Thirteen

If you were transporting your thirteen-year-old self, what would you say? If you went to take vitals on a wrist etched with scabs, and shifting to look at your watch, saw the layers of scar tissue lining the inside of your arm. If you could turn back time eight years, what would you want to hear?

If you could lay hands on your thirteen-year-old self's significantly older significant other, for leading them down a road lined with weed and cocaine, leading them to a place in life where they completely disappeared for months at a time, for disrespecting and selling their body, for leaving them in the pediatric emergency room with wounds that antibiotics won't cure...

...would you?

And when you're giving your report to the triage nurse, would you be internally raging when she gave your thirteen-year-old self the dirtiest look-over and then refused to sign your PCR?

Because if my thirteen-year-old self's aunt and my own trainee EMT hadn't been with me, I would have said much, much more than I did.

When really, I just want to take my thirteen-year-old self in my arms and hold tight until all the bad goes away.

Take care of yourself, love. No one's going to do it for you, and if you want this life to be good, you're going to have to fight for it every step of the way. No one can make that decision for you.