Healing Buried Scars

I was going to write an open letter to a guy I knew in high school. It was going to be all about how I’ve stalked watched him over the years as he descended farther and farther into a life or horrendous mediocrity. There were vague references to possible felonies planned. It was going to be great.

Except, as I began writing it, I realized I’ve let go of most of my adolescent angst. I no longer harbour ill will or exceptionally high levels of anxiety for my pubescent tormentors. I can’t even really remember their names completely anymore. I think… I think that means I’ve matured?

Or maybe it means I’m developing senility.

I’m not sure I care, either way.

A few years ago, it was fashionable to encourage teenagers to plug their way through because “it gets better.” I never bought it. People generally suck giant saggies. It doesn’t matter if you’re 15 or 50. Most of your peers are horrible human beings and the world would be better off if they were transported to an alternate dimension controlled by vampire hamsters.

But, as I sat down to drudge up all of those long-buried personal scars, I realized… they’re all gone. That isn’t me saying I’m suddenly an enlightened and spiritual perfect being. I wouldn’t make that claim because of how enlightened and spiritually perfect I am. I’ve still got plenty of brain-cargo mucking around in my mental transport ship.

The oldest stuff, though. It’s either buried so far down I can’t really grab it anymore, or healed. I’m not a shrink, so I’m not going to guess which one it is.

On one hand, it’s nice knowing I’ve gone long enough without dwelling on gym class embarrassments to have shoved them behind me. On the other, it makes me a little sad, too.

I used to have an endless supply of crazy to work with. It was comforting, in its own way.

So, goodbye fifteen-year-old psychological damage. We were close once, but we’ve drifted apart. I’ll miss you, but not, you know, a lot.