The Rotten Mind of a Seventeen Year Old

The Rotten Mind of a Seventeen Year Old

I am a hypocrite. I write metaphors I have no right to relate to and speak words that my lips have no reason to form. I have no reason to feel as if my bones might crumble into dust at the touch of another human while my skin aches for it so desperately. The irony is not appreciated. 

I sigh and put down the pencil. If I want to lose my mind this is a great way to do it. It's 6:30 in the morning on a Monday and I'm already curled up in bed with my diary like a Sylvia Plath wannabe at its finest, matching words together expectantly while chewing on my pencil. My therapist rarely fails to remind me of the important difference between self pitying and self insight. I was even surprised when my renowned arrogance did not get in the way of surrendering my troubles to an equally arrogant, but educated adult. But despite my best efforts I find myself yet again indulging in my self pity, much like other girls would apply makeup. Only I am delusional enough to believe dilemmas suit a seventeen year old. 

I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen in my worn out nightgown, so loose it might just spontaneously decide to free a nipple. Can´t say I mind, it would after all be unfair to deny my developing breasts the very little attention they don't get deprived of by ironically sexualising dress codes. A chronic dryspell is what it is.

I open the fridge like any other day and stare at the groceries in front of me with a dull expression. Stare at the food as if it is a chore to digest the nutrients children all over the world are lacking, making them cry out in agony and despair. 

Pinch your arm, do as they told you to. Stop fucking dwelling.

It is just a phase. She is just burnt out, they say. I force myself to find comfort in the words and explanations provided by strangers with different degrees society claims to equal expertise and suck it up. I grab my yoghurt and just as the rubberband snatches against my already irritated wrist I feel someone tug impatiently on my pants. With my slowly awakening gaze I look down and see my younger brother looking up at me like I am an animal that escaped the zoo. Fuck, I zoned out again, didnt I?

He flashes me a boyish grin he is too young to wear given his stubborn toothless gaps, which he once claimed made him look like a pirate. I give him a small nod and mess up his hair. “Morning”, I murmur hoarsely and step aside, making room for his small frame. Sometimes I find myself wondering how an attitude that big can fit inside a body as tiny as his. I never got a good grade in physics. My grades dropped early into high school because of rootless, unjustified depression (not my words) before I got a chance to impress anyone who was attentive enough. But I still wasn't stupid. His body is bound to burst at some point from holding that large, reactive mass of inherited sass 10 generations over.

I sit down by the maniacally cleaned glass table as he rummages through the fridge expectantly. “Mom said you are going away on a vacation.” He speaks mostly to himself and only meets my unrevealing gaze when he is met with deafening silence, another thing I am infamous for.

“What?” My tongue decides to slip into paralyzation along with my lungs as shock hits me, making me stumble over my words. My brother rolls his eyes dramatically as if he is beyond repeating himself after nine years on this earth as mothers favorite. “I said-”, he begins, the sass emitting from him in such strong waves it is impossible not to smirk as I bring the spoon to my mouth. 

“Mom said that you are going on a vacation. To stay with dad”, he mutters with a mouthful of cheese sandwich. “She said it's for the best.” he shrugs his shoulders while I clench my jaw so hard I hear the bones threaten to crack. 

Ah, my elitist, alcoholic, “it is what it is” dad who could not even bother showing up to, well, any school event in my lifetime. Unless of course, it was the annual “meet and mingle” for single parents at our liberal, hip school and free hotdogs were served, during all of which he was in fact still married. 

Right on cue my mother walks into the kitchen. Crack of dawn, but she's already dressed in high heels and a black dress, clinging to her thin body. Never caught lacking that one, is she? It's a bit too fancy for her work title but still modest with her blonde, curly hair trapped in a clawclip. Her frown is discreet but noticeable as she eyes me up and down, unimpressed. The habit has become as expected as her warm, rose shaded lipstick meant to make her appear more approachable…, promotion worthy or godforbid kind but only seems to amplify her coldness despite best intentions. I am confident she would be capable of noticing it too if only she was more self aware and less… self centered.

“Honey, change into clothes before school, will you?” She addresses me in a montone, yet perfectly calm tone while drumming her manicured nails against the countertop, leaving a trail of goosebumps on my skin as the nauseating sound travels across it. The atmosphere thickens as I bite down my tongue and any sharpness it was eager to use to ease the pressure settling into my pores.

My temporary lack of judgment last year made me stupidly enough, in the heat of the moment, declare myself as a woke and open minded person. Therefore I am slightly more required to label people as morally gray instead of downright bad, no matter how tempting my mother makes it.

Every morning had turned into an internal debate whether splashing the morning coffee in her face is worth it, no matter hot or cold. The thing is though, she would probably throw it back at me, shocking, yes but surprisingly not unexpected. I was blessed with my stubbornness and uncontrollable temper from my mothers side after all. I will therefore most likely receive it in return when I have stepped one too many times on her 200 dollar shoes or tiptoed enough on the thin ice also known as her light blue eyes.

Despite my dads haunting absence growing up I shortly found out there is no way to remove him from my DNA or from my life. He is like a cockroach that way. I watched my face unfortunately mould into his every day (but more feminine thank god), and was even blessed with my unreliability from him. 

