I ran around, arms outstretched, singing, “I’m flying” when I hosted an “end of the world” party in my backyard after graduating eighth grade. I invited boys who brought a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey.
A panic attack turned my giddy flights into drunken cries in Spanish.
“Estoy muriendo,” I called out, depressed, angry, drunk. I climbed atop of what I thought was a picnic table at the community pavilion, but it was a ping-pong table. I immediately crashed onto the patio, failing to break my fall with my inebriated arms and, instead, landing with my front teeth cutting through my top lip and fracturing against the cement.
The night ended with me holding my bleeding mouth, unable to speak, annoyed and saddened when Dad couldn’t remember my birth date in the emergency room. I couldn’t answer and the nurses couldn’t find the gauze.
I went home with a swollen, stitched-up top lip, a brace to hold what was left of my front teeth in place and a prescription for codeine. When the trauma to my gums healed, a dentist added a bridge so my broken teeth could remain as hidden as my shame.
More than 30 years later, I can still see the scar on my lip, but I don’t think most people notice it.