typed-out

[typed-out]

advanced classes- a personal essay

I’m not sure why I didn’t struggle more in school.

Buty for some reason, everything clicked. Maybe it was the fact that being good at school is memorization, which is easy for me. Maybe it was the routine, the structure, the predictability.

I thrived in that setting. I loved having a schedule and doing the same thing every day. I loved waking up each morning and knowing what my day was going to be like. In fact, that was one of the main reasons why I didn’t like assemblies and school trips. It was a break from routine.

I know most of my teachers assumed it was because of the crowds. I was never very sociable; I didn’t interact much with my classmates. I never really got bullied or purposely excluded, but I never tried to join in, and no one ever forced me.

I did feel a bit anxious in big crowds, but I don’t think it was the people. It was more the sounds, the lights, the energy that felt like it was vibrating in my skull.

You never know what’s going to happen in a big crowd. If being in class was like playing a card game, where success was a mix of luck and knowing how and when to play certain cards, then large assemblies and trips were like having a hand of wild cards.

In theory, this gave you more options on what moves to make, what direction you wanted to go. But I hated it.

Despite being generally good at school, I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t like the classroom setting at all. The lights were always maxed out, the air was either too hot or too cold. The other students were always disruptive. There was reading aloud, presentations, group projects, and other assignments that made me want to claw my own hair out. You got in trouble for the oddest things, like wearing a jacket or hat, or reading at the wrong time.

It was even worse for me, I think, because my teachers were desperate to get me involved. They knew I could answer the questions, so they always called on me. Sometimes, when I didn’t want to answer, I would just say I didn’t know, even when I did. They got frustrated when I didn’t get involved in class discussions and review games, especially when I aced the tests afterwards.

I didn’t understand why they wanted me to be involved so badly. It wasn’t going to benefit me, and I obviously didn’t need it. The other students wouldn’t pass or fail based off my assistance. I never felt bad for not participating in class. It didn’t change anything for anyone. If anything, it was better so I wouldn’t be seen as showing off.

No matter my lack of participation, my grades were nearly perfect. Although the small school I went to didn’t offer much, I was put in every advanced class they offered. I enjoyed it.

I’m not sure if was actually more changeling, or if it was the validation.

People loved hearing about my success.

More importantly, my mom loved telling people about it.

It was the perfect conversation starter at church and any gathering. When she did go to my parent-teacher conferences, it was like an hour of her parenting skills being validated.

It especially helped whenever anyone got too close to thinking I was odd. It was the perfect fix whenever anyone mentioned my social problems or how quiet I was or how distracted I got.

Looking back on it and reflected to how I got where I am now, those classes seem useless. I never use the information, and I never managed to go to college.

But it made my mom proud, so I don’t regret it.

Besides, maybe it did help me enjoy school more.

[typed-out]

Money is generation- a personal essay

Money is generational.

I’ve known that forever.

I saw kids around me in name brands, hand-me downs, thrift finds. I saw people in groups by money before they had earned a cent.

Money is generational, like a black hole, and it sucks you up. My mother spoke of days moving from house to house, sharing a bedroom with all her siblings, sitting in lawn chairs in the back of a broken pick-up. We spent nights with toast and cereal for dinner, days huddled under blankets with no heat, eating free lunches from public school, and I wondered if she was scared.

Did she see it? Did she see how she fell face first into the cycle, into the hole?

I wondered if she felt the sinking feeling that I do.

Now, I have a savings account. I watch the number grow and it feels like safety. I watch the number grow, and each number means I’m safe another day.

I still wear the cheap clothes I used to. I buy stuff on savings and never use name brands. People who make the same as me laugh.

‘You can afford the good stuff,’ they say.

The good stuff puts a knot in my stomach. The numbers go down and it feels like a death sentence. I remember the days before my mom got paid. I remember not going to the doctors or dentists. I remember shoes with holes and urgent bills hidden on my mom’s desk.

I buy the cheap stuff and watch the numbers go up.

I wonder what people see when they look at me. I wonder if my years spent in poverty are branded on me like the wealthy. Can they see the food stamps like I see their money? Can they hear the fear in my voice just like I can hear the comfort in theirs?

There is a boy I work with that I get along with very well. He has always had money. His parents buy his truck and phone and pay for his apartment and insurance. We sit together at break, and he gives me tips on how to save money and pinch pennies. He says to invest. I wonder about giving my money to someone and rolling the dice. I don’t gamble. He just laughs in a way that sounds like I’m a child. I want to cry.

