Lost
When the wind blows, I stand at my window and listen to the trees and the leaves and that faint whistling noise that sweeps around the house. Wind is something I've always liked about the change of seasons, from Summer to Winter and Winter back again. Today as I was leaning on my window sill with my face stuck up against the gauze (which I was too lazy to take down), I was reminded of a certain period of time I hadn't thought about for awhile. So I revisited the past, as I often do. It's thought provoking.
The period I went to was around three years ago this time, when I was floundering around in the midst of middle school. Nothing I wrote contained proper capitalization, and the annotations in the books I read consisted mostly of "lol"s and "omg why'd he do that dammit"s. Each and every day contained a three-hour dosage of the same six bands. Any time free of school was spent barricaded in my room. I was very confused, very small, very stupid, very helpless. I had no life. I know this to be true because I spent a good hundred pages elaborating on those statements at the time.
Think back to the time you were ten. You probably remember facts: Mrs. Johnson was my teacher, I went to Such and Such Elementary School, Ashley Smith and Johnny Anderson were my best friends. But do you remember your worldview? Do you remember what you felt like when Ashley and Johnny decided not to save you a seat at lunch that one day? Can you still feel what you did then? Do you remember the excitement of field day, or the mysterious, uncontrollable hysteria that caused you to race down the halls at school if you ever happened to be there at night? Do you remember the secret clubs, do you remember exactly what made tattle tales so repulsive, and googley eyes so awesome? Most of us can't think like children anymore.
I try to go back and exist in all those different places frequently enough that they don't disappear. This is largely due to the fact that I was appalled by adults' inability to remember their childhoods when I was in elementary school and was wholeheartedly convicted that kids should stand up against ageism. I swore to myself that I would enter the adult world as an advocate on the behalf of children, an aid to the grown sort, a member of a body that I knew would soon completely abandon everything they once knew. I didn't see why Mr. Darling's view of the world was necessarily more correct than Wendy's; I believed that adults were due some long-needed correction. I continue to believe this, which is why I dote on the past so frequently: we lose so much when we forget the way we used to see the world.
Eighth grade is not a time I particularly enjoy dwelling upon. Reading the things I wrote makes me physically shudder or wince in disgust every few minutes. My insecurity makes me slightly nauseous. But not only do I find that the things I'm currently thinking are intrinsically related to the things I thought in the past, but I also rediscover a radically different way of understanding the thoughts I now think. It's the ability to see oneself from the outside in: the present from the past, the past from the present. Revisiting some distant proto-thesis and comparing it with the newest synthesis forces the identification of an antithesis; all too often, that antithesis is the age-old synthesis of a different topic altogether. Only in beginning to trace this web do ever I fully realize that I am one unit, one being, one entity that cannot be divided by the perception of "change" or of knowledge or of paradigm shift.
The antithesis is a reaction, it is a backlash; it is an indication of the way internal conflicts might arise in the future. There are so many clues from the past to aid in understanding the present. And not only one's own present, but others', as well: closely watching the evolution of the human mind is just as important in understanding the whole of another person as it is in understanding oneself.
Sitting here with what was once the entirety of my extra-curricular world on my lap, I am disturbed to dwell in such a dark place. No, I'm not referring to black shirts and black eyeliner and black shoes and black nails: I'm talking about a confusion completely distinct, if not separate, from defiance and stereotypical attempted social non-conformity. I read through conversations I had with friends and wonder how I could have possibly missed so many blinking red lights asking for hurt to be tended to... I read through thoughts of my own and wonder how I could have tolerated such hate, such ignorance, such stagnancy. I wonder how I could have missed the most obvious signs leading up to emotional breakdown. I cannot help but grow slightly bitter that I'm not able to speak to the poor creature whose words I'm reading. I could give her so much advice. How different would it have been if I'd known people older than me, wiser, and less unstable! I wish I'd had the opportunity to do so, as I do now. I wish I'd felt safe to make that opportunity myself.
