Jumping Off the Cliff

When I was eight years old, I remember standing at the top of a ladder that was next to a trampoline at my cousins’ house. Everyone was jumping off the ladder onto the trampoline to get a big bounce. It had looked fun when I was at the bottom of the ladder. I’ve never particularly considered myself afraid of heights, but as I stared down at the trampoline, I could not make myself let go of my grip on the sides. I stood up there for several long minutes as my cousins shouted at me to just do it, it was fun, just let go. But I didn’t. I finally climbed back down, ashamed of my cowardice.

I repeated this pattern three times. Until the third time, standing at the top of the ladder, instead of letting me climb down, my frustrated cousins started shaking the ladder. I’m not sure what they thought would happen, but I was surprised and fell off the ladder, hitting my head on the metal edge of the trampoline and losing consciousness. This was in the 1970s, so no one called an ambulance or seemed to think to take me to the hospital. I don’t think I was bleeding. No visible wounds.

I woke up some time later in a bed inside, with my aunt’s face hovering over me in concern. I stayed in bed most of the rest of the day and enjoyed being treated like an invalid. I don’t think my parents were told what happened, but if they were, they didn’t seem to think it was of much concern. They didn’t baby me when I got…