Recently, I’ve been hit with a large wave of nostalgia.
I’m sure this is some poor milestone event that happens in everyone’s life – who doesn’t want to reverse logic and be children again? – especially children today; lucky bastards, I see them everywhere.
I’ve always thought of myself as a forward thinking person. It never bothered me to leave behind my then current life when I decided to move within 2 months once the idea was voiced. I was not regretful my father was no longer here. I had always been grateful for what it taught me. It was something that was always thrown around in the house I lived in. It was something I took as serious as my stupid Ducklet pride.
When I moved out at 18, I never felt vulnerable nor missed my old life. As serene and placid as it was in the suburban neighborhood with peers my own age. I never once missed high school. Maybe that’s a lie. I miss the ridiculous oblivion the high school environment provides. And in the same breath I abhor the tiny environment it allows for the numerous brilliant minds that have been contorted and warped to believe inside themselves a certain sense of self that will last through their life time based on a teenager’s echelon. In full, I still wouldn’t go back. You can’t unknow things you know. Life is frustrating like that.
Now at almost 19, I feel I haven’t accomplished much in life. Who cares about the job my family is so proud of, who cares about being the youngest between my colleagues. I still feel I have missed out on life’s secret event. I knew it was playing a trick on me. Right?
Sometimes I wish I could waste time. And not just sit at home all day – because I enjoy the solitude – but to sit at home all day and do stupid stuff and not have the harried feeling of knowing I’m wasting time.
I woke up and thought about the time when I used to always sleep over with my cousins and we would play DS (when that was still cool) the moment we woke up. When we unapologetically took that extra hour before physically getting out of bed. The childish routine to brush our teeth one by one and distribute left over breakfast at the kitchen. To watch 3 hyperbole romantic comedies in a row, and cry despite knowing we’ll get puffy eyes the next day at 2am on Christmas Eve.
I missed climbing over each other to reach the computer. I missed just wondering and chattering uselessly about what else life has to bring. I miss discovering how to french braid and having that as a skill. I missed the security, the comfort, their company – the not knowing.
If I were to be offered, I would never opt for omnipotent knowledge or wisdom. Like I said, you just can’t unknow things you already know.
So today I could never allow myself to move back home because I know all those peers back at home still haven’t even properly thought about it. I could never stop the cycle of working the grind because we all know that’s life’s grand entrance in spitting you out into adulthood – I can’t leave, not if the management is unfair. Not if it would be easier. Not even if my mother would not get mad at me for it. Particularly because she wouldn’t, I can never stop.
But I never stop thinking about the times when I was home alone back in that old house, no matter how much I had wanted to leave then, no matter the bad and lonesome things that happened there; I would purposely bring down my blankets and a pillow to curl up on the single sofa, just so I could crunch together and hang a leg over the edge. How I would turn on the single blue lit lamp and watch TV in my home made theater. How at ease I was at with the world in allowing myself to wake up when I wanted to and to continue to feel alright about myself.
How much I wish to stop the torment on how much I hate myself.
But I guess that’s another life’s topic.
Sometimes though, it’s really scary out there… Sometimes I don’t think it’s quite alright that my emotions dwell so lightly I easily cry when I think too deeply. Like now. Sometimes I just don’t want to be here (and of course I’m too cowardly to act on it, because shit, I’m scared), and sometimes I really want to, just so I have a reason to act.
I no longer doubt that my family would grieve but am rather undeserving in pitying my mother for the would-be second loss in her life – how very much unfair that would be to her.
I almost finish the thought that my father should be here instead of me from time to time.
I try to disown that I sometimes sleep with a knife by my bedside. It’s not right. I don’t tell the people I love and trust. I can’t. That would be too sad. Too desperate. Too easily written off as a teenage phenomenon. Really, all that said was because I’m still scared to say it aloud. It’s too weird for someone who does such a good job of appearing brag worthy to her family.
I miss at the end of the day, even the arrogance of a child in their self worth. I’m envious.