Meggan Gould
Meggan Gould is a study abroad student from Canada. She is currently pursuing a combined honors major in History and English, with the hopes of going into International Teaching. She has an absolute love of writing and reading, which she has possessed since she was very young. Meggan is a major advocate against drunk driving, and much of her writing is centralized around that topic.
My Story
“This wasn’t supposed to happen” was what you whispered over and over as they led you out of the courtroom. It was a hot, sunny day outside, but the inside of the courthouse had a definite chill. I am not here to preach, make you envision horrible images of the countless victims or to read you statistics. I want you and everyone else to see what one selfish act can do. I want you to see it from my point of view, see the damage that you created. I need you to understand that the pain you inflicted that day did not simply stop at the funeral, it never does. You drank a few drinks and your consequence for that is jail time and a few lost years. I, however, did not have anything to drink; no one in my vehicle did, so why did we deserve the greater loss? You may receive a little resentment, or rejection from society, but otherwise you will be out soon and you will never have to think about it again, if you wish. The victim of the crash, however, will never forget.
I have a scar that runs through my left eyebrow. No one really notices unless they’re up close, but I notice it every time I look in the mirror. I think I received this scar when the glass from the windshield shattered as you hit our car. I remember trying to cover my face with my small arms as shards of glass pricked my skin like shrapnel. The piece that hit my eyebrow went in so deep, the doctors had to perform a thirty-minute surgery to dislodge it from my skull. This happened ten years ago, and I was always told that scars fade – but I think they just lied to me in an effort to make me feel better. The truth is, really, that you may be able to see were the stitches are, but the hair will never again grow there. Something that will always be missing in my life, something small that signifies a much greater loss. I just want you to know my story.
Let us relive your last few hours before the accident. You were at a party, I presume. You thought it was somehow cool to drink in front of your friends. You knew perfectly well that you had to drive home, but you “could handle your liquor”. It’s not your fault, is it? Did your friends not notice you stumble? Did they not smell the toxins on your breath? No, but you did. Needless to say, you decided you were fine. You climbed into your car, beer bottle still in hand, and drove towards the interstate. “I’m fine,” you kept telling yourself each time your wheels drove over the thick yellow line, “I’m fine, I’m going to be okay.” Did you even wonder if the other people on the road that Saturday night would be fine? Did you ever consider them? Did they ever cross your mind? I just want you to know my story.
When it finally happened, when your car collided with mine, did you briefly see the faces illuminated by your headlights? Did you see the face of a man in the driver’s seat? Did you see that he threw his hands in front of his wife’s stomach in an attempt to protect his offspring? You may have seen them briefly, but I know for a fact you did not see my face. I was in the back seat, smiling, on the way home from a long weekend. I did not even have time to ask why you were on the wrong side of the road. Is a glass of wine or a bottle of beer really worth the pain it inflicts? You turned my life around in one simple decision; I just want you to know my story.
Every day, every moment, people make these decisions thinking that they are going to be fine. A parent, an aunt, a grandparent, a child gone forever. It is perfectly reasonable to think about the ones that died and feel a twinge of remorse because they will never again feel a heart beat, but there are so many others who were left behind, a piece of their life they will never get back. I will never again visit their house. I will never hear their voices. The collection of people they leave behind sit at the funeral. They say their goodbyes in front of a closed casket; the bodies were too mangled to view. They leave knowing that they will never see these people again, never again hear their voice. A loss like that leaves a hole, a gap that can never be filled. You, however, having no relation to these people except being labelled their murderer, only miss them because their deaths are why you are in jail. I just want you to know my story.
Is it worth it for the high school senior to get wasted on prom night just to show off in front of their friends? If an accident does happen, maybe they will be lucky and hit a tree, but what happens if they hit another car? Does anyone really know how much alcohol they can handle? The father of three in the accident, the child, the newborn. Is our society so selfish that they don’t care what happens to others as long as they have a good time? It’s not worth the pain it causes. Save a life and call a cab, or stay over at the host’s house. Stop thinking that you would be the only victim if something happened, stop being so naïve. I need you to know their stories.
