Rich People Problems

i | the art of forgetting

KIMBERLY

TO BE ABLE to forget is a blissful thing.

Forgetting a bad day.

Forgetting a bad breakup.

Forgetting the one person who occupies your every thought no matter how hard you try to keep them out.

The things I would do to forget...

It's not that I wanted to forget the good things. Shockingly, that was the last thing I wanted to do. In all honesty, I was more focused on trying to forget how the good parts made me feel. How I would never be able to feel it again.

It was one of the worst parts about life. How, once we experienced something, there was an uncertainty pertaining to if we would ever find something that even holds a candle to it. How there was a knowledge that we would never be able to experience it like that ever again.

The constant need for more and more. The inability to function without the sensations and emotions we were once so familiar with. The intense craving of that high...

I shouldn't be here, that was for certain.

I knew—deep, deep down—that this was the last place on Earth that was right for me.

But it worked. And, if something worked, why would I want to stop it?

Music was blasting from all the speakers in the club, the bass vibrating so intensely, you felt it up through your bones, shaking each and every cell in your body. So loud you can barely hear your thoughts. So loud, your ears will be ringing for days to come. So inaudible over the hollering of the drug-filled, sex-craved bodies.

Sweaty bodies moving around without a care in the world, filled with nameless and countless drugs meant for a night of fun for those with control. So many drugs that tonight would seem like a distant memory when they wake up with a hangover or experience an intense comedown.

Lights. So bright, flashing so excessively that staring at them instantly gives you a headache. So many different colors, discerning reality from the fantasy of the club seemed almost impossible.

I wasn't proud to say that I was one of the sweaty bodies in the crowd. Losing all my inhibition and trying to let go... to forget. The dizzying sway of my drunken body, surprisingly being the only thing keeping me standing.

At least I'm not doing drugs anymore...

As if that was better.

I staggered my way to the VIP lounge—knocking over random glasses of liquids and bumping into God knows who, hearing the shouts of annoyance—before collapsing in my designated lounge. As a frequent visitor of clubs and a prominent member of society, most clubs had a section reserved for me.

My little oasis among the chaos of the club.

Whether or not that was concerning or impressive is still a wonder, but no one would ever find me complaining.

To most people, this would be hell. The complete lack of comfort and familiarity. The obnoxious people and noises and scents and sights. There was nothing about a club that screamed 'Come here every night for relaxation!'.

But, to me, it was the only place where I could find peace. Peace from my own thoughts. From my own feelings. From the pain. It was the only place where I could just let go.

When everyone's going through their own hell, they don't stop to see how fucked up you are. It's why it was so easy for me to just be here.

There were times where I wished I could pick out my brain and empty it of literally everything. Find the reset button or pull the plug, letting myself be free from the constant image and façade I portrayed to the world.