No One Tells.

10-body-painting-black-and-white-photography

The things we felt no one ever knew. We were so connected, on this one campus, yet so far apart. Our lives overlapped, entwined, coincided, our fates forever altered by minute interactions. Yet, did we really know each other? Everyone had something hidden. Hidden intentions, repressed desires, fears. To share was to be intimate, and to be intimate was to be vulnerable. No one wanted to be vulnerable. Or worse, be seen as weak. Only the most “courageous” dug their heart out for all to see, sprinkled tears on the manicured lawns. And usually, they only did on Thursday and Saturday nights under the hazy warmth of a preppy Budweiser.

I have not yet let myself fall under the hallucinations of intoxication. Partly because I would rather not get pregnant while in college or worse, blurt out some secret for the world to know. And partly also because I am afraid of what I would find. They say your inner self is revealed during drunken hours, when your personal checks and constraints are demolished. I would like to keep my checks, thank you very much. I would like to keep my hidden, hidden. My feigned dignity in tact.

…Says the girl typing away at 3:39 am on a Thursday night, computer screen dimly lit by only her desk lamp. This girl who does not need drugs to break her sanity. She is already insane. To the point where waking up in the middle of the night alerts her of life. And all of life rushes into her being, electrifying her body, buzzing her mind with incoherent thoughts. How can she sleep when time never ends?

Other than a strong craving for peanut butter, a slight attraction toward a guy, fear of the competition, hope to fall asleep again, but dread of more racing thoughts, she is perfectly fine. Insane enough to pass as normal. And no, she will never really figure it out, or anything out for that matter. Nor does she care or want to at this moment. Right now, the girl just wants to break down and have a damn good sob like she used to back home. She just wants to call her parents, and have some reaffirmation of her worth. Reassurance that she is lovable, is capable, is amazing just as she is, not as she will be. But it is 3:48 am on a Thursday night, and she’s sitting in her common room typing. Alone. No home cooked meal, pantry of food, couch, or mother. Only a laptop and words and peanut butter.

 

She grabs for the peanut butter, piles a spoonful into her mouth. Thick and rich, she hopes it can weigh down the butterflies, coat her scars, and numb the feelings she’d rather not deal with.  Another spoonful. At this rate, she only hopes not to consume herself.

 

 


I wrote the (very) rough draft of this during a particularly stressed time at college. Needless to say, I did not end up getting much sleep that night. ^.^

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