To Professor Due,
Fiction saved me when I was younger. It sucked me into the television or its pages, suffocated with their thick colorful covers, about stories I knew nothing about. Fiction reminded me that people were stubborn (even in made-up stories) but happiness is still possible. I loved teenage romance novels, romantic comedies, Christmas and coming-of-age movies. They were my salvation; simply because home life was a tragedy. After I found my options for escaping to be less effective over time, I disappeared into horror films. For a year from 7th to 8th grade, I induldged. I started with the classic early 2000’s zombie movies (like Dance of the Dead). I’d make my way to slasher films, killers who were deformed from radiation sickness to stories about the paranormal, all the way to B and C class horror films. I even stayed on the channel chiller which at the time, on cox, was free for me. I went from teenage romance novels to teenage deficiency and defiancy. Teenagers who’d experience loss and addiction. Teenagers trying to cope with grief. But eventually, I’d stop reading.
After I ran out of new movies to access, I’d re-watch them. Over and Over and Over again. Sometimes, on Saturdays, I’d re-watch the same movie 6 times. I’d notice the sky turn dark outside my window before I could remember it being light outside. You’d think these movies would scare me into staying awake at night, but they didn’t. Insomnia made itself comfortable in my bed. I had dozens of thoughts that kept me up. Scary films weren’t so scary since you could turn them off.
I couldn’t turn off my life. Couldn’t press a button to switch the channel. I’d rather invest in a fake story than my own. But of course, life goes on and I’d lose myself in the stories I told myself. Love wasn’t as easy as it was in the movies and life was more terrifying than being eaten by zombies.
This realization came later; after I came to hate romance movies and horror films could no longer overshadow my fears. I resented the fictional characters who defeated the monsters. The ones who got their happy endings with little effort.
Life isn’t like the movies.
It took years to return to my love for romance and horror. The perfect duo. It wasn’t till after I conquered my chilling battles, found my own love stories, and overcame the very tender heartbreaks, that I relearned how to appreciate all the truths in what I was watching and all the lessons in what I read. The new tears I shed from watching or reading these anticipated endings came from my affliction and apprehension that there is collateral beauty in every existence other than mine, real or imagined.
