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[darkpersonjellyfish]

Bored With The Addiction

I have read the warnings of the evils of social media and devices over the years ironically posted on social media by its own consumers. Whether one cares to have a visible presence or is content to sit back and watch the drama unfold, it is a true addiction. I have seen the impact it had on my classes throughout my school career. Students as young as to attend elementary school are letting social media monopolize all of their attention to such a degree that it is common, and well-accepted, to seize and withhold devices until a fee is paid and the device retrieved by the parent. Every class syllabus year after year included a no device policy and every welcoming assembly included a no devices speech. Devices in general, especially smartphones, are way too distracting, even to I, an academically interested and inclined student. I suppose this is where easy amusement becomes a burden. While not shocked, I did have to wonder why I care to keep my accounts. I do not care for trendy things nor do I care to watch the drama unfold. I am becoming more disillusioned now. I have become so unbearably bored with the monotonous routine of scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling through my feed only to stare at a post just as trite as the last. I crave a better use of my time. Some of you may feel the same as I do.

[darkpersonjellyfish]

Bubble

My high school was a gorgeous school to get an education in. Since its build date circa 1936 as part of the FDR Project, all three stories of the original red brick and mortar remained unchanged. Along the front of the building were three sets of double doors that lead to the main hallway. One sat in the middle with two singular doors flanking it, and two sat through the breezeways, one on each side. Topping the building was its most defining feature; a white bell tower with a wind direction indicator at the tower's peak. At night, the bell tower, lit royal blue by the spotlights attached to its base, could be seen glowing from across the neighborhoods. The front lawn was green with thick grass and had four walkways leading from the main sidewalk and curving their full length until intersecting at each of the entrances. To the right of the main doors grew an enormous pecan tree. When it was time, the ground was littered with stiff, oval shapes as dark brown as the pecan tree itself. Several of them along the walkways were cracked and smashed by students who either did not see them or wanted to hear the loud cracking from the thick shells. I seemed to have been the only one who realized they could have been picked up for a late afternoon snack while waiting for the usual after-school routine to begin. In the center of the lawn sat a marble stone with our mascot, the Yellow Jacket, and letters carved into it that read, "Arlington Heights High School. Est. 1920" Past the heavy double doors, there was a warmly lit foyer where the trophy cases resided. The walls were the kind of enameled brick used in most public schools and had such a plain color that hardly anyone noticed that the color was beige. On the walls hung pictures of notable alumni. Most of the faces and names were vaguely familiar as they were NFL players or politicians. However, a few faces were very well known, namely Gunilla Hutton, Betty Buckley, Bill Paxton, Milton Brown, and John Denver. In the center, moldings decorated the ceiling, and a chandelier hung from the middle. Then, to the left and the right ran the main hallway, which housed the main offices. At the left end sat the school auditorium, and one of two gyms sat at the right end. Directly ahead from the front doors wound the double staircase. Its steps were steep and stained with thick black lines where grip tape used to be. The staircase handrails were so filthy that I could not run my hands on them without my hands becoming sticky and black. I had only realized that the rails were wooden after analyzing them out of boredom one day while waiting for a late bus. It hurt my heart to see how the building was not being taken care of properly. Through the middle of the staircase sat another set of double doors. These doors led to a charming, multi-leveled courtyard. It was laid with red brick and mortar to match the building and had large iron gates at the entrances to block the east and west parking lots. Looking at the building, I would almost forget that it stood straight off exit ten on the corner of South Hulen and the I-30 West Freeway. I-30 was so close that the frontage road doubled as the drop-off zone. Sometimes I jogged across the frontage road to stand at the overpass rails and stare down the expanse of the busy six-lane interstate. If I looked to the east, I could see the skyscrapers of Downtown Fort Worth brightly gleaming from the glaring Texas sun. Aside from the lovely architecture, socially, Arlington Heights was as chaotic and loud as the roaring freeway in front. Students spent their time fighting, making out, blocking the hallways, or making mad dashes across South Hulen to either beat the line at Chic-fil-A or steal all the bread samples from Central Market. While I did, sometimes, dash to Chic-fil-A, my typical lunch-time routine was to sit alone in a semi-hidden nook in the hallway of the science wing. That spot was perfect because there were no rowdy teenagers to disrupt the peace I found in the quiet, easy-going atmosphere of my nook in the science wing. That was until one day, a boy appeared, crisscrossed his legs next to mine, and effectively burst my bubble. I was so annoyed. There I sat, wracking my brain for what I could have done to attract someone, a boy, into my bubble. Every part of me wanted to reject him. He had to have had some ulterior motive to dare to waltz into my world like he thought he belonged there. I was about to mean-mug him and ask him what he wanted when he extended his hand to me and said, "Hi, I'm J! We have English together. Finn, right?" He had a surprisingly gentle voice. I finally looked up from my computer, and I recognized him too. A few times the month prior, I had noticed J looking at me from the neighboring group of desks. He remembered my name, so he had been thinking about approaching me for a while. I had prayed for J to keep his distance, but I guess God had other plans. J was tall and had sand-colored hair, and he wore a long-sleeved t-shirt with blue jeans and some old beat-up Adidas. His eyes were a beautiful shade of deep ocean blue. Usually, ocean blue would feel chilly and harsh. However, J's eyes had no edge and were warmer than the east parking lot at three o'clock in the afternoon. Finally, I remembered that he was waiting for me to reciprocate. I looked down to take his hand and shook it with a polite smile. "Not to sound rude," I did, "but where are your friends?" "Oh, well, they aren't great conversationalists. I've seen you sitting here before, and you're always alone. Maybe we can be lunch buddies?" J was so gentle and soft-spoken. He had easy, kind energy about him and had waited so patiently for my answer. Suddenly I wanted to reject him less. "Sure we can, but I can't promise I'll be a great conversationalist. I'm not that interesting." "I'm sure we can find something to talk about! What kind of music do you like?" From there, we talked and talked. Ever since J popped my bubble, he became my everything buddy. We always hung out in the nook in the science wing and everywhere else. We went to movies together, strolled around downtown Fort Worth, went to the same church, did homework, and celebrated birthdays and holidays together. The details of it all are blurred together like one big movie montage. I don't think I could even pick a favorite memory. I would say how hard it is to remember a time without J, but I will never forget how annoyed I felt with his presence and how loved he made me feel every day after.

