My so-called regression

I rewatched My So-Called Life while marooned on our recliner with some upper respiratory pestilence. The timing was perfect. In so many ways, I've been feeling 15.

My So-Called Life

The show's cheeseball earnestness and angsty narration are irresistible. Who couldn't relate to Angela Chase, having a solo dance party in her oversized jammies to "Blister In The Sun"? She dyed her hair red because it was holding her back. She loved everyone she wasn't supposed to love because she could see into their, like, hearts. I love her and her horribly whiny self-awareness, like when she became fixated on Jordan Catalano's frayed collar and built this whole story around it, and how she thought that in between kisses, the meaningless comments they'd say to each other were so meaningful. I wanted to cheer when she risked suspension by handing out Xeroxed copies of her class's censored poetry magazine, against the advice of her square parents. (I can't deal with how square her parents are. They are beyond square. I hate Patty.)

I had a Rayanne Graff in my life when I was Angela's age. A wild, vivacious girlfriend who was maybe a bad influence on me, but who wasn't full of shit like everyone else was. We met when we were the last kids waiting for our rides home, and she pointed to the Green Day stickers on her messenger bag when I asked her what her favorite band was.

Of course, I had a Jordan Catalano. There were plenty of Jordan-esque doomed romances from afar during that time, but one towered shaggy head and shoulders above the rest.

I've been living in Angela's world for a few days, and it's made me frame the way I've been feeling. Adolescent is the perfect adjective to pair with the rawness and fear that have lodged themselves in my brain. The tide of a bad anxiety episode is in, and it's brought garbage and seaweed, dead whales and abandoned ships. This sense of not belonging anywhere makes me feel 15. Googling information on nose jobs and chin reductions does, too. So does fighting with my mom and pissing my friends off with my pity parade.

I've been feeling like a freak. Everything hurts too much. I wrote this poem once about reincarnation, how if there is such a thing, I'm on my first go-round. I have to be. Everything is too vivid, too mind-blowing to me. I'm asking "why" on repeat and the answers don't satisfy me. Nothing should be so intense to anyone whose soul knows what's what.

So that's how I've been feeling. Like Angela Chase. Maybe it's time to dye my hair red. I already own plenty of plaid.

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