Favorite Movie: Dirty Dancing (1987)
Favorite Episode: Stag (7x16)
Most Relevant: Don't Worry Darling (7x01 + 2022)
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We all new it was coming--welcome to the end. I don't want to get overly sappy because this is a CW show, but it undeniably changed my life and was there through some really rough patches. The quality of Season 7 doesn't negate that impact.
This past winter (or was it two winters ago?), there would be days where I felt like I was about to burst out of my skin. Sure, I'm never able to watch a movie without burning through my five free lives on Candy Crush, or stopping halfway through to peruse Instagram Reels, but I pride myself on being able to start something and stick to it. On my good days, I can watch paint dry with a smile on my face.
Good days seemed impossible. Somewhere in the middle of everything, I managed to convince myself that I felt that way because I needed to go to a rock show. To a certain extent, that was true. I never went, but the knowledge that I could, that the problem was hypothetically fixable now that it was identified, was enough to tide me over while I shook myself to sleep. My mistake was not asking why. Why would a concert fix me? Did I need to get out of the house? Fresh stimuli? Sort of. The only thing I knew was that as soon as I entered the mosh pit, I would be able to let go.
Note: This post deals heavily with suicidal thoughts and ideation. While I don't feel that way now, I did. It gets better. Maybe not easier, but you become better equipped to deal with it. You recognize the beauty in the mundane. Just hold on a little longer.
Whenever I try to stitch together the quilt of memories that makes up my early teenage years, I realize too late that I've run out of thread. I can hold individual panels in my hands, but I don't know where they belong, what colors and patterns are supposed to surround them. They float, loose in the corners of my mind. I remember "Spaceman" being my first iTunes purchase, listening to it on repeat in the back of my dad's truck during a road trip in fifth grade, but no, that can't be right. Things didn't get bad until middle school. Right?