Lens of Self

I roll out of bed at exactly 11:29 A.M., just as I have been for the past week and a half. This seems like a perfect start to a perfect day; I get to sleep in, only being awoken by the warm  golden sunlight shining through my partially closed curtains – and it would be a perfect start to a perfect day… if this was about anyone other than me. For me, waking up as late as 11:30 for days in a row fills me with a kind of despair I can’t really explain. It’s as if each hour spent in bed is another brick placed on my shoulders, making it harder and harder for me to climb out of the hole I chose to dig when I stayed in bed; however, today, I make the conscious decision to actually place my two feet on the floor, slowly, one foot at a time, and walk, slowly, one step at a time, downstairs. The long trek to the kitchen stacks on to my excursion out of bed and weighs me down so much that I must fall like Jello on to the couch… where I stay. It isn’t until my dad, who’s as cheerful as song birds, comes crashing through the door that I actually stand up. I offer him a hug, one of my favorites, where I let him hold up every pound of me, as if he’s Atlas holding up the sky – this hug is enough to get me to eat breakfast. 

Breakfast was not good. I rinse the oatmeal out of my bowl, holding it with my fingertips at the end of my extended arm, and watch the pallid chunks of inedible grossness swirl down the drain. My eyes move to the couch, still playing my show from earlier – When did I watch seven episodes, I ask myself. Now instead of flopping back down to watch seven more, I decide to go for a drive; That will cheer me up. I amble down the hall looking for my mom. 

“Hey, I’m going to go for a drive,” I say to her. 

She looks up from her desk, almost startled to see me. 

“Oh! Hi, I didn’t know you were awake,” she replies enthusiastically. 

I glance at the clock behind her. 1:00 P.M. Her comment leaves what feels like a knife in my chest; although, I can’t really blame her. Most days I spend my time sitting in my dark cave, seeing just enough sunlight to know when I should start feeling bad that I haven’t left yet.

“Yup. I’m awake,” I reply in a monotone voice. “So can I go?” 

“Sure honey, be careful.” 

I walk out of the house with my phone, wallet, keys, and book; however, I’m not really sure why I bring a book. I rarely ever stop to read it, and if I do stop then I get worried that I’ll keep the car running too long, waste too much gas, and have to pay to refill it. Now my brain is in a spiral. I don’t have any money. I should’ve worked while I was home. Maybe I shouldn’t go for a drive. And finally my mind halts on, Whatever. I turn the key in the ignition and go to turn on my music. Today calls for my “Spilt Milk” playlist – a playlist full of songs to play when I’m sad, because for some reason playing sad music will make me feel happier. Only the problem is that it’s taken me five minutes to connect my phone, and in those five minutes my mood went from sad to mad. 

Finally, with “Streetcar” playing, I pull out of my driveway and head for the beach. Nothing makes me feel better than driving down the beach and seeing the waves crashing, people walking, and sun shining. With each crash of the blue, sparkling waves, a brick is lifted from my shoulders. With each smiling face and waving hand in my direction, I climb a step higher out of the hole. I’m thinking of this peaceful utopia when someone pulls out three feet in front of me. I slam on my breaks, as if my foot is made of steel. What the hell! I think. 

“Are you stupid?!” I yell at the car now several feet ahead of me. Those irenic thoughts that were circling my head are swatted out, and followed by a red hot wave of anger. I look at the license plate and notice it says Massachusetts. Of course, a masshole, I think to myself; but now suddenly it’s two lanes, and I’m going fast enough to pass them, and that thought is no longer sitting in my head, but being thrown out of my mouth, along with my hand, which has also thrown up its middle finger. I pass the stranger and make eye contact. His face, stricken with confusion and a hint of bafflement, tosses a cool wind over my red rage. Suddenly I imagine what I must look like to him; barbaric and laughable. I’m immediately met with feelings of regret and remorse. I was looking only through my lens of self. He got in my way, he cut me off, he ruined my already bad day; but what if I just ruined his already bad day? What if he had to convince himself to get out of bed this morning? Only to be met by a mad teenager whose music wasn’t working. I was the center of the world, he was the center of his world. We both saw the world as our own, like it should bend to our wants and needs, and only ours. I cautiously slow down now, and return to my previously unwanted spot behind the supposed masshole. My music becomes quiet, in my mind or actually, I’m not really sure. I take a slow left turn onto the road that will bring me home, where I should’ve stayed.