Neverland

14

I think I'm nostalgic on things that never happened. I'm nostalgic on other people's memories. When my friends discuss old childhood times with their parents, I feel the love, I can smell the same linen scent of the Rhode Island summer home they loved so much. For some strange reason, that made me happy.

I'm nostalgic the most when it comes to songs, smells and auras. I can capture an entire moment just by the feel of the sun, the ballad playing in the background and the sweet scent of Lilies.

Then the next time I come across that same moment, I resented it because it wasn't the same. I was no longer that person the first time I experienced it. I could no longer see that I was living in the moment. I'm constantly living in either the everlasting longing of what once was or what will never be.

I am a constant voyeur. A distant traveler merely gazing into other people's happiness...other people's worlds and suddenly that took me away....away from my Neverland.

Mr. Nova forced me to stay after class since he insisted I needed extra help but really I think he just like the fact, that with me, he could actually have an intellectual conversation. He wanted me to write a reply to one of the essay topic options for our final within the next few months, but I was having a difficult time choosing.

"Kristen, do you believe that happiness is relative?" He asked me suddenly.

I almost didn't reply.

"I think anything can be relative...it just depends on the person." I mumble, running my fingers through my hair. I honestly didn't want to be bothered since I was supposed to be working.

"So do you believe that depression is simply choosing to be unhappy?" He asks me with uncertainty. As if I were the oracle of knowing all...

"No, some people are anemic because their body doesn't produce enough iron or some shit like that, so they take iron capsules to help. Depression is lacking endorphins or something like that in your brain." He seemed to be satisfied with my answer because he didn't say anything after that for awhile.

I stared down at my blank paper and sighed heavily, slightly annoyed, and in discomfort. I needed to get to the bathroom.

"As a teenager, I was chronically depressed. I was doing drugs, skipping school...and everyone thought I was too young to have something wrong with me,"

Oh here we go, he was going to tell me his life story.

"I had this sad quote, that ended up being my high school slogan, 'You are only as good as your next failure'. My dad used to say it to me to keep me from failing altogether. It's sort of like a counter to 'You're only as good as your last success'. But anyways, for awhile....I was so afraid to fail, that I wouldn't try until one day during my creative writing class, we were asked to reply to an essay question with something reflecting our life. I chose the first time I had sex. I described it as a catastrophic communion. I had already been stripped, bare in front of a woman I didn't know. We only shared one thing in common; we were in a cycle of refusing to wake up and avoiding reality. We were both strung out on drugs, she was 15 years older than me, had a husband, 5 kids, and did coke in front of churches because she thought she would be closer to God." He paused, swallowed hard and looked at me again.

"I believed in a sense, our inner demons made love to each other that day, because it was the last day I ever used an illegal substance. She told her husband the truth and went to rehab...and I'm able to say I've been drug free for 10 years now."

I just blinked at him. "Our failures are not based off of what we have done, but how we choose to grow from what we've done. I am my success but I am also my mistakes and that has brought me further than any happy memory. I'm not condoning bad situations in life, I simply endure them. I cannot claim my accomplishments without acknowledging how I got there. I fucked up,"

He cut himself short for a moment, I guess he realized he was getting carried away and forgot he was talking to a high school student.

"You know what makes a great success story Kristen? When you have something to succeed from."

And just like that, I knew exactly what I was going to write, and it infuriated me. I felt nauseous.

"You are a brilliant student Kristen, and I know what you're going through-" I cut him off there.

"You were doing good with the sap story Mr. Nova, don't screw it up by trying to counsel me because you see me as vulnerable because you're able to relate to me. You're my teacher, not my friend." I hissed through my teeth.

"But your friends don't even know what's going on with you," He responds swiftly and I want to hit him.

"You have no proof of anything," I babble.

I didn't have time for this right now, I needed to finish this paper.

"Then write it. What do you have to grow from Kristen?" He sounds angry and it wasn't until he left the room, that I realized he really was.

So I began to write.

Sciamachy is a Greek word that means: a battle against imaginary enemies. And that is exactly what the public world feeds off of. Somebody else's failure, somebody else's misfortune and with the same tone, cries out, asking "where has humanity gone! Is there no kindness? Is there no sincerity?." Sciamachy is the 150 minute blockbuster film that makes millions with countless fans, but disregarded when it comes to our peers. Why is it that we can glorify illness and struggle if it's plastered under a celebrity's name? Or a fictional storyline simply for amusement? But we disregard the struggle of our peers, our friends, our children?

Sciamachy is my little sister's fear of the drain, because she fears she'll be sucked away from life, from all that she knows.

Sciamachy is my best friends disconnection with herself.

Sciamachy is my future that I try so hard to avoid. Because even though those demons have not yet approach me, I know they still linger, waiting for my arrival.

And this is what prevents my success- this is what prevents me from understanding morality. I'm a finifugal dreamer; a victim of habromania and I sure as hell relish in it. Because if a false hope for a whimsical future where my sciamachy will be plastered for all to see and I will be condemned for my strength rather than shunned for my inability to understand life at fucking 17 years old, then I will bask in being an aleatory being.

I curse the world for blaming me for the bad things that have happened to me. I curse the world for victimizing me. I curse the world for taking MY demons and dressing them up as something comical. I curse the world for cursing ME.

We are all destined for a fate bigger than ourselves and only time will show if that fate is worth waiting to see.

For some mad reason, I'm addicted to the fact I'm a pariah- that I am misunderstood- that I am hated- that I am a mask of all the black sheep's and misfits. Underneath, I fade away into an abyss of mistakes.

An addict is only as good as their next relapse and I am forever doomed to be terrible.

I couldn't continue, because I was getting off topic. That was the excuse I told my stuff when really it was because my eyes were blinded by tears and had messed up my paper. I felt my anger boil within me and the overwhelming wave of nausea made me want to die.

I looked up at the board, to glance at the options for our essay, where one read, "Is Our Society To Blame?" It was up to us, the reader, the student, to figure out what is there to blame?

And are we society?

But that's not what I was focusing on...just on mistakes...and could we ever truly grow from them? Or just how to live with them?

Because if that's true...what was truly my sciamachy? I don't believe it's addiction anymore. I don't believe there's some logical answer that can be put into format for an essay. Sometimes shit just happens because it can and there's no one to blame.