LOST IN THE LABYRINTH OF SELF
With the help of my entire family and friends, she sunk me deep in doubt and helplessness. My thoughts and feeling were crowded by indecision, the pain of social conformity, the guilt of feeling like I do not belong, the shame of daring to imagine I can do something different. For so long, she made me believe that I had to have a protuberant title before my name. Her voice was amplified by the constant jabs of my family, they stood behind her and cheered me on away from my dream, and stupid little me saw it as support and kept going.
For 9 years I had been following the wrong path like sheep, with my shepherd leading me to the slaughter, I followed, mindlessly. My hesitation was met by false encouragement, an incentive towards the direction she wanted me to follow. When the gentle way did not work, she brought in the muscle, the guilt trip and gas lighting of parents, the fear of loosing it all. Fighting back felt futile and made no sense, in the beginning.
What happens when your voice is tuned down, shoved down your throat, and other voices talk louder, are affirmed and encouraged. What happens when the words that are cutting you down start to make sense, and you can no longer hear your own voice? My mind got foggy and the fog only got thicker with every step I took. The hand I took to guide me felt comfortable and safe, I trusted her wholeheartedly. She promised me a shore, a beach I could lie on, she promised me a steady sail, that beyond the fog it got clearer and warmer, that the sunrays would hit my face and I would be home, I would be happy. And in the embrace of the fog, my soul went quiet, and I mistook it for peace.
With the passing of every moon, my foggy mind grew weary, it wanted the beach, it couldn’t wait, it knew it was dying. I understood that I had to change course, for I was so unhappy. But that meant letting go of her hand, and that scared me as much as the fog that was choking me. When she realized I was getting over the fear, she turned on me “you will be back! You cannot do this, you will starve to death without me!”
I walked away, breaking into a cold sweat. I figured if I was going to die, I did not want my last moments to be filled with feelings of being lost and afraid. I had to dream, even when the dreams scared me stiff.
I have to be honest, she still lingers. Every now and then, when I receive rejection, or run dry in my writing, I feel her chilling presence eyeing my failures. I feel the resentment and shame she carries in regards to my decisions. I still am searching for the warm beach, but until then, I am content with my clear vision.
I am finally getting out of my own way.
a short story; Intro
I was inspired in a sex ed class.
I had never been more affirmed, encouraged and perhaps even inspired beyond my young imagination before then. You see, I was only 12. I had never done this before, not with strangers at least. The last time I had participated in this activity was in familiar territory, and still, I wasn't as good as the others, I was made to believe.
The request came in a fortnight earlier and I immediately dreaded the pressure. I looked around me to size up the competition. I could count at least 5 girls in my class who would be formidable opponents. Submission was mandatory, but I had time, enough time to consider whether my ego could stand losing at a large-scale level.
On the day before submissions, my anxiety was eating me alive, I could not hold it off any longer. I sat down with my freshly sharpened pencil, an A4 page paper, and a conviction that since the writing competition was regional, my paper would drown in the masses and my mess would never live to see the light of day.
When I write, even at that young age, I always seem to drown in the words I am articulating, in the thoughts I am giving life. I become one with my material, and in a few minutes, I was done.
I submitted my work and put it behind me.
On the day, the district had arranged a sports day with trophies for its winners, and the essay results would be the grand finale. I consider myself somewhat athletic but failed to secure a win in the balloon popping competition, I was peeved. My cheeks turned red from blowing balloons, or was it the embarrassment? Thats how competitive I would get. After a full day of dopamine, adrenaline and tears, of joy or despair, it was time to announce the essay results. The lady making the announcements had a lazy soft voice, like she understood my lassitude and also wanted to go home. She explained calmly that only the top students would get their results, that there were so many entries and it made it difficult to announce them all. What a relief, I sighed, as I moved to sit next to my friends and classmates. I had not really sat, I was fussing over my chair, just hovering over my sit when she announced the runners up for the essay competition. I did not hear my name, but I heard my school's name. Everyone around me turned and started screaming, 'She said you won!' 'Who?' 'You Carol, you won!' My first thought was doubt. But the eyes kept staring at me as my friends hugged me aggressively with excitement.
I almost passed out walking to the stage to receive my price, a voucher, for a book, ha-ha. That's how I got inspired, by winning an essay on HIV/AIDS from my sex ed class. I got an English textbook; in case you were wondering.
In retrospect, I should never have doubted my capabilities. I am pretty awesome, and words come easy to me. I am all that, and that's how I found out, at 12 years old, from my sex ed class.
