Retrospect

Reads: 92  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something I was inspired to write in 2008.

Submitted: August 30, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 30, 2009

A A A

A A A


Between getting up early in the morning and waiting to talk late at night I just find no time to sit back and think, "is this really going on?" Between brushing my teeth and sitting on my ass. Between shoveling food into my mouth and going days without eating. Between self-pity and self-worth I find myself reveling in the person I once was. I wish I could go back to the time when I felt no need to bleed and cry. When I felt no need to wonder. When I felt no need to ask why. I was just a person living in the moment. Not looking back and forth for traffic. Just going out and living. Really living, because life is just one exasperated breath that could be cut short at any minute.

There was never a moment when I could really just relax. Relax every muscle in my body and say "OK... this is OK. Today you're going to go out and not plan whatever it is you're going to do." Could I ever wind up doing that?

And now I find, between pools of red wine and vomit, that I can never find a time when I was this person. There was always a moment when I was fully aware of where I was and fully aware of everything that went on. There is never a time when I can look back and ask myself "did that actually happen?"

I find it rather amusing because now I am living in that feeling. I am living in the feeling like "is this really going on? Could this actually be happening? Could this person really be doing and saying this to me?" It seems almost impossible. It seems out of the ordinary that anyone would want to put somebody through this, conscious or not.

Between the phone ringing off the hook and little phrases that just make me cringe in frustration. I can't understand why, in my life, I have become tangled in a web of fucked up reality? This sounds cliché, but I wish I could just open my eyes and say "oh good, it was just a dream," although a really apparent one. But this can't be a dream. Not when everything is so tangible and raw. Not when pain stings this hard. Not when anger burns this severely. I can hardly stand it. I can hardly sit down and shut my brain off. I can never stop thinking. My mind is always buzzing about something.

"What are you going to wear tomorrow? What are you going to say to your guidance counselor when she asks you why you haven't seen her in over a month? What's your excuse? Why are you so afraid? Why are you such a fucking coward? Why can't you just turn around and never look back? Is that so difficult? Is that so fucking difficult?"

Silly little thoughts twisting through my head—so much that I can't even get half of them out onto paper. And I still know the names of all those who have done these things that have stuck in my conscience like a root. Could you remember everything you've ever said or done?

Can anyone really recall when he or she was just a child? Lying in your crib, staring through the bars, the room dark and quiet, the door open only a crack so a ribbon of light shines through. Can you recall the feeling you had? The feeling of lying there with eyes open, wide-awake, and listening intently. The noises you can't remember, but the feelings you can. The feeling of fear when your imagination takes off, when you believe the crib is rolling out from underneath you. Considering everything around you to be a possible danger, the darkness coming around you like it's almost suffocating. And you look around, darting from corner to corner and realize that it's all only in your head. And that sense of fear sticks with us. It's one of the first things we really come to know.

And then as you grow up, the fear turns into something else. It manifests its energy into another source and you get all the side effects. Your heart starts to pound, your palms get sweaty, your knees get weak, and your hands start to tremble. And from there on it's out of your control. Your mind won't let you adapt to this. And after it's all over you replay it in your mind and think to yourself "why did I act this way? Why was I so stupid when he said this to me? It was just an accident. It was just a mistake. Why did I have to go and ruin things?" Who can say who's to blame? Who can say why people fall, why people crack and do things? Who can say why our minds seem to go against what our hearts desire? And you remember it. And you keep remembering it until you experience something else. And then you remember that. And it nags at you. And it bitches and complains and it's in your face.

And I can't say that I've ever been here but when you get to that final stage, the day when you're on the verge, you'll look back with no regrets. You'll smile and think, "thank goodness I did that. Thank goodness I acted that way. Thank goodness I was so stupid when he said this to me," because you've made it this far.

Some thing's stick with people, some big and some small. Some are so ridiculous you wonder to yourself "why can't that person just get over it?" Not everyone is like you. Not everyone can just blink their eyes and have an empty conscience. It takes more experiences to cover up the scars of what was left behind. You can never reopen the wound but you can create more. And you can always use Band-Aids as well.


© Copyright 2017 jenhope. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by jenhope

And So It Is

Poem / Memoir

Retrospect

Miscellaneous / Memoir

Popular Tags