So, it's the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend.  Three years ago, on the sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I was stabbed twice in the face with a screwdriver.  I can still remember that day as vividly as if it were last week.  It was close to the end of my shift.  I was tired.  I wanted to make sure everything was cool so I could go home as soon as I possibly could.  There was another supervisor on with me, but because I am who I am, I wanted to respond to everything first.  I wanted to be in charge.  So, when my friend who worked in Cedar house called meup to help deal with a situation, I went.  Leaving three kids alone in the admin building.  Smart choice?  Not at all.  I made a lot of dumb decisions that day.  I went up to the cabin, and there he was, with the screw driver.  The details leading up to the stabbing, I've gone over and over in my head.  I could have done a million and a half things differently.  I could have been supportive rather than combative.  I could have taken the other kids out of the situation,  eliminating the audience.  I could have been chill rather than confronting him and trying to show him who's boss.  Whatever.  In any case.  I did what I did.  And he stabbed me.  I remember the sound.  I remember the horror, feeling my tooth knocked back in my face.  I remember hearing myself scream but not identifying the sound with myself.  And the aftermath....  Not just the trip to the emergency room.  Not just trying to make it from Woodland Park to Memorial Hospital in the Springs in Memorial Day traffic.  Not just the look of horror on the police officer's face when I gave my statement and spat blood all over myself mid-sentence.  But the months afterward.  Not being able to watch violent movies without shaking with fear for months.  Feeling my scars and fully understanding how close the screwdriver had been from my throat.  Having to take out my tooth every time I ate, no matter where I was.  Having to tell the story over and over agian, every time I went to a new doctor, and seeing their expressions of horror.  Even now that happens.  My dentist, even my ob/gyn.  They all want to know what happened, how it happened, what happened to the kid, how old he was, what was wrong with him, and then they wax philosophical about the state of children these days.  All the while looking at me like there's something profoundly wrong with me to have done what I did for so long.  And maybe there is something profoundly wrong with me.  I've realized lately that I seem to have an inflated sense of injury to others and a diminished sense of injury to myself.  I endure things I shouldn't.  I don't have the confidence in myself to believe that I might be justified in feeling wronged.  I'm in one of those phases that make me feel inferior to everything and everyone.  I'll get better and I'll get over it.  I just know right now, that I feel....terrible.  Burdensome.  But, the thing is, I've realized that when I feel lonely or...incomplete, that I can't depend on anyone else but me to fix it.  Wanting others to fix my sadness is only a bandaid on a problem that only I can heal.