Nevada Sad

Nevada Sad

 by Roya Sorooshian
 4.30.01

"Nevada's always sad." I heard my little sister, Sadie, whisper to my mom one day. "Why is Nevada always sad?" They were standing right outside of my bedroom, my mom having just sent Sadie to see if I was awake or not. My mom didn't answer, so I rolled over in bed to look. She was watching with dark, sad eyes. An imitation of Sadie's voice echoed in my head. "Why is Mommy always sad?" "Because of you," a different voice answered. "You make her sad." I stared at my mother until she looked away. She took Sadie's hand and they walked down the hall. I rolled onto my stomach and tried to pretend her eyes, which were helpless to answer Sadie's questions, didn't exist.

I was sitting on a plastic bench, watching a playground. There weren't even any kids playing, so I really had no excuse. It's just this thing I have. Empty playgrounds seem to sad to me; abandoned and creaking. But even if there were kids running and laughing, I'd still think it was sad. Knowing that those shrieking children were going to get bigger and older, until even if they still wanted to play on the slides and swings, they wouldn't fit. I opened my carpet purse (purple shag) and took out my journal. I turned to the last page and scribbled "adult size playground" on the bottom of a long list. I'm making a dream house, constructing it in my head and on paper. It's stupid, really. But sometimes, I'm almost happy when I'm designing it. I was never a happy, excited kid like Sadie. I never asked questions like her, none of that "why is the sky blue?" stuff. I just knew it was, and that I couldn't change it. Sadie seems like she's never satisfied. There are never enough ansers. But she's always excited about the questions. Sometimes I wish I'd been like her, wide eyed and curious. I never even liked playgrounds when I was young enough to play on them. They frustrated me. It never went anywhere. The swings just went back and forth. The slide only went down (unless you climbed up, but then it was just to slide back down again.) It seemed pointless, even then. Sometimes I think I would be better off if I let myself enjoy pointless things. At least then I'd fit in.

I must have been 11 or 12, my mom had just let me start going to PG13 movies on a regular basis. There were a few girls in my class at school that let me sit at their table at lunch, and didn't tease me too much or anything. One day they even invited me to a movie with them. I can't remember what it was, but I do remember the feeling of disgust sweeping over me as I sat in that dark theater, listening to the girls next to me giggle. After the movie they asked me if I'd liked it. I hadn't, and I told them so. I'd never encountered a situation like this before, so I didn't know then that it would be better to keep my mouth shut. I told them exactly how pointless and what a waste their movie and they were. They didn't tolerate me at their lunch table after that. And I realized that the pointlessness got even worse as I got older, and started highschool.

I'm sad when I think of Sadie. She still squeals if someone pushes her too high on the swings, and I think, what's the point? A momentary thrill, but you don't go anywhere. I want her to know that, but I don't want her to be unhappy. That makes me sad.

The school counsellor called me to her office not that long ago to be well meaning and hypocritical. She asked me about drugs and alcohol. I had nothing to say. She hmm'd and wrote something on a piece of paper. More pointlessness, more wasting my time. Because, I don't do drugs. I don't drink. I guess that's surprising, because just about everyone else at my school does. Maybe that's why I don't. But to me it's like, swinging. Or a rollercoaster, a cheap thrill, that only lasts a little while, and doesn't actually take you anywhere. So I do't do drugs, I don't drink. I don't even dress all in black. What's the point?

I do, however, like to drive fast. It's different to me than a rollercoaster. You actually go somewhere. It's real. If you crash, you can die. It's not something manufactured and fake. It's not that I want to die, but I need to do things that are real. Significant.

Except I don't have a car. I can drive, but my mom took away my car. It was beautiful too, deep blue exterior, with gray interior. A two seater, which was just fine by me. The only person I ever drove anywhere was Sadie. But then my mom heard a story on the radio about a teenager driving off of a bridge to kill herself. They described the girl as "very sad. Quiet. Write in her journal a lot." It shook my mom up. It must have, because she took away my wheels. I didn't see the point. I told her that if I wanted to kill myself there were other ways. But she said it made her feel better.

That got me thinking about what would make me feel better. What would make me get over this sadness. One day I'm going to get that beautiful blue car back. I'm going to leave the highschool, with it's irrelevent counsellors, and giggling girls. I'm going to drive fast, and after awhile, I'll stop driving away, and start driving towards something. The blueprints to my dream house will be beside me in the other seat. Somewhere along the way I'll stop, and a stranger will offer me a cigarette. When I shake my head and say no thanks, they'll cock their head to the side and look at me critically. "Who are you?" They'll ask. Then I'll smile, rolling my answer on my tongue. "Nevada," I'll reply. "Nevada Sad."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! DON'T STOP!!!!!!!!!!

Please write more.

Ruth

really? what else would i write? i'm almost afraid to add anything, or change things.. ahh! i hate writing stuff i actually LIKE! ;o) RoyaBoya