I can write all day about a guy I wont remember in a week or a concert that only entertained me for a day, but when it comes to lasting emotions or issues relevant to my life I am more than lost for words. I am angry and I procrastinate because writing about how my dad isn’t around or how my relationship with my mom is so irrevocably damaged I fear we will go months without speaking next time we fight.
And I definitely don’t want to talk about that ex boyfriend, who was the perfect guy I’ll never live up to, and how I am a terrible person for not giving into what he wanted. I just couldn’t promise a marriage at the age of 15.
I also don’t want to talk about my brother and how his mental issues terrify me, and how I never know what to expect from him. And sadly, some days I don’t care. Like with my dad, mom, and ex, I feel like the effort to understand my brother, to heal, and to move on is one that I am not a good enough a person to endure. Is that the reason? I don’t know.
I can create scenarios in my mind for hours but I refuse to pay attention in class because I am internally fighting the war against conforming to what my authorities believe to be best. I blog about other people’s problems- self harm, drug abuse, depression, eating disorders- but I do none of those things. Yet, I know the God I am trying to love is not satisfied with me.
I imagine every tattoo and piercing I’ll get once I’m old enough, but sweep where I will be going to college and what I will study under the doormat of my future’s entrance. Why did I quit my job after only a week and a half? It’s not because I’m a brat- I’ve been through a lot. It’s because I am so satisfied with my comfort zone that I do not question it.
Why is it that I spend more time dressing my body to appear desirable to other than focus on fitness? I suppose it is what my surroundings tell me to do. Sure, I see posters about eating healthy and skinny girls in bikinis and I think, Wow, I should really stop EATING such unhealthy food, and stop SITTING in my room. But then my mind is reminded of its habits and I eat and sit all the more.
I know not if I am a good person because my vision of a good person is skewed by the extremists who surround me. It seems like all of the adults in my life are too concerned with our sub-par economics and black president. Some of my influences praise him, others reject him, neither are helpful. Can he not just be the president? Must it be a discussion?
And since when does his appearance matter? I never once looked at an old person, an Asian person, an obese person, or an uneducated person and thought, These guys have got to go. I hate them. That is, until I was told that was okay. Now I find my mind making assumptions I never came up with. Why is my mind not my own? Is that why I can’t write about real things--because everything I know could be proven false by the politics of my country?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.