So I
guess this week I can get something off my chest, for a moment at least; but I’ll
never be able to get it out of my head.
I guess you could say the same about Gatsby. He could never get his dream out of his head.
I do
have one key difference with Gatsby. He
is fighting to bring back the past; I am working to forget it. I never will, though, I can’t. It is a part of me. Anyone would probably say I’m being too hard
on myself, but I don’t think so. I think
I’ve got it about right.
When I
refer to the past, it’s basically the stuff right up until Christmas break of
my sophomore year. A certain something
transpired then, but I won’t get into those details. I’m going to confess to what I thought
before, and what torments me from the corner of my mind each and every
day.
When I
was younger I felt like I was entitled to more, that I was entitled to utter
happiness. I guess I kind of got that
way after being the kid on the playground who decided what everyone was going
to do at recess. When I moved to Troy
halfway through the second grade I didn’t have that power anymore, but I felt
like I still deserved it. My mind
started freaking out as it realized the truth.
I was subject to fits of self-pity that would be followed by anger and
ended with depression. In one of my
moments of anger I came a few inches from bringing a golf club down on my
sister’s head, but common sense caught me just in time. Then, in the 8th grade, I utterly annihilated
the heart of a friend through Facebook chat (no details, sorry). Often in the period of depression later I’d
sit listening to The Wall, a Pink Floyd album that fit my mood very well.
As I
entered high school I started to improve, I started to learn. The anger phase was easily skipped if I
flipped on depressing music. Christmas
break of my sophomore year provided inspiration, and I refused to let go of it. I quit the Pink Floyd and started playing
music that helped. I started thinking,
too, forming my own solid opinions instead of letting them be controlled by my
emotional phase.
Yet
even today I hear the voice inside that wants to freak out. Whatever piece of me I’ve stationed to guard
its cage feels more and more strained every day. It’s been months since I’ve gotten another
resurgence of strength (Paityn Donaldson will probably know what I’m talking
about if she digs into her memory of last year, but I’d appreciate it if she
didn’t leave it in the comments when she remembers). I doubt I’ll ever be free, but there’s no way
I’m letting that thing get control of
me again. I've got to get moving.
Well,
that was quite personal. Wasn’t
expecting that, but oh well.
From the soundtrack of a good movie:
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