It's raining outside. It’s fine, he says, he’s wearing his cheap shoes. He got them for only sixty dollars, so he doesn’t mind them getting wet. I wear my favorite ten-dollar shoes and try to hide them beneath my pant legs.

He doesn’t get a lot for Christmas, he says, just a few hundred dollars’ worth of clothes from his family because they never know what to get him. I got a blanket this year, and I wrap myself up when I get home.

I don’t talk about my childhood much. There isn’t much to say. I wonder if he can sense that we are different.

He will always be okay. He can save more and more and more because his parents help and help and help.

I pay all my own bills. I work longer hours and save and save and save. But he will always have more. He will always win.

Money is generational.

Genes are like a hand of cards. Some people get shitty cards. Some people get amazing cards.

People with all kings and queens tell you secrets on how to get there, how to draw the best cards from the pile. But they have never had to draw more cards.

I don’t have that bad of cards. Maybe a few fours and fives. I look at my pile.

The highest I can draw is nine.

I see videos online of how to turn a seven of spades into a jack of hearts.

‘Bet on red,’ they say. ‘Save your cards and keep them hidden.’

They don’t follow their own advice. They wear their cards like a crown.

I save and save and work and work and pretend that someday I will draw a face card. I never will. Those aren’t for me. There isn’t any left.

I don’t want to have kids. All I can give them are fours and fives. All my mother got, all my grandmother all, all there are for use, are fours and fives.

My coworker was born with tens but he saves and saves and saves. I wonder if he will get a jack. I see it in front of him, but he doesn’t need it. Not like I do.

Money is generational. You can only do so much.

You can’t work your way out of where you’re from.

I know where I am supposed to be. I am one card away from losing the game, playing with twos and threes on the floor like my mother did. I hoard my good cards and play the bad ones.

I watch the number grow and wonder if this feeling of dread and fear will ever go away.

How big does the number have to be before I’m safe? Money is generational. It’s like a big hole. I sit on the edge and let my feet hang down. I’m safe, here, for now, but I can still jump or fall. Or be pushed.

[typed-out]

Nothing will change: A personal essay

I'm laying in bed.

My blankets are heavy and warm. I'm comfortable, but I can't sleep.

I scroll. There's hurricanes happening a few states over.

People pack their cars, grab what they can, and leave. Some people can only put metal curtains over their windows and pray.

I'm safe in my bed, but the fear grips ny chest like a vice.

My hand is numb where I hold my phone.

I scroll. People are forced to leave their pets. Some people can't leave at all. The world wonders about the incarcerated people, about the sick and the poor and the disabled.

The world moves on, but I'm still in my bed.

I feel angry. Creators make videos about how this could have all been prevented.

Billionaires could fix everything.

People are dying. They scream into a void. They post videos and pack bags and pelad for help.

I hear them. I can't do anything.

They hear, too. They could fix this, but they don't.

Celebrities are going on vacation. They post swim suit pictures and advertisements about their sun lotion.

People are dying.

They put on clothes made by slaves and relax on boats.

People climb onto their roofs to avoid the water.

They are screaming. I am, too.

It doesn't matter. Nothing will change.

I feel helpless.

My paycheck hits, and it's not enough. I resign myself to another week of cheap food and no repairs.

It's never enough.

People are dying, and I feel dumb to be worried about this.

People are locked in twelve hour traffic, and I'm in my bed, warm and safe.

Tears roll down my face.

I feel helpless. What can we do?

This isn't a question. There is no mystery.

There is a plan. But no one who can help will do anything.

I see the solution. We all do. But nothing will change.

I get uo and get dressed for work.

Life moves on.

People are dying. The world is ending. People scream and plead for help, but no one turns around.

The world is ending.

I go to work.

I try to be thankful that I can.

I try not to feel helpless and stuck and alone.

I try not to be angry at the world, at all the people that aren't doing something just because they don't want to.

I don't have the energy to think about it. I'm worried if I do, I will fall apart.

Besides, it doesn't matter. Nothing will change. Nothing ever does.

[typed-out]

I pretend I'm okay.

Not in a bad way. I am okay.

But I'm not okay in the way they want me to be. So I pretend to be okay for them.

And when I get home, I let myself be okay for me.

It's a good thing because they all trust me. They think I have it together. When I am pretending, I laugh at the right times, and smile, and show up early, and work hard.

It's a bad thing because it's not real. Who can I let in? Who can come to my house? If someone comes over, I keep pretending but it doesn't feel easy.

