Can You Ever be Yourself?
What do you do with yourself when you've hidden "the real you" deep down inside for over a decade?
You have to wonder how anyone could have successfully managed to suppress themselves for that long in the first place. And then, you have to wonder how they found themselves involuntarily resurfacing, after all that time.
Well, let me tell you who I used to be. The last time I remember truly being myself, I was about 15 years old. I was quiet and shy on the outside, but burning with passion on the inside (as most 15-year-olds probably are). I loved music. Oh, how I loved music. I loved to sing in my intermittently off-key voice. I loved to write. I loved to draw. I loved to read. I loved to explore the world of computers. I loved to think... and I loved to dream. Most of all, did I dream.
Slowly but surely, I've buried it all deep down inside. Each burning passion, one by one.
The first thing to go was probably singing. Nobody I loved wanted to hear that off-key garbage. I still think I'm pretty good, when no one's around. But I guess I'll have to conceal that habit to my 15 precious minutes alone in the car each morning on my way to work.
Next to go was drawing. I could really draw - photo-realistic people, in fact. I lost the time for that quickly, thinking my loved one would find it stupid, pointless, and boring. And I know he did.
I believe reading was the next to die. The last time I really had time for a good set of books was the time of Harry Potter. (I could put away a book in less than 12 hours, back in my day).
My pride in my knowledge of computers was probably the next thing I started to lose. I went from Comp-Sci major expert to casual, slightly-above-average user who never has time to play real games anymore (hello, Facebook games... /sigh).
Last to go was writing... I'll give that the sacrafices of motherhood make this highly time-consuming, concentrated hobby a major difficulty. I love it, but how can I? Surprisingly, this one is the least distressing. I take pride in taking time as a good mother, after all.
But dreaming... dear God, now dreaming is even starting to die. I don't think I can deal with that.
What do you have left if everything you love, everything you ever dreamed of, dies a slow and painful death right in front of your eyes? What is the point of going on? Should I tell my children to expect the same thing of all their hopes and dreams once they become adults, as well?
The person that I love doesn't love any of these things about me that make me who I am. Or, should I say, that MADE me who I WAS. Now I'm just a shell... and I'm starting to resent every minute I've spent as that shell.
Twelve years... that's roughly 6,307,200 minutes.
Well... that's enough self-pity for one night, I think.
You have to wonder how anyone could have successfully managed to suppress themselves for that long in the first place. And then, you have to wonder how they found themselves involuntarily resurfacing, after all that time.
Well, let me tell you who I used to be. The last time I remember truly being myself, I was about 15 years old. I was quiet and shy on the outside, but burning with passion on the inside (as most 15-year-olds probably are). I loved music. Oh, how I loved music. I loved to sing in my intermittently off-key voice. I loved to write. I loved to draw. I loved to read. I loved to explore the world of computers. I loved to think... and I loved to dream. Most of all, did I dream.
Slowly but surely, I've buried it all deep down inside. Each burning passion, one by one.
The first thing to go was probably singing. Nobody I loved wanted to hear that off-key garbage. I still think I'm pretty good, when no one's around. But I guess I'll have to conceal that habit to my 15 precious minutes alone in the car each morning on my way to work.
Next to go was drawing. I could really draw - photo-realistic people, in fact. I lost the time for that quickly, thinking my loved one would find it stupid, pointless, and boring. And I know he did.
I believe reading was the next to die. The last time I really had time for a good set of books was the time of Harry Potter. (I could put away a book in less than 12 hours, back in my day).
My pride in my knowledge of computers was probably the next thing I started to lose. I went from Comp-Sci major expert to casual, slightly-above-average user who never has time to play real games anymore (hello, Facebook games... /sigh).
Last to go was writing... I'll give that the sacrafices of motherhood make this highly time-consuming, concentrated hobby a major difficulty. I love it, but how can I? Surprisingly, this one is the least distressing. I take pride in taking time as a good mother, after all.
But dreaming... dear God, now dreaming is even starting to die. I don't think I can deal with that.
What do you have left if everything you love, everything you ever dreamed of, dies a slow and painful death right in front of your eyes? What is the point of going on? Should I tell my children to expect the same thing of all their hopes and dreams once they become adults, as well?
The person that I love doesn't love any of these things about me that make me who I am. Or, should I say, that MADE me who I WAS. Now I'm just a shell... and I'm starting to resent every minute I've spent as that shell.
Twelve years... that's roughly 6,307,200 minutes.
Well... that's enough self-pity for one night, I think.