Myrtle Beach

So many memories come from Myrtle Beach. I never realized how much had happened here until I spent the day alone, going over everything (in a sentimental way, of course). When enough time passes, every experience gains some sort of sentimental value. Even though tears have drowned and choked off these memories, they have also baptized them, giving them new life, a new meaning.

The first time I ever came to Myrtle Beach, I was in the eighth grade. It was spring break, I was in a pointless relationship with a boy I only saw at school, and I was in the beginning stages of anorexia. I loved that I was living, I just didn't love the life I lived. I was sad, I was hopeless, I was scared. Spring break had just begun. It was nighttime, and my dad came into the main room and told the whole family to pack our bags, we were leaving, it was a surprise. It was exciting. I had no idea where we were going, but the concept of an "escape" was magical to me. I slept in the car until we arrived at the Marriott. We were in Myrtle Beach, somewhere I had never been before. I spent the week laying out in the sun and resting my poor, tired body. I didn't eat anything, but the rest was enough to keep me going a little bit longer. I didn't tell anyone where I had gone. I was just.. gone. And I loved the concept of disappearing.

I came back to Myrtle the summer after the 10th grade. At this point, I was deep in a relationship that has broken me far more than I have ever been broken, will ever be broken in my entirety. I swear to never let myself be so close to such a cruel person ever, ever, ever again in my whole life. My friends were with me this time. I had people who knew me, people who loved me, and I had him, my love, my sunshine, my nothing. He would call me every so often and scold me, questioning my every move, my every gesture. If I didn't pick up the phone I was, of course, cheating on him because when a normal person doesn't answer the phone what else could they be doing? Besides, I was a whore anyway. I was complete trash. I was an ugly, disgusting, slutty mess, and I was hated. At least that's what he told me on the balcony of my room while my mom was making dinner. I remember the way my tears stuck to the faux-leather of the booth seating in the kitchen area. I remember the hands on my back, the precious murmurs trying to save my life. And the pain, the knives in my heart, the blood behind my eyes. Every second, I burst into tears. Every store I went into, I had to walk straight out because I was unworthy, I was trash, I was nothing. All of that week, he tried to win me back with love songs and excuses, and he would of, if it hadn't been for the support system that was behind me.

I came back again, the summer after 11th grade. I was with my best friend, and I was in love.. again. This time, it was good. It was meant to happen. I had God's approval and the world's approval. We would talk on the phone for hours at a time on the balcony, and then my best friend would come out and we'd sing to the moon. We talked about everything: boys, God, friends, the future. We spent the week trying to harmonize to Jason Mraz songs, and we danced to Ludo in the kitchen. I ran every morning on the beach. It was a beautiful summer.

And my senior year, I have been to Myrtle Beach three times. The first time, I was getting over the boy from the last summer. I was killing all of my friendships with harsh remarks, and I was avoiding blue eyes that tried to convince me that this way was better. It wasn't peaceful. I could never look him in the eye. But he made me laugh, he kept me company. I have so many memories from the three days that I spent here.

The second time, it was better. I had less to care about, less to be angry about. I could look into brown eyes and tell the truth. I could fall asleep and not worry about what I would feel in the morning.

And here I am again, and I'm so tired...

And I'm writing a pointless blog. The end.











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