Missing Me
Alright. I'd hate to have to write what everyone else seems to be writing about but...
Honestly, I can't help myself.
To start off, it might help to explain that I find great meaning in the past. Around the walls of my room, I have hundreds of photographs surrounding my bed. Every little photo is more than just one moment, it symbolizes how I felt at that specific moment in time. Right now, I find myself staring at a photo of my best friend and me at the Rochester Lights last December. The picture oozes jealousy, selfishness, and oblivion. But there's also an underlying happiness to it. A picture of my friends and I at Starbucks, that same month, elicits painful memories. Staring at our hands making one big heart, I am reminded of my support system, but also the ecstasy-filled beginnings of a time in my life that eventually crashed and burned.
It's sort of like dramatic irony. The photographs, all sorted in chronological order, play out like one extraordinarily long movie. The fourteen-year-old girl at the beach on April 2nd, 2017, has no freaking clue what the hell is happening in the life of the fifteen-year-old girl in Mexican Town on March 17th, 2018. And although I know she was internally wounded in that photograph, that girl would have never predicted what the sixteen-year-old in Ann Arbor on October 14th, 2018, had just discovered later that night. Sometimes, I look at the smiling girl in the photos, thinking, "Ha! If only you knew what was going to happen... If only you knew the person you are now." When I stare at the photos, I wonder if they ever stare back. If, while I'm half-laughing at their oblivion, they're defeated and overwhelmed when seeing the person my past has shaped me into. Would they change who I am?
Daisy once said in the very beginning of Great Gatsby that she hopes her daughter will "be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." I truly and strongly resonate with this quote. To live your life, not knowing what pain feels like, sounds like heaven. Being hurt over, and over, and over again has benefits, true.. I'm now stronger than ever.. but I miss myself. I miss not being so hardened and weary of everyone I've grown to "trust". I miss the time period in my life where I used to be peppy and optimistic and forgiving and silly and giggly and loving and all things good. I'm poisoned now. Tainted with my past.
The past is so important, in telling us why we act the way we act, and providing us with memories to build ourselves upon. Imagine a happy past, though, living as "fools," full of ignorance and oblivion. I would take that any day. If the photographs on my wall smiled to smile, if each one didn't define a new month of conflict.
There is no photograph on my wall that represents the exact moment I stopped being a beautiful little fool. The truth is, it happened over time. Little by little. But, if I could have her back, if I could look in the mirror without being greeted by the mask I've put on to cover my wounds, I know I'd do it in a heartbeat.
Honestly, I can't help myself.
To start off, it might help to explain that I find great meaning in the past. Around the walls of my room, I have hundreds of photographs surrounding my bed. Every little photo is more than just one moment, it symbolizes how I felt at that specific moment in time. Right now, I find myself staring at a photo of my best friend and me at the Rochester Lights last December. The picture oozes jealousy, selfishness, and oblivion. But there's also an underlying happiness to it. A picture of my friends and I at Starbucks, that same month, elicits painful memories. Staring at our hands making one big heart, I am reminded of my support system, but also the ecstasy-filled beginnings of a time in my life that eventually crashed and burned.
It's sort of like dramatic irony. The photographs, all sorted in chronological order, play out like one extraordinarily long movie. The fourteen-year-old girl at the beach on April 2nd, 2017, has no freaking clue what the hell is happening in the life of the fifteen-year-old girl in Mexican Town on March 17th, 2018. And although I know she was internally wounded in that photograph, that girl would have never predicted what the sixteen-year-old in Ann Arbor on October 14th, 2018, had just discovered later that night. Sometimes, I look at the smiling girl in the photos, thinking, "Ha! If only you knew what was going to happen... If only you knew the person you are now." When I stare at the photos, I wonder if they ever stare back. If, while I'm half-laughing at their oblivion, they're defeated and overwhelmed when seeing the person my past has shaped me into. Would they change who I am?
Daisy once said in the very beginning of Great Gatsby that she hopes her daughter will "be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." I truly and strongly resonate with this quote. To live your life, not knowing what pain feels like, sounds like heaven. Being hurt over, and over, and over again has benefits, true.. I'm now stronger than ever.. but I miss myself. I miss not being so hardened and weary of everyone I've grown to "trust". I miss the time period in my life where I used to be peppy and optimistic and forgiving and silly and giggly and loving and all things good. I'm poisoned now. Tainted with my past.
The past is so important, in telling us why we act the way we act, and providing us with memories to build ourselves upon. Imagine a happy past, though, living as "fools," full of ignorance and oblivion. I would take that any day. If the photographs on my wall smiled to smile, if each one didn't define a new month of conflict.
There is no photograph on my wall that represents the exact moment I stopped being a beautiful little fool. The truth is, it happened over time. Little by little. But, if I could have her back, if I could look in the mirror without being greeted by the mask I've put on to cover my wounds, I know I'd do it in a heartbeat.
Abby, yet another amazing post! I agree, I look at some pictures of myself and wonder how they carved me into who I am today. Sometimes I do indeed wish that those photos could continue to live my life, instead of the present day Izzy. However, other times I look at photos and regret the past tremendously.
ReplyDeleteWow. This post is so insanely beautiful and deep and raw. Props to you for posting it. I feel like many people, as well as myself can relate to this. I too find myself looking back on who I once was and I wonder who she was and what she was thinking. It's hard to even relate to my past self because our outlooks are so different. But I feel like that is life. It hardens you and you find yourself wishing for the simpler, foolish days.
ReplyDeleteAbby this was a truly beautiful post. Not many people have the courage to pour their heart out in a post that random students and your teacher will see. You’re stronger than you know.
ReplyDeleteWow this was written so beautifully I thoroughly enjoyed it! I love how open and descriptive you are. Your writer's voice truly shines through and makes your blog posts so entertaining to read.
ReplyDeleteWow Abby this was amazing! I really felt like I was with you while you were writing. This was written so personally but yet so relatable too! I was reading this in total agreement while I looked at the pictures hanging on my walls. This was a very impactful post, and was beautifully written!
DeleteAbby this is amazing! I relate so much because I am so thankful for my past and wish that I could go back to it quite often! Everything you said was written so beautifully and your relation to The Great Gatsby was very supportive. This is seriously amazing and I love it so much Abby!
ReplyDelete-Lauren M