the point of no return

July 21, 2009
By grace moon BRONZE, Norwood, New Jersey
grace moon BRONZE, Norwood, New Jersey
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Holden Caulfield and I are identical; and for that reason I hate him. He represents the struggle that I, and the majority of adolescents trudge through, the struggle of adulthood. For me, it all started in eighth grade when it was no longer cool to just watch a movie and call it a night, and staying out past eleven was a must. Of course, I had the pressure to be cool and in conclusion I conformed to many new social ways that I had to force myself to swallow, literally. As I entered high school things only became harder. I was and still am completely surrounded by talks of things I could of never imagined coming off of certain peoples’ lips; alcohol, drugs, sex, gossip… it was bewildering and completely disgusting at the same time. I felt more lost than I had ever felt before. Yes, many of my friends completely agreed with my shock but yet weekend after weekend, they too slowly (some lighting speed fast) slipped into the oblivion called “growing up.” I began to have a twenty-four-seven feeling of nostalgia, longing for a taste, a glimpse of my comfortable life in middle school.

If middle school had a nickname it would be called easy school. Not only was the educational level a joke but the social life of middle school life was simply, indescribably super. I lived on the same street as my two best friends (who both moved to the opposite sides of town during the start of high school) and was part of a group of girls who I could actually call friends. Everyone says middle school girls are the most catty, but I guess they don’t remember what it is like to have twenty juniors calling your friend a w**** because she said a girl’s boyfriend was good-looking. My loyal army of friends was always by my side, no matter how immature or cruel we could have been to each other. It was the ultimate give and take relationship; and the guys were no different. They viewed us girls as their counterparts and it was a no brainer to sit with us at lunch or invite us over after school to play wiffleball. We all loved each other and didn’t hesitate to express it. Life was simple and there was no need for change. I never got tired of walking to 7-11 after school to get slurpees, having pool parties, and of course attending the annual Norwood carnival.

The Norwood carnival was a week’s worth of thrill, excitement, and it was the sweetest way to end another year in school. It was the pinnacle point of the month of June and it continued that way all until this very day that I sit here typing, June 17, 2009. Today was the first day I attended the carnival as a sophomore. I spent all day, all week as a matter of fact, literally bubbling and gushing over the thoughts of stuffing my face with zeppolis, riding the dangerous rides a hundred times, and having an escape from the looming event of finals. Deep down though, I felt the carnival was like a little burst of my childhood that I would actually be able to relive. When I got to the carnival, yes, I had my zeppolis; yes, I rode the rides; and yes, the thought of finals escaped my mind; but it was far from the fantastical emotions that once embodied me and sent me to a nirvana type world. Now as I ate my zeppolis my friend rhetorically questioned if I knew how many calories were in one of those “things.” Now as I rode the rides, I towered over the kids in front of me and barely fit under the safety belt. It was a site of embarrassment to be honest. I felt like I hit rock bottom, because once again, one of the rare things I still had left of my childhood was slipping away.

My night at the carnival was a whirlwind of depression to the point where I too knew I could not escape from the grasp of age and the future. I gave my twenty carnival tickets (that I stupidly bought when I still had hope) to a boy I babysat and dragged my adolescent self back to my house, because I realized I could no longer be a kid anymore; I had priorities. I had to go home and write an essay.

The author's comments:
what inspired me? truth

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