Bummer Lamb
When my old high school was advertising yearbooks on sale from way back when I still went there, I was excited. In my head, I figured that even though my official photo wouldnât be present, there would be a few candid shots in between the pages of me from the various groups I was in over the years. My mom was sick and bedridden completely by the time I finished ninth grade. To say I missed a lot of school would be an understatement.
         In ninth grade, I missed about 25-to-30 days of class. Tenth grade, I missed at least 40 days. In eleventh grade, I missed so much school the first semester, they suggested I âhomeschoolâ myself the second semester and take the summer to figure out a better arrangement for my motherâs home health care routine. But instead of getting help that would allow me to go back to attending high school every day, I got far more than what I bargained for. It was no shock that I dropped out completely via email in twelfth grade after making about two days.
         Why I thought I would be in any pictures for 11th or 12th grade was beyond me. Maybe I just remembered going to school more than I did. Or, maybe I just forgot how much I truly missed. There was only one picture of me in the yearbook, and it wasnât one you could easily point me out in, either. The photo is of the top half of my head. There was nothing else in all the pages of both years.
         It made me sad. I was looking to recapture something lost through buying these yearbooks. It was as if I could take back my teen years by commemorating them. The problem with that theory, though, is that one must be present for photographs in order to be pictured. There was no way I missed so much school in 11th grade I didnât get in one real photograph. Maybe tenth grade was different?
         I messaged an old dear friend (Hello, itâs Paper Bagger here!) and asked him to see if maybe I am in the 10th grade yearbook. I wasnât pictured in that one, at all, either. I havenât had the chance to see one from freshman year yet. I donât know if I could handle it.
         The truth is, I wasnât featured because I wasnât there. I was at home, taking care of my bedridden mother. I was at work, making money to help take care of my bedridden mother. My whole life was her illnesses. Her wounds. Her needs. I was sixteen and had a doorbell installed in my room so she could wake me up at all hours of the night so my dad could sleep. He worked early and needed his sleep. I guess I didnât since I only had to work, go to high school, and wait on my mother.
         In one instant, I went from being nostalgic to wanting to bawl my eyes out. These yearbooks I bought werenât the reminder I was looking for to help me remember. They became the ugly truth that reminded me of everything I wanted to forget. I no longer saw experiences and memories. I could only see everything I lost or gave up. And what for? I was the Bummer Lamb.
