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I’m sure there was time I was satisfied with my life – when I was small enough to fit underneath my bed, which I did quite frequently, and made up different worlds. My mind sparked crazily with fiction. I loved drawing, piano, and writing and planned to be an artist. My sister and I linked together tightly. I had one best friend. Between then and now, I’m not exactly the same person I used to be. Being obviously right-brained dominant – perhaps a little overdosed –, I welcome change and easily move on. But that doesn’t mean I forget my past. I see myself now and compare it to who I was before. When I grew past the phase in which one believes stuffed animals secretly live, I realized parents, even if they care about you, can discipline using fear as opposed to patience. I realized people really hurt each other. I came to study eyes, the way they express, the way they speak, the way they can harden with anger.
Then, I failed to understand that delayed processing and lack of focus should be treated. I didn’t truly care my father never held me. When I sat in the corner by myself from shyness, I didn’t associate it with a disorder. And I didn’t realized that because you struggle in thinking and processing, it’s NOT okay to be shaken by the shoulders, to be screamed into a corner spit flying on your face. And it’s not acceptable for your mother to order you to wear long-sleeves to school in May so nobody would inquire about the bruises trickling down your arms.
With time, my mind quickened while I strengthened. I refuse to hide.
I still remember freshman year, unexpectedly brought to the school therapist and how I didn’t know how to share my problem so I didn’t.
My dad called me names, threw me down, not realizing I needed help. I had major CAPD and didn’t have any close friends. When I told one friend that my parents hit me, she accused me of being disobedient and laughed when I asked for her help. I didn’t tell anyone else for a long time after that. The only reason I convinced myself not to kill myself was because then my cat would be stuck in this place without sympathy and comfort. And I knew suicide was wrong.
Can one so ardent, so somber and befuddling, ever feel complete satisfaction with their life? I wonder.
All through that year, I pushed myself through my sluggish brain and achieved an A in English and fell in love with choir.
Now my junior year, I managed to get into AP Language. I say “Hi,” to my dad everyday so he thinks I like him but don’t talk more than that in front of him so he doesn’t intervene and pugnaciously touch me. Oh, God, I hate being touched. My sister is in college now, and I’m still here. I plan to go to New York this year. Good days are when I make it through the entire school day without having a mental breakdown and crying. I don’t have any close relationships with people unless my cat and fish count. I’ve tried counseling but quit. My dreams are the most important thing in my personal life.
I want to be strong. I want to be strong for the people whom are too afraid to get help, for those whom are refused assistance. I want to live for them. I want to live for my beliefs, my aspirations, and any joy I can give and possess.
I want to live for my dreams. And I do. Goodness! I’m still obsessed with art, even if it’s in different forms: English, drama, dance, choir, writing…
I feel like they can almost satisfy me. And when I’m doing them, when I’m in the moment of it, I’m content.