I’m sitting in my childhood room. It’s much different from what it looked like before. I remember it was decorated by my mother in Pokemon decor when we first moved in, soon after Dragon Ball, then mystical dragons, till my mother was fed up throwing money into my swiftly changing obsessions. It was a hot day in May, and I had just rode home from school. I opened my bedroom door and it was all sports. Baseball bat coat hangers, glove and soccer ball picture frames and a strange sweat suit material comforter that made too much noise when you were me and tousled around too much in bed. I cried so much, I hated sports. What demon possessed her to pick sports of all things to decorate my room. I would have rather opted for a mental ward bedroom with nothing but a bed and white sheets, hell I wouldn’t have minded the straps either, and while I’m sure my mother thought of that option, she tossed it aside for a more traumatizing arrangement. Looking back now, I’m sure it was more of a tactful bomb in attempts to make me lose weight or assure I grow up a breeder. I’m hoping she’s proud I overcame at least one of her deepest concerns, I’m now a bitchy 160 versus a happy 300 pounder.
I reach over to grab the pipe with the weed I purchased from the neighbor across the street. It’s strange where you find yourself years later. It’s funny when you step back from a moment you’re sharing with someone you’ve known for years, and think about the people you used to be, and how funny it is to see how they fit in your life now. I remember always coming over to my old friend’s house and getting excited to battle Pokemon with our link cables, it was the coolest thing before wi-fi, and this annoy boy would pester us and scream and cry because he wanted to play with us. He didn’t understand that a gamers Pokemon game was never to be shared with someone else, or that the link cable only linked two Gameboys, not three. To us, that was something everyone was supposed to know, if you didn’t, you weren’t worth the explanation, so we just let him scream till he tired out and fell asleep in a pool of his own drool and tears, sometimes even vomit. I swore he was going grow up to shoot up our neighborhood because no one wanted to play with him, and in his final show down, make me squirm and tally me off, sadly no, he grew up and is now selling me pot. Funny how things change right?
Releasing my suspended breath my eyes wonder back to my room. It’s green, with one of those ocean view wall papers that looks like a windows 98 default backdrop. My mother had turned this room into an office after I had moved out. It was left unused since she always hung out in the kitchen like all women should. I’m sure it was just a project in that room, for oldtimes sake. After a couple months, I was back and now my belongings lay on top of the remnants of an office. My clothes form a blanket across the floor keeping the floor warm. It’s a mess, a mess I oddly find comfort in because it’s my mess, my private shit hole, it’s my little world, and now I have to pack it all up in a box again.
In eight days, I’m going to be moving four hours away from this room to share a room with my long distance boyfriend in Arizona. Exciting right? I’m thinking it should be, which is why I’m confused as to why I’m not? The past two weeks, since announcing the news to my friends and my mother, I’ve been given bittersweet reactions, from my friends, and an excited congratulations at the end of their speech, Should I be smiling back? I think so, but why am I forcing it. Shouldn’t it come naturally? Is it natural to smile? I’m sure the answer is written in some psych kook’s journal. I’m thinking it’s nerves. I’m nervous. I’m just nervous.
It’s ironic. I’m sitting here writing this, contemplating my life, and this song fades in and breaks through the pensive barrier. ‘Let me get what I want’ by She and Him. The sound fused in with my thoughts and I can safely say, I’m not nervous; I’m scared.
This is a big change, this could be something potentially great, and I’m wasting good brain cells worrying about nothing, but I can’t help but hear the insecurity rattle in a closet not too far in my mind and then the question arises, is it really insecurity I’m keeping out, or intuition?