Anyway Here's Wonderwall

My feet were getting wet as my cleats sunk farther into the silt. The waves, if you could call them that, were pushing and pulling tiny grains of sand and pebble. I was crouching down and had my hands resting on the ground, the waves pulling sand from under my fingers and tickling the backs of my hands as they rolled back in. This buzzing has recently been taking over my brain. It starts out sort of quiet but eventually the sounds of pins and needles fills my head, pounding on the walls of my skull and the world sort of spins and I can't focus on anything. Becca called my name twice but the buzzing was loud and overbearing and so I focused on my hands in the water instead.

***

I woke up on Katy's extra bed, which lies horizontally at the foot of her bed. The first thing I saw was the white feet of Katy's bed post. It was warm there, under an extra blanket with my face on one of Katy's pillows that always seem to be that kind of perfectly pilly. I remember being slightly confused. It was early and I wondered what year it was. I wonder this sometimes when I wake up from naps; I feel like too much time has gone by and my entire life has happened while I've been asleep. But at this particular moment I wondered what year it was because it could have been any. I could have been a ninth grader waking up on Katy's floor after having made a cake the night before. I could have been a junior who would sneakily drive Katy to school in my car that morning. I could have been four years old and woken up in my parents bed after having a nightmare. I could have been eleven and trapped between the wall with the vent that always blows cold air and my bed when my sister decided that the entire bed was hers to lay horizontally across.

I could have been anything, anywhere. Nine and crying on the swings at the park. Six and finally having the courage to try a pickle. (I wasn't missing anything; pickles are terrible.) Four and running in and out of my great aunt's house, sipping Moxie out of a dixie cup. Five and finding my first favorite song: Complicated by Avril Lavine. Eight and asking the priest "what the big deal is with the blessed bread?" But for some reason, I was lying there, completely lost in my borrowed, clean, pilly pillowcase, and it took me a while to realize that I was none of these things. I was not bringing Becca cupcakes because she had a tough day. I was not lying on the floor of Ellie and Eklutna's room postulating to Jacks Mannequin. I was not being told by my baseball coach to stop crying because we "don't need any of that girl stuff." I am seventeen and I'm regularly more sad than I feel like I have a right to be. I'm going to college because it's what I'm supposed to do, but you will not make me excited about it. I am seventeen, lying on my friend's extra bed that only gets pulled out of the closet for guests, and feeling more at home on this borrowed mattress than I have in my own for weeks.

I've been thinking about a lot of these things lately. Like the first time I spelled the word "king." I think I was three and eating macaroni and cheese for breakfast. Or how my sister still sucks her thumb. Or when Kerry told me that their perception is my reality, which I've given a lot of thought.

In the big picture, if their perception is my reality, does anything even belong to me? These memories: chasing baby frogs around the park wearing a green, cotton dress with a rosy floral print or making Hobey laugh with my "I'm on sabbatical" story. Are they all subject to other people's perception? Sure. Of course. My mother took me to the park that day and I know for a fact that she doesn't remember because I've asked her. (She wasn't the one chasing baby frogs, why would she remember?) Hobey's got a right to make assumptions about the kind of preschooler I was based on the stories I told him. But for some reason, I think the buck stops there.

But, hey, let's keep rolling with this train of thought. Their perception is my reality. My perception is their reality too then, isn't it? I, an individual, can also be a part of a group. "Me" can be part of a "they." My perception is their reality. My perception is that Christine is going to have a great senior year. Things will keep looking up for Katy. Becca will get good grades. Women will stop being objectified and subjected to the prude/whore dichotomy. My sister will make friends. I will make friends. Oreos will continue to be made for as long as I live. These are my perceptions, but I'm sure that everyone else has a million other perceptions, and they're all different. Mine's different than yours is different than Becca's is different than Chris Pratt's*.

If all of these people's different perceptions are affecting reality then even what is reality? When perception is left up to an insanely diverse group of people that control the reality of one person, do they even have control over anything? It's like if five different people are pulling on something, that thing will not move if all the people are pulling equally as hard. But when one person, a stronger person, pulls, the thing could move. So do some people have more sway over reality than others? That's not fair. For example, if a very strong person is pulling in one direction, and three weaker people are pulling in the opposite direction, will it move? This entire thing seems extremely subjective.

The other day, I rented the August: Osage County movie and Karen says to Barb, "It, like everything else, lives somewhere in the middle. It's not cut and dry or black and white; nothing lives there, except you."

***

At the waterfront of Lake Champlain, me with my hands in the water, Becca off being an adventurer, the tiny grains of sandy stone were swirling around my hands and I was so lost. The buzzing was encroaching on my ability to form a coherent thought and everything I was feeling was distant and blurry and painful, like I was numb but everything still felt sharp, like I was looking at my life through a telescope lens covered in scratches. Becca kept calling my name but all I could think about was the sand sliding out from under my palms and then coming back to make the backs of my hands itch. My team was congregating a hundred feet and a set of stairs away and all I could do was cry as my cleats sank farther and farther into the wet beach. When I finally stood up, I thought only about crawling back into Katy's extra bed. There it felt like possibility; here, at seventeen and sadder than I should be, it feels like doom.

*This is Chris Pratt. Someone stop this man before he takes over the world with his adorableness.

PEW. PEW. MY HEART.

(If you're a jelly donut and a modern jackass, you'll listen to this song.)

You know I could be anyone
God forgive what I should have done
My thoughts enough to guilty be

And yes, I guess I made this bed
But I’ll take the sidewalk instead
That’s how we deal with boys with me

But despite what you’ve been told
I once had a soul
Left somewhere behind
A former friend of mine

And I hate to sound so true
But I mean nothing to you
So with the streetlights they shine bright
I’ll be home tonight

"A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale."

-Welcome to Night Vale, Pilot

I know this post has a lot of words and also a lot of visual and audio content. On behalf of Starfleet, I'd like to apologize. This week has been a logistical nightmare. Other than that, here's my favorite song from Mama Mia.

They're supposed to be getting married, but the male chorus members are dancing in flippers and I'm crying.