SNOW
I always hated the snow. So many crazy people think it is beautiful. They talk about how white and pure and beautiful it is. They say it washes the world clean, makes us see everything in a new light. All I see when I look at snow is a cold, wet disease that gives people an excuse to stop trying and that kills all that once was truly alive and beautiful with its bitter frost.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when I was younger, maybe seven or eight, my older brother stuffed my face into the snow. But most children have memories from before the age of seven, and I never can remember a time when I actually liked the snow. In fact, I remember very distinctly that the day my brother tried to drown me in that white monster I hadn't even wanted to go outside to "play." Of course my mother thought I was just being silly and that all children wanted to play in the snow. How little she knew. How little any of them ever knew.
Tommy always did say I was a strange girl. He often wondered why he loved me. He never said so, but I know he did. Either that, or he never even loved me at all. I don't blame him. What guy could really want to be with a girl that hates the winter so passionately that she won't even drink hot chocolate or curl up in front of a fireplace. It's just a good thing he wasn't big into skiing or something like that. If he had been, I'm sure we would have broken up much sooner than we did. Of course, it was during the winter that we did break up, January 19 to be exact. I've always hated the snow.
If I ever do get married and have children, I'm going to make sure they aren't born in the winter time, but at the rate I'm going, marriage doesn't seem all that likely. It's really hard to find dates around here, or at least to find dates that aren't crazy. I can't help but feeling I don't belong here, but they tell me I'm where I should be. What do they know anyway? It's my own life. I should be free to live it how I want. But I'm always the good little girl: doing what I'm told I should, what I know I need to. Sometimes I just want to get out, go somewhere else, somewhere it doesn't snow.
But no matter how much I complain, I know I don't really have it so bad. There are many people who have it much worse than me: people who don't have roofs over their heads or warm beds to sleep in or hot food to eat. I really shouldn't complain at all, but I can't help it. I am just human after all. That's what I keep trying to tell them. I'm just human. They can't expect me to be perfect.
We all have something we hate, truly hate with a passion. It's not weird or abnormal. What's abnormal is being so scared of spiders that you see a small piece of a cobweb and think they're crawling all over you. What's weird is thinking you can make lightning strike people dead if you feel so inclined, and that you've done so before. Those are the people you have to look out for. Those are the real crazies.
I hate the snow. I've always hated the snow. I don't hate people who love the snow, I really don't. They just get on my nerves so much sometimes I can't stop myself. I just have to act out. Is that really so bad? Should I really be looked down upon for that?
Maybe it wasn't my brother or the breakup that really caused my problems. Maybe it was my kitten that ran off in late November and froze to death. That was sure something to be thankful for while we were carving turkey. Maybe it was my friend who feel off the roof when pretending to be Santa for her nieces and almost broke her back. That was a wonderful Christmas. Maybe it was the terrible plane flight that almost crashed when my parents forced me to go to Times Square for New Years' that one year. There was no defining moment that pushed me over the edge, but maybe if just one of those things hadn't happened, then maybe I wouldn't have done what I did, and maybe, just maybe I wouldn't have ended up here.
I hear them moaning and mopping around behind me. They want to go out and play in it, but the nurses keep telling them its too cold. Stupid crazy people. They really don't understand. Why would anyone want to go outside and play in that? How could anyone think it was beautiful or refreshing or representative of hope? I guess these people find hope wherever they can, no matter how foolish and illogical it may be.
As for me, all I can do is stare. I sit here in my wooden chair with my hands on my thighs and stare. Every time I say something, they just think I'm wrong or insane, so I gave up on talking long ago. I take the pills, just like they tell me to, but it doesn't get any better. I still hate it, but still, all I can do is stare at those perfectly little atrocious flakes falling down because maybe, just maybe, if I can convince them that I don't hate the snow anymore, they will let me out of here. Then I can go away, far, far away where it doesn't snow anymore and I don't have to deal with it anymore. They tell me I have to be here, so I stay. What choice do I have? But really, I just want out. God, how I want out.
I hate the snow.
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