As a little girl, sometimes I sniffed silverware, when I thought no one was looking. I bit my nails, chewed on my hair, was fascinated with the opening and closing of doors, the death scene in Titanic. I wrote snippets of sentences, strange words in small notebooks tucked into my desk (i wait for/the day/lightening will strike/my eager fingertips), listened to 80’s music with morbid lyrics, took mythomania to extremes.
With this awkward transition, this shapeshifting from spaghetti-skinny, barrette-wearing, smallish me to morose, angry, plumper, slightly-more-observant me, I’m starting to realize what real dangers are. Or at least, what adults consider to be real dangers.
We had a lecture on drugs a few weeks ago at my high school. In my memory, this talk joins one of many, as unmemorable as its past counterparts were. A woman with no defining features. Her soft, smooth, sleepy voice. A faint scrawling of words on a chalkboard, “addiction” “narcotics” “symptoms” “poison” “death”. Pamphlets, passed out again and again by the same associations, papers we will flip idly through before tossing away. A final warning that, though meant to be friendly, sounds like a prohibiting ultimatum: don’t do it.
(Side note: Mother – and I know you’re reading this, even though I told you not to – you can relax because I have no immediate plans to smoke marijuana, hallucinatory mushrooms or whatever. God.)
As stated above, to avoid any confrontations with angry parental units, I am on the don’t side of the spectrum, if only because I’ve been brought up that way. Who knows what would have happened, had I been born in Harlem during the 60’s? It can happen to anyone, anytime. But it’s a long topic, and too scientific for a Monday, and I honestly don’t want to spend half an hour googling drug jargon. And you don’t want to read that, right?