Middle School, Redo
I’m not much of a masochist, myself. You see, this needed to be done. It had to be done. There was indeedno other way around it. When you’re writing a book that deals with childhood, some of the memories… vivid or otherwise, must be revisited. You probably already know that not everyone's childhood and middle school time served was exciting and filled with possibility and wonder and snow flakes and cotton candy. If you were to question my experience from that period of time...none of those aforementioned elements would be present. Even the few claiming friendship to me left bruises on my face and stab wounds in several places on my back. You can't see them reflected in the mirror, but trust me...they're there, deep and kept hidden behind humor and sarcasm and neuropathy caused by years of relentless criticism and compounded by self-loathing as a coping mechanism. Ripping open the scab and seeing the flesh tear away actually hurt worse than witnessing the bloodshed amidst a myriad of feelings. Quite honestly, I’m not a masochist and I do my best to avoid pain in every sense of the term. Striking flaming hot Cheetos from our grocery list and abstaining from Krispy Kreme glazed donuts has been the most pain I’ve caused myself in recent weeks, perhaps even months. Well, that and a daily stroll on the elliptical quoting the late, great John Pinette with every arm stroke, "Raviolis and a nap! Raviolis and a nap!"
Going back in my mind I revisited the lunchroom, that horrible place of emotional trauma and supportive destitute. Are these the things one should expect for the supposed remaining few short years on this oversized rock? Everywhere I would turn was another face haunting my past and stealing potential joy in the future. Little did I know the deep sense of hurt and void of friendship that would be caused by carrying around such grief having formally believed that I had since moved on, move forward, and let it all go. When you boil it down, you can only scrape or scar a nerve so many times before it goes numb, right? So...in that sense, surely the pain would stop soon. Walking back into the school I might as well have been back in the eighth grade. Aside from the mixed aroma of the lunchroom, that rising air of steam from the reheated mac and cheese along with the baked cardboard-like pizza and green beans (because what else would you put with mass produced microwaveable dinners but beans to ensure kids are eating their greens, or at the very least to explain that they were provided knowing you would soon see 80% of those beans returned to the sink washed away with several disappointed servers shaking their heads fully understanding that they are rinsing the healthiest part of the meal down the drain because you can lead a student to school, but you can't make them think, or eat their vegetables.) The faces of the kids I saw might as well have been the faces from 30 years ago. In some respects they were.
I would presume that if you have been able to fully let go of the hurt in your past, then you no longer deal with those demons lurking just behind the shadows of those wretched memories awaiting your walk down that particular lane. And good for you! Bravo! That is a feat that many never achieve, not because of lack of want, perhaps for a lack of understanding how to do so. I know I have my demons. Some things, I believe you find are just difficult to let go regardless of how hard you try. Some might say, "you’re trying too hard, and you simply need to release it into its own black hole of emotional dissent, that luggage one continues to carry around without a destination for he can't seem to put it down, let it go, and move on with his life." I can not with any degree of accuracy necessarily say that is the best way to deal with the harsh past over written by distress, but nevertheless it still remains and must deal with the fallout the best he or she can.
I must admit, I didn’t enjoy it. I don’t like it one bit. Those fresh wounds re-opened upon visiting the past like throwing raw steak to a pack of wolves and enjoying the rivalry within the feast. It’s no different than drowning, and every once in a while you’re able to raise your head above water for sharp gasp of fresh air before your muscles give, plunging you into the depths of sadness like "Neverending Story" characters. How does one deal with the past? The best they can, but then again that’s just my humble opinion.