Addicted to Nostalgia
Yearning for what was, desperately trying to recreate memories, and not accepting change.
Old addresses of shared apartments and the sound of heels clicking down the block are deeply engraved in my brain. The wild adventures, carefree mindsets, and late nights live rent free in my mind. I fear the emptiness that’ll wash over me the day I can’t remember it all.
There was a red couch. The first big girl purchase that occupied my very first apartment. A basic love seat, with plump cushions that swallowed us whole. For two years, that red couch endured spilled alcohol, post-class naps, boys who didn’t meet standards, pre-game photos, a place to lace the heels up, and so much more. It may occupy someone else’s home now, but it holds memories I’ll never dare to forget.
Now, I’m left with an addiction. I’m addicted to endlessly scrolling through old photos and videos, hoping I can get a taste of what the earlier years felt like, just for one moment. Anything to take me back in time.
Back then my friends were an arms length away. Not a penny to our names, nor a care in the world, and yet, we made shit shake. Like boarding a flight to Miami, renting out an Airbnb for eight people, going from strip club to breakfast, and by luck, returning back to the red couch in one piece. Or being outside every Wednesday night all summer long and clocking in at 9:00a the next day, alert and ready to roll. Looking back, I’m still in awe.
The more time that passes and drags me further away from my early 20’s, the more my heart aches and addiction grows.
They say you should let the past be the past, live for the present, and do some shit with the future, but that’s easier said than done. At this stage in life, state borders separate me from loved ones and time moves at lightening speed. The only way new memories come alive is through months of planning and synced calendars. Spontaneity is no more and maybe, just maybe, that missing piece is what’s feeding my addiction.
I’ve been addicted to revisiting the archives for longer than I care to admit. So desperately wanting time travel to become reality, knowing I’ll never see those days again.
Nothing is the same. Being 21 is farther away than me being 30 and responsibilities expanded wider than what was once thought to be possible. I carefully have to decide where my energy is spent due to its constant depletion. Oh, and alcohol isn’t as smooth as it once was. Nothing about that old life is mine anymore.
There’s this high I get when I feed my addiction. All it takes is one click to open the photos app, a couple scrolls, and suddenly my mind is transported back in time. I truly understand what they mean by “a picture is worth 1,000 words”. My heart recognizes every feeling, what prompted each smile, and remembers every joke said behind the lens. I can hear every note live bands played and lyrics my favorite artists belted out. I remember choosing the wrong heels to wear and still feel the burn of the blisters, with no regrets because, of course, beauty is pain. I feel it all.
The problem is, there’s always a chance for a bad comedown after the high. I, unfortunately, also recognize the pain hidden in some memories. I detect all the fake smiles that went unnoticed to those surrounding me. Not all memories are worth the trip.
What happens after the stroll down memory lane? Sorrow.
Slow tears trace my cheeks, going unnoticed until my nose begins to drip. Loneliness creeps in reminding me I’ll never feel the same as I once did. A wave of empathy for the girl that once was and for the woman that now lives on.
It’s a never-ending cycle and the cure remains undiscovered. Though, I’m not searching for one.
There was a time where no days were the same. Summers were filled with unplanned adventures and open-toed heels still strutted through the winter air. It was never a question of how or why when it came to executing a good time. Only questions asked were when and where. Reckless? Sure. People simply showed up and the only thing on the agenda? Enjoying each other’s company.
Now, routine fills my present. Actually, we’re all in a routine.
New memories are carefully curated, nothing is by surprise. Hell, some of the latest memories are tainted by the events that had to happen for them to even come to fruition. Nothing is by chance. If calendars aren’t in sync, don’t bet on it. There’s a constant back and forth of conversations sounding like,“Does Saturday, July 2026 work for you? Shit, no. What about February, 2027?” Days look the same, time moves faster and faster, and unplanned adventures, remain unplanned.
Well what did you expect? You have to grow up at some point. I know.
I didn’t expect life to stay that way forever, but I wasn’t ready for it to end so soon. If I had known I was experiencing a “last” moment, I would’ve held on tighter, longer, took more photos, maybe fought for the it to linger just a second more. I don’t know, but I wasn’t ready for it to end.
I scroll and scroll and scroll back in time and I yearn for that feeling of freedom that no longer exists. I ache for the time when I could call a friend, they’d show up an hour later, bag in hand, down for whatever, even if it was just margaritas and tacos in South Philly, sweatpants and no makeup.
But the same notification keeps interrupting my high. A reminder. “You’ve changed, they’ve changed, and life has made its way to a new chapter.”
I dismiss it. I’m not ready to let go.