Haunting and Heartfelt

Haunting and Heartfelt

by Brooke Harrison

photograph: pinterest

Being back home reminds me too often of parts of my childhood I’d rather not remember, but it also holds precious memories of adolescence. It’s a mixed bag of comfort and uncomfortability. 

I’m one of the lucky ones who didn't have a relationship when they were still in their hometown, so I don't have to worry about the awkwardness of running into an ex or seeing (and avoiding) old date spots when I go out. However, sometimes the hometown hookups and ex-friends here give me a feeling quite similar.

When I go past old party spots and smoke spots that I used to go to with friends, it reminds me of a time when I was so at ease (well, as at ease someone with anxiety can be). I think of all the drives my friends and I would go on when we were all first getting our licenses. I remember thinking I was the shit for being my whole friend group’s chauffeur for a while because all of them waited too long to get their permit. 

I recall meeting up at different neighborhood clubhouses and pools to have parties or meet up with guys. The first time I started seeing guys who would pick me up in their cars, it felt so “adult” (as if these boys had become men simply through the power of operating a vehicle).  

Honestly, what I remember the most was wanting to escape being here. My hometown and home state bring me such discomfort, minus the few family members and friends I have here, and I would be more than fine with never returning. 

My whole life I’ve been picturing going to college up north and making a path for myself, diverging from those who have known me since elementary school. There’s an overwhelming feeling of gratitude I have for the life I currently live – the life I’ve always wanted. When I’m back here I have such a tendency to think of little me and what she would say if she could see me now. 

They’d probably be so happy that I finally have a semblance of style when I used to wear head-to-toe Justice that turned into head-to-toe Hollister. I think they would start crying tears of joy that I’m at Emerson in Boston; so content to discover I’ve made friends who let me be as weird as I want and that I don’t have to be afraid of. She’d be so surprised that I have an active dating life, and I know she’d beg me to tell her if ended up kissing one of her 1,000 crushes at the time. 

Little me would ask if we’re doing better at managing stress, and I’d just have to tell her that she’s finally met people who she can lean on and give her the unconditional love she always wanted from friendships. She’d question, “Did I finally get into a relationship?” To which I’d say, “Yes, a short one that will teach you the lessons you need to know at the time… then there will be this asinine invention of a “situationship” – you’ll go back and forth with many of those throughout college.” 

I’ve wanted to know what the future holds my whole life. Who will I get married to? What job will I have? Where do I live? Am I still in contact with my dad? Are my brother and I still close? Have my friends started having kids yet so I can do my aunty duties? These questions are where little me and current me will always resemble each other; we are one and the same, obsessed with knowing what’s in store for future me. 

Little does she know that current me feels more haunted by memories of relationships, situationships, and hookups in Boston than she does by those soon-to-be insignificant and forgetful obsessions still back home. She has no idea how terrible and beautiful life will be. 

I can feel myself wanting to regress when I’m back in my childhood bed, wearing clothes that I didn’t think were cute enough to bring to college. I reminisce over scrapbooks and watch old movies with my mom and brother, but quickly so he doesn't miss his chance to get scouted at his baseball game. I hit up my childhood best friend to hang out, forgetting that she’s upstate at her college apartment working because we don’t have the same breaks from school anymore. I see jewelry my grandma made that I left at home because I’ve already lost two pieces – two too many, as she’s not alive to make any more. I go through the drive-through windows that I used to hit up late at night after going to a house party. I drive past my high school and middle school which both make me shudder from how I was treated and how much I loathed that environment. 

Horrible and heartfelt memories haunt me everytime I’m here; there's truly no place like home. 

Sometimes Always love,

Brooke