Making My Real Story

From the last time I tried to tell a bit of my story, it has taken even more turns than I could’ve ever imagined. I’ve questioned everything that I am as a person and what it means to be alive, but not living.

What I mean is, I breathe, I eat, I sleep, I work, and it repeats constantly. That’s not living, just surviving.

I’m surviving this chaotic world with a pen and paper. Just a writer hoping that the ink will create some sort of portal to a new world where I can escape and breathe.

I mean, I did get this degree for a reason.

My room is infested with the ghosts of the past. Reminders that the current situation I’m in, I’m in it alone. I have to pick up the puzzle pieces alone.

It’s hard most of the time. I don’t talk about how bad it’s gotten again. At all. I’ve tried to ask for help, but I got a brick wall and I feel unsure of where to go.

I turn to my pen and paper. I write it all down. All the pain, the tears, and the screams. I turn to my books. Hoping that one of them will help me escape.

I run into the woods. I scream and cry and stay there for hours hoping that I can wake up and everything was just a nightmare.

Editor: Can you maybe dial back the very depressing work? It’s good, but readers want to feel more than just sadness.

Fine. Your wish is my command.

I was born on a Wednesday. When I was 5, I wanted to be a popstar. When I was 12, I wanted to be a teacher. When I was 18, I wanted to be a writer. When I was 20, I wanted to be an actor. I’ve been auditioning for countless different roles in hopes of landing the one. Hasn’t happened yet. I got my bachelors degree when I was 21 and I’m currently working on my masters degree. I’m so excited about what the future holds!

Is that positive enough for you? Let’s go through the list a little bit more carefully.

When I was 5, I lost my first childhood friend. I learned what death was at a very young age and wanted to write songs about my first childhood friend.

When I was 12, I was forced into wanting to be a teacher because I was told I wasn’t good enough at anything other than academics. So, might as well put that to some use.

When I was 18, I wanted to tell my story about my first year in college and how horrible it turned out to be. It was really bad.

When I was 20, I realized throughout the years I played the part of a version of myself to make everyone around me like me. The biggest game of pretend. I had the knack for acting and could find ways to profit off of it.

21, it was an awful year. I ruined me in so many ways that I’m still struggling to recover from. I am mentally and physically burnt out from the over-achieving and hard work I am forced to do.

Surface level statements to make everyone feel hopeful and happy really doesn’t set my soul on fire. It makes me angry. I need reality and it is shitty. Of all people to know that, it’s me.

I’m working on myself in ways that works for me. This is one of them. It’s real. And people need real. The cookie cutter “it’s all going to be fine in the end” is really frustrating sometimes. Great. I know it’ll end, but why do I lose every part of myself in the process? It’s exhausting.

My current now is getting through the day. Not that I remember the days anymore, but breathing and getting out of bed and hoping I don’t breakdown is the only goals I set for myself. That has to be good enough because that’s all I’ve got right now.

This story isn’t pretty. It isn’t glamorous either. But it sure as hell is real and I hope it’s worth me telling.