Dollar dollar bill

Dear self,

Why did they trust me?

All of them that voted for me by a landslide, because I was popular? You know it was only by default. Your white skin, blonde hair, blue eyes and "so they say" nice ass was the reason more boys voted for you than girls. Why should a birthright judge an outcome of trust and acceptance?

When you taped the poster on the high school hall wall, "BONNIE FOR G.O. TREASURER" it never occurred to you what winning would mean or what the job description entailed. Neither was on your radar. It was suggested, by a forgettable someone, that you should run for this position, Treasurer, even though you daydreamt your way through all your math classes, thinking only about your latest paramour, an antidote for your latest bruise or verbal assault. As if on auto pilot you said "Sure. Why not." A yes girl unaware of purpose and place.

Your first assignment was right after the football game. Someone, a supervising school official, I suppose, said "follow me," directing you to a small room, the size of a closet, and when we arrived he said, "sit there," as if there was a choice of seats, pointing to a solo wooden chair and standard desk. On the walk down the hall, you didn't question what he was holding in the bag, didn't consider its contents, you just followed as you do. He pushed the bag towards you and said, "Count the bills, put the coins in the rolls inside the desk and keep the door locked. Press the buzzer when you are done and I'll come get you.

"Simple," you thought, until halfway through your fervent counting, a dollar bill fell off the desk onto the cold vinyl floor. The fervent counting stopped and your mind went to a place you had never been with the thought, "Who would know if I slipped that dollar in my pocket?" If boys were an antidote to your painful home life, theft in that moment became your miracle cure. So you thought. You also thought how dumb it was that you were locked alone in a room just asking for sudden temptation. With one quick grab and a flick of your wrist, you became a thief. Momentarily you felt like you had climbed Mt Everest and were knighted king of the world as you slipped that first bill in your jeans pocket, just one, but that would not be the one and only because once a girl without purpose feels their first high, less is not an option.

So what are you sorry for, self? I am sincerely sorry for stealing from my class treasury, and I cannot forgive myself for that, but I am not sorry that I didn't get caught. In your case, the embarrassment and humiliation would not have taught you a good lesson. It would have further eviscerated you, the way the people you were supposed to trust did. You did not go on to become a criminal. You left that behavior locked away in that closet. You also never climbed Mt Everest, continuing to stumble through a life of functional dysfunction. But a true apology cannot be realized with any buts. You know that, so no excuses, I am sorry, and since you never made restitution for a crime committed almost 50 years ago, you are not forgiven.