The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
If People Were Songs by Allison Hambrick
Shuffling music can lead to some interesting results; each song is a memory, and each memory is a person. Like songs, people have layers, and every relationship is layered with the complexities of the two involved. Within the span of three minutes, a song can conjure every emotion you’ve ever felt. My iTunes account is a veritable scrapbook, and each song reminds me of the people who’ve touched my life and the things I wish I could say to them.
“I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” by My Chemical Romance
“You sing the words, but you don’t know what it means to be a joke, another line without a hook.”
You weren’t the friend I expected to make. It was the Fourth of July, and our friend’s parents were throwing a block party. We were acquaintances for years before that, but in truth, I never paid you much mind past thinking that you were hilarious and your hair made you look like a male Nymphadora Tonks. We had just finished our junior year of high school, and a friend hurt my feelings again.
The party kept going when I went to find some solitude. No one followed me. At least, that’s what I thought. I was sitting on a neighbor’s driveway silently crying and watching the fireworks when you plopped down next to me. You didn’t say anything at first. You just sat with me, and that was enough.
When it was time to speak, I did the talking. Like word vomit, I told you everything. About how one of my best friends had hurt me. About how I had hurt her. About how I felt like I let my friend down when I did the best I could have. You listened. You held me while I cried. Then you told me to get over it.
As if to punctuate your words, a firecracker went off right at your feet. You fell on top of me, and we rolled down the lawn for what felt like forever. We couldn’t stop laughing, and I don’t think we ever did. Every time I’ve needed you, you came through for me, whether it was to listen to my problems or to distract me from them.
When I started college and you couldn’t, you never held it against me. You stayed my friend after everyone else left or moved on. During finals when I felt like I was suffocating, you were always up to grab a bubble tea or to go see that new Beauty and the Beast remake “with the sexy Gaston.” Most importantly, you were there for me.
I’ll never forget that day during my senior year of high school when I got below a fifty on my chemistry exam after studying harder than I ever had before and thought I wouldn’t graduate. We went to Waffle House after school. When we were done eating, neither of us were ready to go home and face our lives, so we sat in the parking lot. You asked for the AUX cord, and I obliged. The raucous sounds of My Chemical Romance filled the tiny car. You kept encouraging me to tell people how I felt, to let it out. At the top of our lungs, you helped me admit that I was not okay and that it was okay not to be okay.
Thank you.
“While My Guitar Gently Weeps“by The Beatles
“I don’t know how someone controlled you. They bought and sold you.”
I know you don’t consider me a friend. I know that. You dated my friend for years, and I didn’t bother to know you, really know you, until recently. We became fast friends, though.
There was a sadness that I couldn’t put my finger on. You didn’t live with your family. Instead, your girlfriend’s family took you in as one of their own. Not one to rely on others, you moved out at the first chance. That was your first mistake.
Your roommate was a classmate of ours. To call him a friend would be an overstatement. Your girlfriend may as well have lived with you; she was always there. There was even talk of marriage in your future. That’s when it happened. She can’t explain it, and neither can the rest of us. Regret and pain overtook her immediately after. She confessed to you. Tenderhearted as you are, she was forgiven. Even so, her guilt drove her away.
It was like a divorce. Our friends were forced to take sides. She ended up with no one, while you were marinated in support; you were the victim after all. In a moment of pity, I chose her. She was sorry. She did love you. He meant nothing to her.
You took it all in stride. We were still friends for a time. That is, until it got back to me that you were in a new relationship. Not with just anyone, however.
You chose very same man who slept with the woman you considered your soul mate. He could provide for you in ways your parents couldn’t. His trust fund paid your rent and bought you a car, but at what cost? I tried to show you the truth. I wanted you to see the same mustache twirling villain that I did. How could someone hurt you in that way and say they love you? How could you let them?
Your ex was not blameless; I never said she was. Even so, the simple act of not isolating my friend was enough for you to dismiss my warnings. Your boyfriend says that I don’t care about you and that I am just saying what she whispers into my ear. He told you to stop hanging out with me, and you listened.
I understand now that I made the wrong choice by not being there for you. Maybe if you felt like someone loved you, things would be different. Real love is not obsession. Real love is not total control. Real love does not mean dictating where you live, what you eat, and who you talk to. Don’t you see that you deserve real love? Why would you sell yourself for security?
