I often suspect that I abuse my body and mind to the extent that I do so in order to enjoy the euphoria of health, of energy, of well-rested enthusiasm and unbridled youth that so often ensues such abuse. My “enthusiasm” and “youth”(fullness) are indeed unbridled, no matter how much shit I pump into my brain (alcohol doesn’t kill people, PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE!!)
I like to feel weightless after being anchored down by relentless sleep deprivation and laughable nutrition (I owe dino nuggets my life). Like that goddamn cliched metaphor from House on Mango Street. The freaking Red Balloon. I tie myself down but I always remember (I never stop feeling) weightless.
Weightlessness is far preferable to the tumultuous emotional trajectory of my typical trials and failures; failure reminds me how to succeed, generally (but come on, who doesn’t occasionally come home after missing a midterm and pound down a six-pack alone and cry while watching Grey’s Anatomy and relishing the sick, sweet teen angst?!). Generally. Not that I enjoy failure, but I must say I’m quite well versed in its many, many manifestations. Failure is weight; fucking up weighs me down in a soulful way, and so I literally and figuratively vandalize my physiology in order to derail myself from whatever my current path happens to be. I desecrate the temple that some would call my body in order to kick the healing into high gear. I awake to a bright and shiny new world, one where the sun seeps in through the blinds and teases the silhouette of reluctant curtains. One where the daylight is intoxicating and organic — one where I smile, rise from the depths of my tantalizingly soft catacombs that are my sheets, and throw back the curtains (thus proving once and for all I am not, in fact, a vampire or any such nonhuman creature of darkness). The stark contrast of rest, of excitement, of childish glee as I draw the sunlight into my lungs and into my heavy, heavy soul — it is this extreme along the spectrum of human emotion that reminds me that I am, indeed, human. That I am, indeed, alive, and glad to be so.
I wouldn’t be an ADD kid if I didn’t live for the unfathomably lofty mountain peaks and hellish but poignant depths of the valleys that define the spectrum of my emotion — the spectrum of my existence.