A person I know talked of wanting to be a moment in time. Because these moments are felt—remembered. Cherished. It all seemed very noble and intellectual, but honestly, the thought had never even entered my mind. Thing is, as teenagers, you expect the world to revolve around you. You’re convinced you’re headed for greatness and everything you do is changing lives or will in the future. You write a good enough essay for English and expect to be the next Sylvia Plath; you get an A* for a science project and dream about overcoming the energy crisis.
I wish I could be that vain again. I really do.
It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? Me harping on and on about my insecurities and doubts? But if you are reading this, then you made the choice to click on this crap and so thou shall suffer–and suffer in silence!
Anyway, today was one of those days. One minute I’m minding my own business, bopping my head to whatever song is playing as I read up on Hitler’s Germany and the next I get this overwhelming urge to just lie down in the middle of my bed. In the fetal position. Yes, yes, all very dramatic.
And then things got real confusing real fast. I don’t know how to explain it and whatever I say won’t quite cover it. It’s been a while since I felt like this—utterly alone and helpless; like I was a character in a cheap, horror movie wielding a broken bat against an invisible, all seeing murderer. The last time I had been this overwhelmed had been three months ago. And it had been ugly. I didn’t want to go back to that place. It’s damp and musty and suffocating. I thought I was over that phase. I truly believed I was.
So as I lay there and felt myself spiraling down, as I felt my brain dredging up all the remnants of that terrible time, I closed my eyes and forced myself to go blank. To take the emotion out of it. Shut my brain down.
I fell asleep eventually.
I don’t want to go back to that place.