Apprehensive. Deviating myself from other teens by using the term “under-stimulated” instead of restless. Who am I even to state such a thing? I can barely handle my 40 %. I can hardly count the nights when I fall asleep with a clean conscience.
My mother asks me; “all those damn essays you are writing, what will become of them?” and it stings; it stings because I don’t know myself. I don’t know if my future will be spent on Datmouth/Vassar/UoM, or if it will be spent in the gutter. I’ve seen so many girls drop into the pitfall of lost years, “new starts” and what-if-I-just-would-have-reasoning. Everyone with any insight claims it to be too hard. That it is not me, but my situation, that hampers the process. Instability. Crime, and if not crime, complete amorality. Treachery. Does it all add up to me being just another girl with daddy issues? I have to feel as if I am the one to set the limits, and only few have the patience to handle that type of control issue.
She tells me to lower my demands on myself. To see the current situation for what it is; to grieve it, then accept it. I can’t refuse to be where I am - it won’t result in my suddenly swaying among the stars. It won’t. Perhaps this is growing up. It hurts. And I’m not even anywhere near it, per se. Drivers license. Boyfriend? The social fucking network. Routine. Health. Plans. Grades.
I’ve been blessed with so much. It is not known by whom. But I have certain glimpses of light creating an irregular, but real, prism, on the four pale walls I feel surrounded by. One has to start somewhere.