my head in ringlets. When I was four, I loved dinosaurs (triceratops especially) and chocolate milk in my sippy cup. When I was four, I dressed as a black cat for Halloween and wwent trick-or-treating with my sister, who I idolized. When I was four I ran out in front of cars. I ran out in front of cars because I wanted to know what it was like to die.
It started innocently enough, my quest for death. I had seen at a cross walk in town that people and cars stopped for the color red. Also, if a police officer held out their hand a car would stop for them. As logic stands, going home and coloring my hand red with a marker then holding it out while standing in the middle of the road should have stopped cars. As experience stands, it did not.
Thanks to my parents, I never was hit by a car and, for obvious reasons; I never did succeed in my quest. The fact that I wanted to die had nothing to do with being depressed. What child feels depressed at the age of four? No, the reason I wanted to die was due to the simple fact that I was curious. I did not understand that once I died, I couldn’t come back. Pistol Pete and Wile E Coyote came back from death all the time. They would fall off cliffs or get shot in the face on a daily basis, to them dieing was a paycheck.
With each attempt I aged my parents a little more, to the point where they often entertained the idea of buying a leash for me. Numerous lectures on the concept of death and dying were told to me over breakfast, lunch, dinner, and before bedtime. To me death was just a story. Like so many other things at the time, it wouldn’t be real until I had experienced it myself. Despite my parent’s uncountable efforts, I was never discouraged. I saw every street corner as an opportunity for victory. The awful truth of it all was, with each near miss from the big finish, I was slowly killing my mother and father.
My parents suffering, was silent. Like many fixations that came before and after, my wonderfully patient parents took my curb jumping in stride. For years, I had no idea of what hell I had put them through. I never knew how many times they were certain that I could not be caught in time, only to grab a hold of my shirt at the last moment. After I was married, my mother and father took me aside and said they hoped that, someday, I had a child as “spirited” as I had been.
After I realized my parents were tipped off to my motives every time I left the house with a red left hand, I began taking more desperate measures. The moment a head was turned I would make my escape. Stepping off the curb at a swift toddle; testing my speed against my parents’ agility. I am unable to recall every instance in which I ran but, to this day, I still get the tiniest rush of exhilaration when I cross the road against a light.
Thankfully, despite my curiosity, I was not very imaginative. Running in front of a car was the only option I had in my arsenal in regards to offing myself. This fact, when recalled, is consistently met with a sigh of relief.
In recent years, the recollection of my relentless journey towards death has become a favorite subject in my family. Usually, reflected upon at dinner time, after the second bottle of wine has been un-corked.
“Well I just don’t know what we would have done if you decided there were easier ways to die,” my mother might say. Perhaps with a little eye roll to signify she didn’t appreciate the subject being brought up during dinner (this gesture only reserved for when guests are present).
“We would definitely have bought the leash, if that were the case,” might reply my father. Perhaps not taking interest in the, aforementioned, eye roll (this indifference only occurring if he doesn’t like the guests).
“I still can’t believe you went through that phase in the first place,” this might be said by my sister, if she were visiting from out of town (in place of the guests).
I would, more than likely, defend myself at this juncture; but to be honest, I am in disbelief myself. As quickly as my obsession came, it left; replaced by Mr. Rogers and grilled cheese sandwiches. I woke up one morning, at the age of five, and realized death was not something I wanted to run towards. To this day, I can’t explain what my motivations were besides curiosity. Most kids go through chapters in their lives that test their parents. Mine, nearly killed me.
(picnic, lightning)
