There’s a reason I keep myself busy. My stepmom always gets mad at me for it, says that it makes me tired and sick. But I can’t help it. If I’m by myself for too long, I start thinking. I get into my head, I over think everything. I start to wonder, then worry. Then I get anxious, and have a nervous breakdown. Then, even after that, the worst part comes; I start remembering. I start remembering the boy from summer camp, who I once thought I loved. I remember the pudding cups, and lazy Sunday afternoons of back when things were easy. I remember the smell of my grandpa’s aftershave, and the coconut hair gel my uncle always wore. I remember my grandma, and I realize that I can’t remember having an actual conversation with my mom until after my parents got divorced.
I remember that perfect summer, and how it faded to the worst winter of my life. I remember how broken I was, and I remember how one day, it just all seemed to stop.
I start thinking about what might’ve been different;
What I could’ve done to change it;
and that maybe, I didn’t have any power over it at all.