At the end of freshman year, last year, my best friend and I got into a fight.
She was angry at me for
spending more time with someone else.
And at first I didn’t
understand why. I never thought her to be the type of person to get upset over
their friend having other friends.
I came to understand.
My new friend was nice
enough. She had an appreciation for music my other friend didn’t possess and we
were both honor students, whereas my other friend was only in one or two honors
classes here and there.
We both had an affinity
for the darker aspects of the world before us, ranging from the music we
listened to and the shows we watched to recognizing Satanism and Wicca as
proper religions that should be respected, and thus drawing pentagrams on our
hands in solidarity and outrage at the fact that people that followed these
religions were mocked and deemed evil.
I came to understand
that, beyond our shared traits and affinities, my new friend had problems. I
discovered that the person I claimed was my best friend abused drugs regularly
and had long since lost her virginity. And it scared me.
I started to worry. Had
I changed like my friend had said way back when we were still in the fighting
phase? Was the reason I had taken such a liking to this person because I was
going to start doing drugs and sleeping with strangers?
I feared for my grades-
for the future I’d desperately worked to mold from ashes and dust. My friend
was free falling into nothingness and I worried that she would pull me in after
her if I didn’t sever all ties.
I came to understand
that my friend had been trying to protect me.
After the fighting came
the silence. Over the summer between freshman and sophomore year I couldn’t
work up the courage to call or even text her. I couldn’t bring myself to
apologize for the things I’d said to her. I’ve always been too prideful for
such acts of humility.
I’ve come to understand
why, even after I managed to apologize, she had no desire to rebuild the bond
between us.
I am a force of
negative energy and pessimistic realism. Wherever I go I drag depression and
darkness and nothingness and, no matter how hard I try or how much I want to be
different, I can’t change it. That’s the path my choices paved for me. I don’t
know anything else.
What’s worse is that I
am a force of negative energy and pessimistic realism that lashes out on all
the wrong targets. I’ve always been mean to boys I thought I liked, snarky to
my teachers and parents that tried to help me when I was frustrated, and taken
out my anger on my friends.
The closer they were
the harder they were hit. I’m like a time bomb with a screwed up timer. I blow
up randomly and without warning, and, conveniently enough, I blow up at all the
wrong moments.
I came to understand
that anyone with even an ounce of logic programmed into them would know better
than to willingly put themselves in that situation. Especially when they had
other things they needed to deal with.
I’m still friends with
the girl free falling, and together, we’ve made another friend that is
blissfully ignorant to everything that’s happened. We’re a sad little group, the
free falling one, the blissfully ignorant one, and me.
I’m not comfortable
around the people I call my friends. I feel like I’m putting on the same show I
put on at school every day in order the thwart unwanted attention. I can’t say
what I think and feel without fear or reproach. And what’s sad is that I know I’m
not the only one doing this.
Every day, people put
on this act. And for some the curtain closes for an intermission before the
next act begins. Those are the lucky ones. For the rest of us, we keep dancing,
singing, acting, performing, lying, every second of our lives impatiently
waiting for that curtain to fall in front of us so we can take off the costume
and the make up and be ourselves and smile, really smile. Smile for the people
sitting in the very back of the audience who applaud, not for the words and
songs that don’t belong to you, but for the meaning behind them. The you trying
to reach out and be heard but is constantly being shot down by the critics and
judges who don’t want to see imperfection, who don’t want to see what’s real.
We wait for those
people to applaud us so we can smile like it’s the first time we’ve been happy
in years and years. Because for some of us, it will be.
As for me, I stand center
stage surrounded by blinding lights and watched by those critics and judges
that don’t care about me, but about who I can pretend to be. I sing and I dance
and I smile for them. I sing and dance and smile so they don’t get up and
leave. Because then what do I have?
As the performance goes
on and on and on, the faces begin to blur and fade into black. I’ve forgotten just
how many people I’m performing in front of, never mind their faces or even
their names.
We keep going, dancing
a dance without end and singing a song that is infinitely on repeat. Making
sure no one sees when we trip over ourselves or our words. Making sure we don’t
go flat even though our throats are sore to the point they feel as though they’re
burning because the song we sing isn’t an easy one and we’ve grown tired of
singing it.
We’ve come to understand
that we’re not perfect. But if we let the audience know, the curtain will fall.
But if there’s no one waiting for you backstage with a bouquet of roses to go
get dinner with you as a celebration, not of your performance, but of the fact
that it’s over, than what’s the point?
I used to carry a
bright red umbrella to shield me from the ocean of gray rain that pours down on
every single one of us at one point of another. But it’s long since lost that vibrancy.
Now my umbrella is the shade of blood, lingering between red and black. And now
it has holes, allowing for water to come through in cold, sharp, stinging
droplets that cut into my skin and it HURTS.
I want to sleep. I want
to cry. I want to smile.
But if I fall asleep, I’ll
miss my cue.
If I cry, I will be
mocked.
And if I smile, I’ll be
lying.
For why would anyone
smile when being attacked by razor sharp
rain drops or performing for a crowd of nameless faces that only applaud when
you’ve finally lost the will to keep dancing and singing and lay lifeless on
the stage?
I pity the fact that I
pity myself. Even so, a part of me persists that it is for more than selfish
purposes that I write the words I have secretly craved to for what now feels
like an eternity. A part of me wants to believe that I am not alone. That
others have done as I have done and taken the love of a true friend for granted
and are now operating on an auto-pilot that lies its way through daily life.
The selfish part of me wishes and hopes and prays and BEGS any divine beings
that be that my friend will find this and read it and know.
That she will come to
understand that this is the apology she never got to hear because I wasn’t
strong enough to swallow my pride and utter the simple words I WAS WRONG.
That she will come to
understand that every time I used sarcastic comments and witty comebacks that
were too abusive to be considered playful that I didn’t mean it.
That she will come to
understand that I love her as if she was my sister and my heart aches every
time at the thought that her life is much happier and less explosive now that I’m
not a part of it.
That she will come to
understand that, even if it changes nothing, that I know I was wrong.
I was wrong to hurt her
when all she did was support me and make me laugh and feel like I could finally
depend on something amongst the mess of debris I’d somehow wound up in. I was
wrong to jump to conclusions. To think she wanted anything more or less than to
protect me like a friend is meant to.
THIS is the apology. My submission and surrender.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry
every day of my life. I’m sorry every time I see her laughing and smiling with
other people just like she used to do with me. I’m sorry every time we engage
in awkward conversations that could not be more unlike the ones we used to
have.
I’m sorry I pushed her
away when I should have clung on to her for dear life and screamed at the top
of my lungs, pleading her not to leave me alone.
I’ve come to understand
that I’m fated to continue dancing and singing for these strangers until I either
achieve forgiveness or fall flat on my face in exhaustion.
There’s no happy ending
from where I can see. No ending at all, to be exact. But I keep going, just like everyone else hoping that the people it’s all for, the people that come to see you and
not the character you play, who'll see behind the masks and costumes and makeup
and see you for who you are and don’t get up and leave, will walk into that
pitiful theater and clap for us. And that curtain will fall, like we’ve waited
for for so long, and the final notes will ring out and echo and then fade into
nothing.
And it will all become nothing more or less than a memory.