I think we've forgotten middle school just as thoroughly as we've forgotten childhood. And I don't speak generally without reason: I doubt that very many would bother to return if they feel they have no reason to wade back in. But even if it's hidden under all the slime and sludge of the early teenage years, I doubt many have realized what they've lost.
The period I went to was around three years ago this time, when I was floundering around in the midst of middle school. Nothing I wrote contained proper capitalization, and the annotations in the books I read consisted mostly of "lol"s and "omg why'd he do that dammit"s. Each and every day contained a three-hour dosage of the same six bands. Any time free of school was spent barricaded in my room. I was very confused, very small, very stupid, very helpless. I had no life. I know this to be true because I spent a good hundred pages elaborating on those statements at the time.
Think back to the time you were ten. You probably remember facts: Mrs. Johnson was my teacher, I went to Such and Such Elementary School, Ashley Smith and Johnny Anderson were my best friends. But do you remember your worldview? Do you remember what you felt like when Ashley and Johnny decided not to save you a seat at lunch that one day? Can you still feel what you did then? Do you remember the excitement of field day, or the mysterious, uncontrollable hysteria that caused you to race down the halls at school if you ever happened to be there at night? Do you remember the secret clubs, do you remember exactly what made tattle tales so repulsive, and googley eyes so awesome? Most of us can't think like children anymore.
I try to go back and exist in all those different places frequently enough that they don't disappear. This is largely due to the fact that I was appalled by adults' inability to remember their childhoods when I was in elementary school and was wholeheartedly convicted that kids should stand up against ageism. I swore to myself that I would enter the adult world as an advocate on the behalf of children, an aid to the grown sort, a member of a body that I knew would soon completely abandon everything they once knew. I didn't see why Mr. Darling's view of the world was necessarily more correct than Wendy's; I believed that adults were due some long-needed correction. I continue to believe this, which is why I dote on the past so frequently: we lose so much when we forget the way we used to see the world.
Eighth grade is not a time I particularly enjoy dwelling upon. Reading the things I wrote makes me physically shudder or wince in disgust every few minutes. My insecurity makes me slightly nauseous. But not only do I find that the things I'm currently thinking are intrinsically related to the things I thought in the past, but I also rediscover a radically different way of understanding the thoughts I now think. It's the ability to see oneself from the outside in: the present from the past, the past from the present. Revisiting some distant proto-thesis and comparing it with the newest synthesis forces the identification of an antithesis; all too often, that antithesis is the age-old synthesis of a different topic altogether. Only in beginning to trace this web do ever I fully realize that I am one unit, one being, one entity that cannot be divided by the perception of "change" or of knowledge or of paradigm shift.
The antithesis is a reaction, it is a backlash; it is an indication of the way internal conflicts might arise in the future. There are so many clues from the past to aid in understanding the present. And not only one's own present, but others', as well: closely watching the evolution of the human mind is just as important in understanding the whole of another person as it is in understanding oneself.
Sitting here with what was once the entirety of my extra-curricular world on my lap, I am disturbed to dwell in such a dark place. No, I'm not referring to black shirts and black eyeliner and black shoes and black nails: I'm talking about a confusion completely distinct, if not separate, from defiance and stereotypical attempted social non-conformity. I read through conversations I had with friends and wonder how I could have possibly missed so many blinking red lights asking for hurt to be tended to... I read through thoughts of my own and wonder how I could have tolerated such hate, such ignorance, such stagnancy. I wonder how I could have missed the most obvious signs leading up to emotional breakdown. I cannot help but grow slightly bitter that I'm not able to speak to the poor creature whose words I'm reading. I could give her so much advice. How different would it have been if I'd known people older than me, wiser, and less unstable! I wish I'd had the opportunity to do so, as I do now. I wish I'd felt safe to make that opportunity myself.
I think we've forgotten middle school just as thoroughly as we've forgotten childhood. And I don't speak generally without reason: I doubt that very many would bother to return if they feel they have no reason to wade back in. But even if it's hidden under all the slime and sludge of the early teenage years, I doubt many have realized what they've lost.
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