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The Twisted Inner Workings of a Mind

By , fresh meadows, NY
My friend was complaining about a boy the other day. She was crying about how unfair life was, how confusing boys were. Why didn’t he text her back, she wonders. Did she do something wrong? Is she not pretty enough? My friend was analyzing the situation in a way that only us girls can, picking at every detail and scrutinizing every facial micro expression. I played the part of the consolidating friend, reassuring her she was perfect, beautiful. Any guy would be crazy not to want her, and besides, who needs guys anyways? The bitter lies kept rolling out of my mouth, a filter for the words I truly wished to say.

The problem with having above average, genius if you will, intellect is the handicap of the mind itself. Instead of overanalyzing like any teenage girl, my mind works through every possible scenario, mapping out every fathomable reaction and rational response. It can be quiet noisy up there, and the mind is often distracted by the poison of the eyes.

Every bodily response is calculated, every breath is counted. I often challenge myself to my own twisted games. Obsessively calculating everything-from calories to my grade point average. How many hundreds I need to maintain a perfect overall GPA. Comparing every detail of myself to others. Even getting dressed is a competition in the morning. How many times can I go without repeating an outfit? I try to surround myself with those on a similar level as I. Excuse me for being a narcissist, but it gets quiet frustrating having to explain my every word to a peer. Is the word “procrastinate” really that extravagant?

I am also the grade shrink. I somehow come up with the best advice for every girl in my grade, except my own. I can count on one hand the number of times I have cried in front of them. I would need more fingers and toes to reason the amount of times I have been the shoulder to cry on. It’s not like I ask to hear everyone’s life story. Maybe there’s some compelling quality that makes them speak? Am I special? Or am I just strange? Am I a sociopath? Or am I just a girl lost in her own mind?

My freedom is to write, to express the deepest parts of my heart to absolute strangers, people whom I know I will never see, never meet. People who will never look at me differently, because all they know of me is through the twisted view I provide of myself. The true version of myself. The girl who isn’t sure who she loves, who she trusts. Who she trusts. Who is scared of herself at times. Whose mind would scare the most stoic of politicians.

I’m not really sure what there is for me, or if there are even others like me. If I am a freak or just special because I speak out. I am confident there are others out there, who share have the same twisted mind as I.



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