I’m angry. I’m angry with everybody
around me including myself. I’m angry with my parents, my siblings, my
teachers, classmates, but more importantly, myself. Ever since my birthday, a
couple of times a day I stop and think, “Crap! I’m eighteen!” And I’m getting
older, and I struggle with the fears that my age is bringing. I’m standing on
top of a time bomb.
I am angry with myself because I
have so many blank pages that I didn’t get to fill, and I won’t ever get to.
Now, at my age I am willing to go anywhere and do anything, but now I hate
myself for not having this same attitude I have now. And even now, I hate asking
for something because I want to void the struggle of asking my parents.
I live my life laying down in a bed
and sitting down in different classroom desks. But my mind is somewhere else.
In my world, I have an amazing, excellent paying job with a beautiful boyfriend
that makes me feel like a goddess every time we’re together. But that’s just in
my stupid mind. I wish I had been born in a different situation in which I didn’t
have to fight and work so hard for what I want.
I’m angry with myself because I’m
so lazy, yet so ambitious. Why can’t I be hard-working and ambitious? I know
what my dream job is, but I’m not talented. I sing horribly, and my dancing is
absolutely disastrous. I’ve never acted, but I have no doubt in my mind that
even if I did it, I wouldn’t be outstanding. I’m angry with myself because my
mom keeps telling me that God has a plan for me because He has kept me alive,
but I’m afraid I just came to this world with no glory, and that I’m going to
leave the world the same way.
I hate myself for not having the
skin that an 18-year-old should have. Instead, I have the skin of a
40-year-old. I hate myself for being who I am. The real me.
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