March 17, 2010


What do I have that is worth re-remembering, worth breaking apart into a thousand tiny fragments of perspective, of me and mine and ours and more, until the story itself becomes almost entirely kind of partway obscured by the words, and most certainly blocked out by strength of feeling.

It's a big assignment, to write something emotional, something enjoyable. Weirdly, I want to do the depression again, to pick it apart from my own view as well as Nyx's and Gretchen's and Amy's. It's just, last time I wrote about it, I became a complete bitch in the process. And, last time I wrote it, it turned me into a crying, angry bitch who screamed at her mother for offenses committed long ago. To top it off, it was for the same teacher I have now, but with two years less of maturity and knowledge and words behind me. Gray is still it, to me, though. That's how it was before, colorless, and I don't know how to write it with color. It's gray, my memory of sadness.

And yet, what is my memory of happiness. I look back for a happy moment, look back for something, and I know their was contentment, know there was joy and excitement and happy and love and hope, but what stands out, what can be reconsidered and rewritten and torn apart and pieced back together and made into a creation that is no longer purely the memory but is more?

Nyx just said "getting ridiculous test scores." Could I do a rememory of the SAT, of the scores, of the pain and the pressure finally exploding like a bottle of champagne into pure joy? But, even that isn't all happy. It's happiness tinged, tilted by effort, a mistrust of tests, a feeling that even though the numbers say I'm better than just about everyone else, I'm not better, or I am, but not enough, or not in the right ways, or something, because always, always always always there is this pressure, this urge to do better.

Even the happy has been destroyed by the pressure.

Is this what it is, to be an overachiever? Is that what I am now, no more semi about it? Have I outgrown the title that began this? I can't have. After all, I still sleep eight hours a night. I still stress over little tiny details like essays.

And yet, why isn't there anything happy. Why can't I find happy? It's as if everything I have right now is colored, hopefully just by my headache. Maybe when I try again, in the morning, I'll have a memory worth remembering.

This is the problem, I think, by choosing to avoid depression by constantly looking to the future. The present can be difficult to stomach. The past can be impossible to confront.

I promise to be less emo tomorrow.


Gretchen said...

this is not meant to be taken meanly:

tea, you have said multiple times that the gray memories are in the past. so leave them there. what is the point in digging them out AGAIN? they only bring sadness and pain. it's not worth it, even if it will make a great essay. besides, your teacher has already read about it. there is no sense in dwelling in the past. the future is dancing in front of you. go and get it. stop whining about what happened and start planning for what is to come.

Tea said...

That's what I normally do (get really overexcited about what is to come), it's just that you can't remember something that hasn't happened yet.

But it's alright. I finally found something to write about. I think I was just so grumpy and tired last night all I was seeing was the angry. For the time being, I'm going lobstering, and writing about how I love my dad and the ocean and the fish and all the smells and the simplicity and a thousand other little tiny facets of searching for the food that will not be found. And, if it turns out well enough, I can give it to him for his birthday, so it's a wonderful situation all round.

Gretchen said...