It feels forced and wrong.

The cracks show. They see the mess.

They get concerned. They ask questions.

I laugh at the wrong time and it's wrong because I'm laughing alone.

I chase them out as politely as I can. I feel sick.

Everything is wrong now.

I don't invite them over again. It takes time to build up the mask again. I answer their questions correctly, I smile, I joke, I pretend like the cracks were decor and not me breaking.

Sometimes I wonder if we are all pretending.

Do we all follow the same script for no other reason than because we all do?

Who decided when the right time to laugh was? Why do we all agree?

Do we all go home and fall apart, letting the mask shatter and our thoughts go free?

Do we call hold our real selves so close that no one sees, to protect them?

Or, an even more scary thought, is it just me?

[typed-out]

My brain is like a thunderstorm

It won't stay dry and can't get warm

There's beauty here, though not the norm

My brain is like a thunderstorm.

My heart is made of broken glass

It may look bad, but it's made to last

I'm scared it's see through, but alas

My heart is made of broken glass

My thoughts and feelings are like bones

Deep inside, they're all alone

Thought universal, they're never shown

Soft and fragile, skin and bones

My hands are covered in tiny scars

Like cracked porcelain, the way they're marred

Each one's a story, but from afar,

All you see are tiny scars

My eyes are green as fresh pine trees

Too small and narrow to be a key

But they unlock my soul, I'm sure you'll see

The green of my eyes like the green of a tree

My words fill pages, but not a room

I speak in whimpers, not in booms

I've lots to say, but don't assume

That my words will ever fill a room

If you cut my skin, I'll bleed the earth

I've been soaking up the world since birth

In my veins, I feel its girth

For all of us are made of earth

I'm lost in silence, stuck in trees

My thoughts are buzzing like a bee

Though I hunger, I have no needs

My body's formed with living sea

My brain is like a thunderstorm

I can't get dry and won't stay warm

There's beauty here, though not the norm

Because my brain is like a thunderstorm

[typed-out]

Blank Slate- A personal essay

WARNING: MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF HARM AND FEELINGS OF DREPRESSION

TAKE CAUTION WHILE READING

I wish I was broken.

I can feel that I'm not, I can feel that I can keep fighting.

I'm so tried.

But I have to keep fighting.

I wish there was a visual indicator of how I feel.

But there's nothing.

I feel angry. I want to prove that I am suffering, prove I need help, prove that I feel like I am treading water, seconds from drowning.

I strip naked and hold a razor over my wrist.

'You're just doing it for atttention', I think to myself, and I hate myself a little more.

I don't want attention. Not like that. I don't want someone to ask or notice.

I want someone to save me.

I put the razor down.

Self harm destroys lives, kills people.

I'm so lucky that I don't do it.

Why don't I feel lucky?

I feel disgusting. What's wrong with me?

I feel angry. I'm not broken enough to hurt but I want to be.

If I'm broken, I can be fixed.

If there are physical wounds, then it's real, not in my head.

My eyes water. I'm so angry. I hate myself.

I am broken. I can prove it.

I pick the razor back up. I feel fury, burning like fire in my chest and behind my eyes.

I hold the razor to my thigh. It can't be for attention if no one can see it.

I make one small cut. It stings badly.

A pearl of blood rises up as i watch.

I've heard that self harm can be addicting, the the release can feel so good you won't want to stop.

It can be dangerous.

I wait for the feeling to wash over me, for the urge to cut again comes.

It never does. The cut stings, and I don't want anymore.

I hold the razor to my thigh, but I can't force myself to cut again.

I'm too weak, even for this.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to explode, push everything out until i break the windows and everyone feels my wind.

I throw the razor away.

I put my earbuds in and let the sounds drown everything out.

I pace around my apartment, just to move, just to expel some energy.

I close my eyes and imagine I am a singer.

I'm on stage, and everyone is clapping. I'm not nervous; I'm excited. My heart is pounding and i give a brilliant performance. It's not flawless, but my fans like my hiccups because it reminds them I'm real.

At the end, I cry and bow, and thank everyone.

I imagine I am a hero on a quest. I was chosen, but I dont want to be. I have friends willing to come with me. I have an enemy focused on stopping me, but I am stronger and better. I struggle, but my friends help and we push through. I return home victorious yet humble.

I find love, and I win the gratitude of the people around me.

I imagine I am hurt, badly. I can't stand or move, and the pain is crushing me. But there's someone there, who lifts me up and promises everything will be okay. They sound panicked, worried about me, and I know they would do anything to make sure I'm alright.