You had fun that night, right? That beer, those drinks were worth it. You were fine; and after all, you did make it home alive. What about those who did not? Or what about those that made it home, but will never be whole again because of a few drinks? I just need you to hear my story.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen” was what you whispered over and over as they led you out of the courtroom. It was a hot, sunny day outside, but the inside of the courthouse had a definite chill. I am not here to preach, make you envision horrible images of the countless victims or to read you statistics. I want you and everyone else to see what one selfish act can do. I want you to see it from my point of view, see the damage that you created. I need you to understand that the pain you inflicted that day did not simply stop at the funeral, it never does. You drank a few drinks and your consequence for that is jail time and a few lost years. I, however, did not have anything to drink; no one in my vehicle did, so why did we deserve the greater loss? You may receive a little resentment, or rejection from society, but otherwise you will be out soon and you will never have to think about it again, if you wish. The victim of the crash, however, will never forget.
I have a scar that runs through my left eyebrow. No one really notices unless they’re up close, but I notice it every time I look in the mirror. I think I received this scar when the glass from the windshield shattered as you hit our car. I remember trying to cover my face with my small arms as shards of glass pricked my skin like shrapnel. The piece that hit my eyebrow went in so deep, the doctors had to perform a thirty-minute surgery to dislodge it from my skull. This happened ten years ago, and I was always told that scars fade – but I think they just lied to me in an effort to make me feel better. The truth is, really, that you may be able to see were the stitches are, but the hair will never again grow there. Something that will always be missing in my life, something small that signifies a much greater loss. I just want you to know my story.
Let us relive your last few hours before the accident. You were at a party, I presume. You thought it was somehow cool to drink in front of your friends. You knew perfectly well that you had to drive home, but you “could handle your liquor”. It’s not your fault, is it? Did your friends not notice you stumble? Did they not smell the toxins on your breath? No, but you did. Needless to say, you decided you were fine. You climbed into your car, beer bottle still in hand, and drove towards the interstate. “I’m fine,” you kept telling yourself each time your wheels drove over the thick yellow line, “I’m fine, I’m going to be okay.” Did you even wonder if the other people on the road that Saturday night would be fine? Did you ever consider them? Did they ever cross your mind? I just want you to know my story.
When it finally happened, when your car collided with mine, did you briefly see the faces illuminated by your headlights? Did you see the face of a man in the driver’s seat? Did you see that he threw his hands in front of his wife’s stomach in an attempt to protect his offspring? You may have seen them briefly, but I know for a fact you did not see my face. I was in the back seat, smiling, on the way home from a long weekend. I did not even have time to ask why you were on the wrong side of the road. Is a glass of wine or a bottle of beer really worth the pain it inflicts? You turned my life around in one simple decision; I just want you to know my story.
Every day, every moment, people make these decisions thinking that they are going to be fine. A parent, an aunt, a grandparent, a child gone forever. It is perfectly reasonable to think about the ones that died and feel a twinge of remorse because they will never again feel a heart beat, but there are so many others who were left behind, a piece of their life they will never get back. I will never again visit their house. I will never hear their voices. The collection of people they leave behind sit at the funeral. They say their goodbyes in front of a closed casket; the bodies were too mangled to view. They leave knowing that they will never see these people again, never again hear their voice. A loss like that leaves a hole, a gap that can never be filled. You, however, having no relation to these people except being labelled their murderer, only miss them because their deaths are why you are in jail. I just want you to know my story.
Is it worth it for the high school senior to get wasted on prom night just to show off in front of their friends? If an accident does happen, maybe they will be lucky and hit a tree, but what happens if they hit another car? Does anyone really know how much alcohol they can handle? The father of three in the accident, the child, the newborn. Is our society so selfish that they don’t care what happens to others as long as they have a good time? It’s not worth the pain it causes. Save a life and call a cab, or stay over at the host’s house. Stop thinking that you would be the only victim if something happened, stop being so naïve. I need you to know their stories.
You had fun that night, right? That beer, those drinks were worth it. You were fine; and after all, you did make it home alive. What about those who did not? Or what about those that made it home, but will never be whole again because of a few drinks? I just need you to hear my story.