Never let it be said that I take the easy road. On top of working three morning shifts, one crazy afternoon shift, taking two heavy writing-intensive classes, volunteering for random events that come up, choosing to challenge myself by taking the Spanish class with yet another crazy intense teacher, taking a myth class with the honors professor who hates giving out A's on a whim, and working out not one, not two, not even three, but every single day of the week minus some weekends, I'm not sure I'm going to have the ability to function. Let's not forget the job applications, scholarships, and senior project that I have to be considering all at the same time.
Since I'm taking a nonfiction writing class, I will end up writing pieces that are about myself and my life so far. The teacher told us to begin searching through our own works as we continue writing and consider what main theme begins to emerge in our works. Well, I didn't have to go any farther than my first writing piece to find it. I am usually a poetry writer, my works are weird and a bit depressing and I doubt many people would reconcile some of my darker pieces with the person I present to the everyday world. My sadness become torment, my first kiss becomes a web of intrigue and emotional turmoil, and failures become cliffs from which I toss myself in despair. And as I wrote this piece that follows, I began to understand something about myself:
"I am sitting at the Thiessen's kitchen table, hoping against hope that the wooden salad prongs headed my way would just pass me by. I know the rule. Everything on your plate must be eaten. The tumble of salad hits my plate, the plunk of those dreaded toppings, green peppers, cherry tomatoes, those colorful devils, combine with the clinking of everyone's silverware. I can hear the water truck rumbling down the street even as I turn imploringly to my host. Even my sister, companion in misery, cannot help me. Mrs. Thiessen will not be swayed. As the crunch of the first pepper hits my taste-buds, I gag back the mouthful and try to swallow. I wouldn't put it past her to make me eat the masticated bits if I spit them out. Can't I just leave them on my plate? I miss my parents so."
Now, in real life this Mrs. Thiessen is far from the tyrant that I portray her to be. Quite the opposite, in fact. And yet, I'm sure the same would occur if I wrote about my mother. Her personality is not aggressive, not overly domineering, yet the minute I begin to think of how I would write her, these adjectives come to mind. Am I prone to exaggeration? Worse, I think. I think I'm a liar. I think that I like to be the victim in the situation. Do I? I can't tell. It gives me an out, it explains away the lack of self-confidence, it consoles me in the face of my failures, it soothes the ache of some loneliness that only grows and grows as I talk to the self-absorbed, as I see my friends mature and figure out their lives while I sit here, indecisive. I think I do. I like to think I'm the victim. And, in that case, how can I even trust myself to write the truth without tearing myself down to an impossible level of self-loathing?
How does one find confidence? When does one grow into themselves and become comfortable enough to face their life, both the successes and the mistakes? When, if ever, is it possible for me? I turn twenty next week, and that terrifies me. Too soon I will be twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-five, and then what? Where will I be? Still living at home? Still living in denial of something I can't even put into words? What am I running from? What are you running from? What is our world running away from?