I cannot help you unless you want to be helped, and you’ve made your decision clear.
“Scar Tissue” by Red Hot Chili Peppers
“With the birds, I’ll share this lonely view.”
And what about me? Mirroring others is part of being a writer; seeing a reflection of yourself is a different beast. You want to be a hero. You want to be a victim. You want to love and to be loved. What if you want the opposite? What if you want the heartbreak?
Venomous thoughts are a constant in my mind. I don’t want to feel the way that I do. I want to want to be happy. The future should not be a bleak and fearsome thing for a twenty-year-old, or should everyone fear the changes it brings?
I was always this anxious; my mom says I was born a “little ball of feelings.” When I was a kid, that meant I radiated happiness. My thoughts were light, and thus, my heart was, too. On occasion, one of my baser emotions would take over. In third grade, I once received a failing grade, and I proceeded to bang my head on my desk. My kind teacher took me aside to share her wisdom.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” she said. I never forgot these words, though it’s safe to say that I haven’t always practiced what she preached. Social situations were never my forte. People intimidated me, especially adults. My elementary school gym teacher was the scariest person I knew back then, and so I was afraid to ask him anything, anything at all. For a kid with cysts on her kidneys, hesitation means wet pants or in this case, a wet puddle on the wooden gym floor. I’ve since heard that my gym teacher was shocked and embarrassed that he scared me; I wish I could explain.
The older I got, the more complicated feeling became. Happiness was met with embarrassment in the awkward days of middle school, followed by shame and loathing. No one wanted to sign my leg brace because I have no friends. I’m not as pretty as Ansley. I’ll never be as smart as Andrew. Johnathan was right when he told me I was worthless.
The thing about shame is that it can manifest differently for different people. For me, it led to doubt which led to anxiety which cascaded into isolation and finally, sadness. I had people in my life who cared about me; truly, I was blessed. Being blessed and feeling blessed are two different things.
It wouldn’t be a large overstatement to say I am an empath. Tone shifts, gestures, and expressions are as plain to me as ink on paper. Whenever someone I care about is happy, I feel the same joy. The downside to that is I cry when my friends cry. I love big. If I care about someone, I will do anything for them. When I lose someone or something, that’s what I feel: loss.
All consuming, hopeless loss. The kind of loss that leaves you alone, plotting your own demise. The kind of hopelessness that turns a bus ride into a prayer session in which all you want from God is an immediate death. Sometimes, when my parents were not home, I would think about ways I could do it, walking ever closer to the figurative ledge. Could they see me falling?
I try to cast those thoughts out. Back then, I would focus on people. Mental wills were drafted. Audrey would get all of my clothes. Eric could have my books. My sister would get my stuffed animals. My dad would get the baseball hat he gave me and that framed picture of us at the American Girl store. I got tripped up whenever I reached my mom. What could I give her that could make up for what she would lose?
Then there were my grandparents. My grandmother has buried two brothers, her parents, her aunts, and her dearest friend. My grandfather has buried both parents, one sister, three brothers, a nephew, and countless friends. Was it really fair for me to add a granddaughter to that list?
I resolved that I would make it. If nothing else, I could wait until they were gone and the sharp knife of a short life couldn’t hurt them. In those days, “Adam’s Song” was my anthem, but with each day that passed, my mindset morphed into something more reminiscent of “Famous Last Words.” I got by through leaning into what gave me joy: comic books, television shows, and The Sims but also my friends and family, the people that I love.
Recovery is not overnight, and it is never over. Sure, I would say I am more adjusted to life now than I was at age fifteen, but can’t everyone else, too? The open, bleeding wounds of adolescent angst are still as visible as the smile-shaped scar on my leg, albeit mostly healed.
I am not a victim. I am not a hero. My life is not some beautiful tale of overcoming unsurmountable odds. I am just a person. I have loved and lost. I have been loved and lost. All of these things will come to pass again and again. My feelings will make themselves known, and I’ll have to face them.
The hard part of anxiety is that other people may feel similar emotions, but their emotions will never be yours. Sharing yourself should be easy, especially with those you care about. If I could wear my emotions, make my scars visible, I would want to. The cold, hard truth is that I do want to and that I can, but I know in my heart that I won’t.
There are a lot of things I could say, but never will.
