A Regretful Need to Forget

I lie on the damp grass, slowly waking with the rising sun. Head throbbing, I stumble to my feet, wobbly at first, but then I gain my balance. Bare foot, in next to no clothes my body trembles from the cool wind brushing against my exposed skin. Memories from the night before are as vague as the earliest years of my existence. The very few things that I do remember fill me with an endless sorrow that I want nothing other than to once again forget.

I am not too far away from my home in a neighborhood my new friends refer to as a nightmare of picket fences, which is the absolute truth of the reality of life here. Walking by my neighbour’s houses I can feel their eyes watching me as I pass, and I swear I can almost here their hateful whispers. By the time I make it home I am colder than I knew possible and my feet are red with pain. Trying not to make a scene, I stagger through the door, back into my supposed perfect life. As expected, my parents are there looking down upon me with their harsh expressions of disgust.

“Where have you been all night? Let me guess with the graveyard stoners?”, my father questions with disgust. Not ready to have this conversation I brush them off, dragging myself up the stairs, and into my room. Clearly, he does not want to start either as he walks off into the kitchen muttering something while throwing his hands up in the air; my mother rushing off behind him.

Looking in the mirror I am once again frightened by my own reflection. My tangled hair and smudged make-up create an unattractive sight, but it is really my eyes that frighten me most. Wide and black as the night they peer back at me, looking deep into my sole with regret. Forced to turn away I ponder the last twenty-four hours, wondering how I got here though it is not really a secret, at least not to me.

My father, a big deal lawyer, spends all our time together lecturing me on how much of a disgrace I am to our family. Hypercritical really, since he is the one screwing around with his secretary, who is almost as young as I am. Then there is my mom who wastes her days trying to look younger than her years in attempt to gain back my father’s love. I do not understand why she do not just leave him. The only reason he has not asked for a divorce yet is because he does not want others to perceive our family as being anything but perfect, though it is clear to everyone that I do not fit in that picture of perfect. Finally, there is my perfect older brother who my parents do not know dropped out of Yale and is currently touring the country with his outrages rock band. The fact is that although my family appears perfect on the outside, I am the only open book failure in a house built on lies and deceit.

With my phone buzzing loudly in the background, I am having a hard time ignoring it although I know I should not check it. Filled with temptation, my phone serves as a direct connection to the world that I am struggling to overcome. It is clear that self-pity is my only reason for what I do. Always needing a distraction from my miserable life, I find it hard to quit. My growing anxiety is driving me insane, and it is clear that I need another fix. In trying to rise above the temptation I do not only fail but simply give up. It is sad really, but I live by this simple idea, ‘why bother pretending I live this perfect life when I can instead forget all about it?’

I sneak around the house trying not to disturb my parents who probably think I am sleeping through my last high. Grabbing some food and clothes for later I pack an overnight bag. If I had somewhere to go, I would probably just pack up everything and leave without ever turning back. The reality is though, that my only friends are ones that will not even remember me the next day. I have cut off all ties to my old life and have made sure that I do not get overly connected to anyone in my new one. After pocketing some of my father’s money I sneak out the back door and head over to the graveyard. When looking back I find it funny how unsettling it was the first time I came to the graveyard for a good time party. Now that I have become acquainted with my surroundings, and new friends this location seems reasonable. Where else can a teenager slip under the radar?

As I make my way to the entrance, I can already hear the shouting, and laughing of those who have a clear head start on me. Throwing my bag against a rock, I grab a beer out of the closest cooler. Rearing the corner of the old white pine I find the party and embrace the chaos. Paying off my dealer with my father’s money I am ready to forget all my worries.

The more I drink and the more I smoke, the better I feel. Spinning around, and around as I dance to a song with unrecognizable words, I feel free again. Free from my father, mother, and the peering eyes of regret. After falling to the ground, I am unable to pull myself up. Watching the stars above me, I worry about my inevitable conversation with my parent’s tomorrow, and I consider giving this whole lifestyle up. But then I remember what brought me here in the first place, what caused me to start. Why change who I am for the people that drove me so mad that I became dependant on a false sensation of joy? Despite the party raging all around me and these thoughts still in the back of my mind, I drift off into another restless sleep.