Stephanie Victoria

The Dangers of Romance

Thursday, July 2, 2009, 2:15 PM

Something I've realized more and more lately is that there's a certain romance to being self-destructive. To living for what will make you happy for just that moment, even if it means a harsher pain later on. I suppose it's to be expected. The only people left around to tell about their problems are usually those who've overcome them and can't help but leave an optimistic footprint on the stories.

A good example would be my best friend. He broke up with the person he was in love with because that person just wasn't getting how he should have been treated for the year they were dating, and less than 24 hours later, he's on the phone, upset as all fuck, trying to explain his way out of every time he was ever upset by blaming logic. Logically, he should have been upset all those times, so he became upset.

And in the end? He came to the conclusion that he'd rather be stupid, naive, and happy, then stay away and just be content.

It made me think about myself. What am I stupid enough to ignore in the short term, though it's screwing me up in the long term?

Food. It's funny, because sometimes it feels like I'm looking down at everything that's going on. I see every little averted gaze and lip twitch that everyone in my vicinity makes; I seem to know things about people before they know them about themselves, and because of that, people seem to trust me and fill in whatever blanks I needed filled in for a crystal clear picture of my life and the company I keep. We joke about it, always saying how, if I were ever mad enough at someone, I could ruin them with a keyboard and a few minutes on Facebook, but it gets to me sometimes. It's a lot of baggage to carry around. Mine, along with every person who's ever opened up to me about some really serious stuff. Suicides, drugs of all kinds, burning, cutting, rapes, alcohol abuse, physical abuse...it goes on and on and it's all cloaked under the beautiful facade that is this town.

Experiencing all of that, sometimes I feel like I'm invincible, I guess. I'm not proud to say that there are moments when I think that I really am better than everyone else around me. Then, I'm fucking untouchable.

But most of the time, I'm not. Here's where the food comes in. I guess that's my vice. I'm so attached to the momentary contentment that I feel when I'm eating, that just for a little bit, I forget that I probably shouldn't be. I guess that's why people smoke, drink, fuck. It's so worth it at that very moment. And the next? It's the worst feeling in the world: a tawdry mix of regret and guilt that dampens your smiles and stutters your conversations.

And for what? From this point on, there are two types of people. Those who can convince themselves to stick a finger or a toothbrush down their throats and those, like me, who cannot, but deprecatingly think about how they wish they could. Maybe it's better that I can't. Maybe my problem will be less dire in the long run because of it.

But fuck that. Because it was not thinking about the long run that got me into this mess in the first place.

So, here we are. Rockstars recount their tales left and right. Child celebrities grace the pages of tabloids with issue after issue. Everyone's a fucking martyr these days. "It was terrible...the most difficult point of my life, but I'm okay now! Life is great!" And it starts to seem like everyone gets through it in the end. But I guess everyone forgets that for every born-again alcoholic, every previously suicidal person, every former drug addict, there are thousands that were miserable and in pain until they died.

The least we could do is stop acting like the spoiled rich kids we are in this town and put a rest to the weekly suicide threats "because we're just so miserable". I feel like it's gotten to the point where people don't just get upset anymore. It's constantly misconstrued as being life-threatening. Content to suicidal, zero to sixty in two seconds.

From life experience, those who've committed suicides have been the least likely candidates. They haven't found the life of a tortured soul romantic and henceforth haven't thought to publicize it. I guess that's why everyone's always shocked. The child being buried isn't the one who cried wolf time after time; it's the one who befriended a wolf that shouldn't have been trusted and succumbed to its hunger in a moment of weakness.

I've found myself, lately, craving more and more those things I got my hands on so easily in France. After all, there's something so romantic about kissing a girl in a pretty dress, loosened all over by some vodka and a few cigarettes, isn't there?