When I was in high school, this guy I was friends with (and whom I had a big crush on who ended up breaking my heart for a friend, but that’s a whole other Oprah) said to me that he wished some big emotional disaster would befall him so that he could get depressed. I asked why he would want to go through that. He said, “Because. Being depressed is so artistic.” I thought it was an asinine thing to say back then. But I know that he’s right in theory. Sometimes to drown in emotion is the muse people need to write amazing poetry or music, or to draw passionate images. Creativity (or creation, rather) is often the only outlet that keeps me sane.

The irony, of course, is that when I was really young, I would watch soap operas or TV shows like “Beverly Hills, 90210” and wish my life were more interesting like that. I would watch boy/girl drama unfold with my friends and I’d follow the events and all the he-said, she-saids, sometimes even participate in someone else’s issues, with fascination and envy. I would read about characters in books or watch actors on TV being so stressed when they had to choose between multiple suitors. And I remember actually thinking, “That’s so cool! I wish I had a bunch of boys who liked me. I wouldn’t be stressed, I’d be excited!” But that was before the days of actually dating someone and having other men knocking on my door to give lavish arguments about why I should date them instead. That was before the choices of men got complicated beyond a simple and obvious “this one’s better because he’s a nice guy, and that other guy’s a big jerk.” Somehow, in my youthful, naive wishes for excitement and drama, I got just what I wished for and then I couldn’t stop the flood. And now, I’m flood-damaged and am conditioned to react to drama even tho the drama isn’t like it was.
Hell, sometimes I’m not even sure the drama is existent. But it all feels acutely real, now. My brain has been rewired. Call it post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Oh, those sweet, sweet naive days when I had no idea what a blessing it was that boys were too shallow to like me. My mom had told me, when I was a junior in high school, not to worry about the boys in school who don’t like me back. She said that there ARE guys who like girls like me, I’ll meet them eventually, and that these high school boys just aren’t suitable. She said to just be patient. I cried to Grace on the phone after finding out another one of my crushes that I had thought was going somewhere, met my friend and decided to pursue her instead. Same old story back then. She told me that boys can’t appreciate me yet, and that one day, they will. They just need to grow up first.

I think that’s why I’ve always enjoyed going up north to visit college roommie Diana and her friends so much. It’s a mixed-gender group that is just happy-go-lucky and not incestuous. We hang out, goof off, have silly battles of wits, do active stuff, and I think we really do trust each other. We trust that we’re all good people who’ve proven to be good shoulders to cry on or good sounding boards to troubleshoot with. Gosh, and I’ve only known some of them for 11 months so far. But it reminds me of high school. I’ve had a back-stabbing friend, too, but when the group hung out in high school, the chemistry was fun and simple, just like hanging out with the Northern Cal people.

I do miss high school. Wow, it’s been 12 years. Maybe in another 2 years, I’ll miss college in the same way.