Dad was somewhat present of course, but rather than being the one holding my hair when puking as a kid he normally caused it, feeding me expired canned food. And as for my mother it could not have been easy to see her only daughter grow into the man she eagerly divorced after having him donate sperm for a second child for image maintenance. One step closer to the American dream, oh, and welcome to the family Henry.

With this said, our house is loaded with tension mom cannot seem to scrub away, not even during her Sunday frenzies. Silence however speaks volumes, such as now when I imitiate her gesture and look out the window, into our professionally neglected backyard. Cracked pots, wilting flowers and furniture with flaying paint dominate my view. The air slowly gets breathable again and I finish my yogurt as silence surrounds us, except for the faint sounds from my brother's tv show in the living room. A small sigh escapes her throat, a car door slams shut across the street and suddenly the words fall over my lips before I can think them through. Talk about verbal diarrhea.

“Are you taking me to dad? To a trailer park?”, I ramble as I turn to face her, breaking the first rule of our truce. Never look at each other while fighting since ignorance, after all, is bliss. A sharp intake of air slices the silence in half and leaves my lungs deprived of oxygen as the harsh, yet controlled words leave her painted lips. “Yes, Natalie”, she says calmly, but her pacifist tone is long gone. “I spoke to your father and we have come to an agreement suiting us both. It won't be for too long, but enough to make the days run more… smoothly” Her eyes still have not met mine. 

“In my absence, you mean?” I spit out and clench my hands into whitening fists I bury beneath the loose fabric of my nightgown. Another small sigh escapes her. “Natalie, honey, I assure you it is not personal by any means. We simply are thinking what would be most fair on both of you and your brother and, well, where you would do best.”

If she thought she would be privileged with an interruption from my side, she is far more conceited than what's written all over her face. As silence suffocates her and any explanation she felt generous enough to grant me dies, her eyes slowly meet mine and a knot forms in my chest. 

Her eyes soften and maybe, hopefully and with God's protection this might be her humble, loving words as motherhood finally catches up with her. I'm not that lucky. Just as her corpse-like character finally breaks she twists uncomfortably under my piercing gaze and any warmth left in her eyes leaves just as quickly as it came. Balance is restored.

I open my mouth to continue my defiant rant, not to beg to stay but to refuse to accept the title as unwanted. It has always lingered in the air like when I had to swap rooms with my brother because he needed a change of scenery. The issue had never been addressed directly to me, but they always managed to find a way to etch the truth into my bones without letting the cruel words hit my skin. It has never been out there, poured into a confession, sugar coated or blunt, but a confession nonetheless and left any feeling I had of inclusion being ridiculed. 

Any justified rebellion dies on my tongue as she raises her hand elegantly, the definition of hierarchy really becoming her. “Natalie. We don't have time for this. I will take you to your father after school. I recommend you pack your bag now”, she says, ending the argument just as her eyes drift back out the window again as her manicured nails go back to their tippy tapping. 

I unclutch my whitened fists and take a deep breath as blood is allowed back into my veins, eager to repair any damage in my oxygen deprived hands while my heart wishes it was capable of more than simply healing damaged vessels.

In a barely noticeable motion I tilt my chin up with my nonchalant smirk plastered on my lips as tears slowly begin to fill my blue eyes. I spent nights wishing my eyes could be as cold as my mothers. Cold and detached, no matter the storm underneath and allowing no emotion to seep through, let alone tears I promised myself never to spill for her again. Even if she would never look at me long enough to notice them.

“Heard you”, I say lowly, my voice dropping a dangerous octave to make up for the tremble rocking through my core, forcing bile up my throat. I walk past her, keeping my head so high I'm putting my scoliosis on display. With each step, the pressure in my chest builds. No longer explosive and hot, but cold and crumbling. My therapist calls it anxiety. I call it mom. Mom probably begs to differ. 

I get inside my room, gently close the door behind me. Click. Nudge it a few times, make sure it's properly closed. I get changed, leave the curtains open as I do so to compensate for the Im-gonna-make-sure-youre-gonna-die-a-virgin clothes mom bought me. Wink at my troubled next door neighbour. Jake. He's watering moms plants, a little friendly favour I suppose. But he's a widow, and I know come-in-for-a-cup-of-tea clothes when I see it.

Dad swings by in his pickup, honks in the driveway. My phone buzzes. I pick it up to see a text from dad. An awkward reminder to bring a toothbrush, clothes, and “things girls your age need”. Probably tampons and xanax-

Another text pops up on my screen. It's a link to a video, followed by I know what you did. The room temperature drops, degree by degree, as I zoom in. A loud party. A hot tub. Cameras.

A man you were supposed to trust. A girl who had too much to drink.

The phone clatters to the floor, I just make it to the bathroom before the breakfast makes a reappearance. With my head in an orange stained toilet, wondering how I'm meant to make it this year, dad honks again. Mom gets impatient. Comes upstairs.

She sighs at the sight, picks up my bag. Before turning to go downstairs again, she leans against the doorframe. Really takes time for it. “Honey, I've also been young once. This isn't the way to go…” She says hesitantly. “Dieting… it's less messy. Nicer to the body as well.” She becomes quiet, leaves. Calls from the hallway. 

“Oh, honey! Don't forget your tampons and xanax, okay?”