Two weeks ago, I thought about writing a post called, "Just Another Mom's Night Out." I never actually wrote it, but I had the title in mind. The momentary thought was inspired by this silly little movie I saw and how even though that movie was cheesy like an 80's film, and perhaps had more religious elements and wholesome qualities than I expected, I enjoyed its simplicity. I liked being trapped in my theater seat laughing to the point of tears, even if I never wanted anyone to know I actually paid to see it. Regardless, I had a good time, just how I like spending my Tuesday nights. Would it ever be an Oscar contender? Of course not. But sometimes, I just enjoy sitting alone in a movie, laughing, having a good time. Then I go home. Happy. Smiling. And go about my life again.
I haven't always been this way.
Once upon a time, I wanted to watch only enriching films. Deeply enlightening films. Films that changed your life, films that changed mine. Films that moved you to depths you didn't know you could go. Films, that sometimes, no one had ever heard of. I was the girl who watched every independent film. I attempted to make it to every single Oscar nominee, even the foreign ones. I liked the morose. The witty. The charming. The engaging. The well acted. The whimsy. I rarely ever truly watched the big budget films. I saved those for everyone else. And the gag movies with gas jokes? Forget about it. I was too classy for those. I needed something much more intellectually stimulating than that.
And then something happened. I'm not sure what. But one day, I found that the morose wasn't fun for me anymore. That perhaps I didn't want to continue watching every single war movie on the big screen. That I kind of liked just silly comedies. I still liked independent films with dry humor that few people understand. I still watched movies few people have ever heard of. I still enjoyed the clever films, the well written films. But I didn't like movies that made me cry. I didn't even like them a little. In fact, if I left the movie afterwards with a damp face and an hour drive of contemplation, I wasn't a thrilled critic. I stopped going to the theater for enrichment. I started going merely for entertainment, aside from particular Oscar films.
And I was happier for it.
I found that I no longer wanted to tap into that emotional realm inside of me. In fact, I despised doing so. I hated opening that Pandora's box of emotions. It was complete and utter misery. It was easier when I didn't know what pain was. It was easier when I was numb from depression. It became more difficult when I was aware of my emotions, aware of my surroundings, aware of my choices. I no longer wanted to expose myself in that way. It was more than just me being embarrassed to admit I am capable of crying just like the next girl. It was more than just pretending I didn't have tear stained cheeks. It was about choosing to go through self mutilation, choosing the companionship of a Dementor. And deciding I'd rather not.
It's like when the Dementors have a greater influence over Harry Potter, rather than everyone else, because Harry has known true pain and suffering in his life. And well, once you know what it feels like, you really don't like being reminded of it, let alone going through it all over again.
And you definitely don't feel like paying the movie theater for that sense of despondency.
I used to find myself writing equally saddening pieces. I knew a couple people who encouraged me to continue to tap into that great source. They considered it a gold mine. But I discovered that it was an even greater abyss, one that once I dove into, I found myself drowning. I found myself buried. I feared that I could never recover from it. Sure, there was much potential and I did find myself able to add an extra layer to my works. But I also found myself scared to death of myself and those feelings. I found myself fearing my capabilities. I found myself realizing that the person before her, the person she became would never, ever read the things should could write. They weren't funny. They weren't enjoyable. And as beautifully haunting as they could be, she felt they were better left buried than shared. It wasn't worth selling her soul or losing herself to write them. And no one needed to read them. The world needs less sadness, not more.
I don't like to read a lot of sad books either. I'm not sure if it's because of the tear-contaminated pages of library books. It's possible, as that's a level of intimacy I don't want to share with anyone, let alone another patron of the library. But most of all, I find this adult version of myself wanting to escape to the silly side of life, to the lighter side of life, far more than she'd like to tread through the dark. She doesn't blame tonight's movie. She blames her choice. The fault wasn't in the stars. The fault was in the sad, depressing genre of a film that she was all too aware that she would never enjoy. Because if you want to escape life for a bit, that's not the way to do it.
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