A Curly Mess Of Emotions✓

21

When I was in sixth grade, I vaguely remember having a class discussion on the 'Big Bang Theory'. I remember the teacher, a bulky female known as Mrs. Messgae summing up our entire discussion saying that it was a huge explosion of a lot of a lot of stars.

That's the only thing I could relate to what was happening inside my head.
The light wasn't helping either. But how so? I always pull my curtains before going to sleep. This place looked vaguely familiar as well.
What had I done to end up in this place? I started recalling the events of last night as I slowly got out of my sleep-trance.

"Lookey here people! It is I, the champion of Ping pong!"
"It's beer pong," someone from the crowd corrected.
"Beer pong!" I corrected, raising my arms for emphasis.

"Sing it!"
They sang.
"Go away Anna," I grunted.

"Shortlime are you- are you drunk?"
I grinned wider. "I am experiencing the pleasures that adulthood shall offer me," I said, hunching my shoulders.

"I am riding you!"

Words could not describe how freaking embarrassed I was.
And the Assy McSassy... Oh God.
I had never done any thing so inappropriate in my life... Yet. How am I going to face Mark after all the mess I did last night? And my parents probably have no idea of what's happened to me, or what I did. Nevertheless, the must be going out of their minds. Though I think that Mark must  be sensible enough to cook something up, I felt uneasy. I had never done anything as such in my seventeen years of survival. They must be-

"You're up." Said sensible human walks into the room, a sensitive smile playing on his lips. "How's the Hangover Headache?"

"Like the Big bang theory happened inside my brain all over again," I mumbled, cheeks going pink.

He laughed. I had this weird feeling inside me when I heard it, as if I was on a rollercoaster. Not that I would know for sure, considering how I had never been to an amusement park, much less ride a rollercoaster.
"You need to eat something before I can give you some painkillers," he said. "Go take a bath in warm water, it helps. Then come to the living room, I'll have prepared something for you to eat and then you can have some Tyrennol. Take some clothes from my cupboard." Having said that, he left.

"Hey!" I called out. He turned around, looking slightly confused.
"You're pretty confident about the aftermath of hangovers and seem to know how to deal with them. How so?"
He smirked. "Let's just say you get used to it when your party animal of a best friend crashes your house thrice a week precisely after half past two at the middle of the night," And he left, leaving me to ponder over his words.
And that's when it hit me; how our conversations always seemed to revolve around me. Not once has he spoken about himself or his family, other than that day all those months ago when we first met. I felt selfish, of never even bothering to ask what his middle name was, when he probably knew me like the back of his hand. How he knew just what to say and when to say it, when I couldn't even distinguish him from his normal self when he was sad. It had been the exactly same scenario with my sister. I was way too involved in my own life, brooding, burying everything in studies and writing poetry, questioning my life, and counting on my sister's support, when I could have been there for her instead and help her, help her the way she helped me, love her the way she loved me.
And it's not just about her. It's about everybody who tried to come through my walls and help me. Everybody who I pushed away without a second thought. The girl who sat behind me in middle school, the one who lent me her pencil, extending a hand of friendship which I never shook back. Maybe if I had befriended her, she would not have passed away from extensive trauma which came with her high level of autism. Maybe if I had gone out with Dad to that Father and Daughter bonding session all those years ago, or joined him for a morning run, we would have had a better relationship. Maybe if I had ever let my mom in, my relationship with her would have been stronger; maybe my life would have been easier had I confided in the lady who gave birth to me, my life would have been easier. Maybe if I had actually talked to the therapist rather than drawling and cutting her off so much that even she lost hope, maybe I would have been better. Maybe if I had actually gotten out of my very own turtle shell of despair and helped other people get out of theirs, I would have been happier.
Because sometimes, all you need is a small purpose of life to help you find yourself.