[darkpersonjellyfish]

Where could I go?

I do not believe that I have a particular place to escape. I grew up in a home where there was no escape. I could not even hide in my room effectively because my mother did not allow me to close my door. She did not believe in me having the privilege of privacy. It was like she thought I would be running a criminal operation if I could close my door. So, I did my best to remain as still as possible to avoid giving ammunition to her paranoia as she rubbernecked her way past my doorway to the bathroom. Nighttime was the only time I was not being watched or interacted with, so I took that time into the early morning hours to enjoy the peace I felt to know that I had this uninterrupted time to be myself. When things were more than a little stressful, I would try to imagine an entirely sensory-deprived environment. In this environment, I would be floating in a dark space that I could not physically feel. I would imagine what it felt like to freely breathe while floating in the deep part of the sea without the unbearable pressure or the creatures swimming around. It felt calming to be suspended just above where the light does not reach and be unable to spot the surface. There, gravity to weigh me down and ground to weigh me on did not exist. People, animals, plants, or any other form of life were not a part of this either. Nor were homework, deadlines, worries, wants, guilts, or feelings. I could merely float and feel nothing. I had nothing to do but to stare at the twinkling constellations above me. The environment would be so quiet and still that I could almost hear the notes assigned to each star playing like an interstellar lullaby. As I settled into this mind space, a blaring horn or voices on the sidewalk outside my bedroom window would rudely snap me back to reality. Each time gravity would flood back to me, sinking me into the bedsheets, and I would be left unable to reenter my serene abyss. Then, weighed with my reality, all I could do was stare at the white ceiling illuminated by the colors from the intersection lights or scroll through my phone while trying not to pay any mind to the time that usually read four am. My mother would be up soon and walk by to notice whether I was still in my bed or not. I desperately wished that I had a place to go as I imagined in my mind. Where else could I go?

[darkpersonjellyfish]

Unwelcome

The best decision that I have ever made was to move here to my current home. I have the freedom to make my own decisions. I also have loving and caring people who calmly give advice and constructive criticism when my choices aren't great. I've never felt so safe and so loved. Before I moved out of my mother's house, she had spent two months trying to convince me to stay. Since I was raised as an only child with no father, I only had my mother, and she only had me. It felt horrible even thinking about leaving my mother all alone. So, I took serious consideration and thought about my decision before I went through with it. On the one hand, she was my mother, and I love her very much. I never want to hurt her on purpose, despite our relationship being rocky at best. She clothed me, put a roof over my head, fed me, put money in my pocket, and spoiled me with things. Better than all of that, she loved me. On the other hand, my mother and I have never gotten along. As intelligent and well-spoken as my mother was, her words were often blunt and hurtful. Ever since I can remember, we have been fighting. She would yell and scream all sorts of insults while telling me how much she hated me as a person. She hit me if she was angry enough about something or felt that she wasn't getting through to me. When I stopped fighting her back, it made things worse. My mother took my silence to mean that I didn't care about us. Our relationship spiraled so far that eventually, we didn't speak unless I was in trouble. When both of us were home, we spent our time on opposite sides of the house. My childhood home started to feel less like home, and the unexpressive white walls of my room began to feel like they were closing in on me. I still couldn't imagine my life away from home, at least not so soon. Things were rocky, but that was no reason to leave. Not without money or a job, or half of a plan. Then, I remembered what my mother said that made me feel like I no longer belonged there. She had just walked in the door late home from work, and I was sitting in the kitchen about to stand up and greet her when before I could, she turned her head to look at me with the saddest and most disappointed look on her face. I sat there frozen under her stare, trying to recall what I could have done this time to warrant a look like that. After a moment, she opened her mouth and said to me, "you make me not want to come home. If I had the money, I wouldn't." Calmly, she set her bags down, took her shoes off, and headed towards the bedrooms to get ready for bed. I was speechless. My chest caved in, and my next breath didn't come till I heard the bathroom door pull shut. The heart-wrenching part of that wasn't entirely about what she said. My mother said hurtful and malicious things to me regularly. What broke me was that I could see in her eyes that she meant it. She did not want me there. She hadn't wanted me there for a long while. Thinking back on that and how devastating that felt, I made my final decision and began to pack my things. It was time to go.