My Normal, Another's Abnormal

Story written on September 29th, 2022

I hate dining rooms. It’s a place I know all too well - captivated by incessant wondering, the clock seemed to click slower with each passing second. Being young and struggling to adapt, moving to the other side of the shiny, long-tempered glass table was catastrophic. New home, new school, and the opportunity to change. With how young I had been, I didn’t yet know the reality behind my desire to escape. A place meant for a family to gather became lonesome; I would collect my thoughts anywhere but my head, presenting them all over the table, and my will to be free. But that didn’t matter. Nobody sat at the dining room table with me. Glued to the grey-leathered chair at the far-left end of the dining room table for three years of my life, it had become something that only made me want to shatter. An abundant trail of memorable lessons that follow my footsteps as I yearn to grow.

People look befuddled when I tell them about my stories of growing up in middle school. If it weren’t for the laughter I’d respond with, one would undoubtedly be disquieted about it. The truth is that my home was my dining room table for all of my early teenage years. From when I woke up to when my mother decided to sleep, the dining room was my space. Weekdays and weekends. If you had asked me back then how I felt about it, it felt like it would never end. I had succumbed to the endless boredom of sitting in the same spot every day, every hour. Many people would start off their questions with: why? And frankly, there is no honest answer. The only one who may truly know would be the one who created the discipline. I could never stand up to my mom and ask her why, and perhaps I was a little scared to know the answer. I decided I would rather capitulate to the consequences than stick up for myself in front of the mastermind. However, what I can say, is the opportunity the dining room table had provided to me - something I hadn’t uncovered until I broke free. 

My mother made the dining room table a spot of her will: the decree. With my legs intertwined in each other, plastered to the seat to my left, I always felt uneasy, as if each of my thoughts and movements were seen by those below my seat. I could perceive the carvings on the four, dark wooden legs full of ornate detailing, keeping me from smashing into a thousand pieces. Even if I had felt lonely with time ticking like falling leaves from a tree, there were always eyes peering open that were staring down my shivering spine. Glaring to my far left, a sizeable mirror indicated my sulked expression and poor posture. Residing next to the mirror was a large fake-leaved plant; although it wasn’t very pretty, it had an alluring personality. The air conditioning during the summer complimented the leaves as they blew together in sync. In the heart of the dining room table, two large and two small maroon-colored candles were prepared to ignite, filling the air with apple cider and a Thanksgiving feast when given the chance. When the time came for such a celebration, it was only temporary. Astonished by some stips of turkey, gravy with stuffing, and sweet potatoes graced with melted marshmallows covering the top. I would perch at the spot I had become accustomed to, enjoying a meal I would consider a cut above the others we routinely ate. In anticipation and short denial, the course had vanished, and the family would depart from my base. The emptiness comes to repeat itself.

Each morning, I would often rise and focus my attention on the news broadcast, cultivating the misery the world uncovers. The aroma of sweet, freshly brewed coffee filled my nose as I passed through the kitchen to check my email for the morning, scrunching my nose. The scent reminisced for the rest of the rising sun, combined with the feel of a bakery’s burnt avocado toast and cream cheese bagels. Sometimes I would think about how many days I’ve experienced this, and how many I have left. Living each day the same, I always felt there would be no change in my future or chance for freedom. Dread never seemed to have a chance of redemption, and I was left, as always, alone.

EXPLANATION

Set in my life from 2016 to 2018 when my mother used to force me to sit on my dining room table at all times during the day - before school, after school, on weekends, and holidays. The only time I was granted permission to my bedroom was when my mother decided it was time to sleep. I used to stay up all night and read books I got from the library during this time because it stressed me out trying to fall asleep naturally, and I needed to be so tired that my body shut down before I could actually fall asleep. So... I hate dining rooms.

SONG CHOICE & CHARACTER

This was my number one song on my Spotify listens during the time that I started hating dining rooms.