I no longer talk about life before the accident. So, if that’s what you came here for, well, too bad.
Well, I supposed that’s not fair. I spent to long specializing my study in Tudor England to not still talk about that. And my mother spent every Saturday and Sunday for my sixth and seventh year of life researching every aspect of my personal genealogy, so I could give you a rousing tale of the lives of each of my great-great-grandfathers if you like.
But not my life. I don’t talk about my life before the accident. If that’s what you’re desperate to read—go find my father. He loves to talk about my life whether I want him to or not. Although, take it all with a grain of salt, since the man does love to embellish.
I won’t talk about the accident itself, either—although that’s mostly because I can’t. They tell me I was conscious following the accident and I can’t see why they would lie, but I can’t remember any of that. I was in some pretty extreme shock, so it’s all gone if it was ever there to begin with.
But if you want to know about afterwards, that’s what this is. This is my life after the death of Andrew Taylor Carlton, Jr. This is how I learned to survive when I thought I should die.