I'm in a hospital bed, and they're beside me, holding my hand and crying out if joy that I'll make it.

My earbuds die.

I pull them out.

I'm not angry anymore.

Or sad.

Or frustrated.

I am nothing.

I feel numb, like an empty bottle.

The music doesn't fill me up, but I don't fill me up either.

I'm a blank slate, waiting for color.

I'm not broken, I'm whole, but I'm not complete.

That's okay.

I don't need to be.

When I am blank, I can pretend to be anything, draw any expression on my fave and maintain it.

This is the best way to be.

Later, I will jolt and be afraid of how empty I felt. I will cry and tremble and scroll on my phone till I remember how to be normal.

But for now, I feel nothing.

I sit on the couch and pull a blanket over my legs.

There's one cut on my thigh. It already stopped bleeding. It will be gone in a few days.

I'll be okay then.

I close my eyes.

This is what it feels like to be okay.

[typed-out]

She's my best friend.

We hang out often, small things usually.

Not today.

Today, we drive an hour to a bigger city. We plan to go to a bookstore, and cmgrocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her son.

He's four years old and singing badly to kids music in my backseat.

I drive. She talks.

I'm having a good time.

I have ibuprofen in my purse. I'll need it later. I also do when I'm in public for several hours.

I dread the crowds but I smile. This was a good idea.

We run our errands. We spend more than we planned to. It makes us laugh.

We don't want the day to end, but our errands are done.

I'm done too. My head hurts, my chest feels tight from the crowds, and I feel so tired.

I suggest we go back to her place, order a pizza, and pop in a kids movie until her son falls asleep.

She thinks it over and agrees. The plans are made. I hold onto that, the thought of relaxing and sitting in quiet agter our busy day.

We get in the car to go home.

There's a new kids movie that just came out. It's still in theaters.

She says we should go do that instead.

My heart is pounding. I hate theaters. The crowds, the too loudness of the speakers, the strong smells, the uncomfortable seats.

I don't say anything. Her son cheers.

The choice is made. If I say no, I'm the bad guy.

I say nothing.

I sit in my sit beside her silently. I refuse the snacks.

I feel sick.

My heart is in my throat and my body feels tight with energy.

She asks if I'm okay and I want to scream.

The movie is finally over. Her son is pumped full of sugar. I have double vision.

She suggests a restaurant and I want to sob.

Her son cheers.

I say nothing.

Everything tastes like cardboard and I go to bathroom to cry.

We drive home.

She offers for me to come over, watch a horror movie and put her son to sleep.

I hate horror movies.

I'm tired. My eyes are stinging. I look at her, desperately wondering what happened.

I long for something different, something easier.

I could explain myself. Tell her what went wrong, why I'm struggling.

I'm too tired.

I go home and cry myself to sleep.

Will I ever feel the relief of being known?

[typed-out]

social chess: a train of thought

Existing around other people can feel like a game of chess.

There are so many rules that everyone else seems to know. I never know what to do, what the squares are for, what the pieces mean. Sometimes, I manage to make the right move, and people don’t notice me. They see me play and think, yes, they are just like us. Or maybe they think nothing because it is all so normal.

Why go out of your way to notice what is normal, expected? Why celebrate the things we are all supposed to do? Why do they notice the effort if that same thing is no effort to them?

I am not good at chess, but I have been playing it forever. Why haven’t I learned?

I have spent so much time learning to pretend. I got very good at looking around, watching the reactions to what I do. When I make a good move, I can tell. When I make a bad move, I can tell that too. But I don’t understand these moves, what makes them good or bad. People have tried to explain it to me, and I can tell when I go slow, pay careful attention.

But going slow, watching carefully, is the wrong move too.

You must be fast, smooth, sudden, deadly. You cannot hesitate, you cannot observe, you just have to know.

Learning is wrong because asking questions is wrong. Asking questions is wrong because you are supposed to know.

Why wasn’t I born with this knowledge that everyone else is? Why does my brain not see the subtle clues and hints and scripts that everyone follows?

I’m not sure.

I like it best when I don’t have to play at all, when I can sit back and observe the game. People get impressed when I tell facts and recite rules, things that can be read in books and found in studies.

Things you can memorize, not learn.

Sometimes, I stop and study the board. I am always impressed by the hidden moves; the ideas and points people get across without you even seeing the pieces. But the closer I look, the more I see there are multiple games, layered on top of one another. It’s fascinating.

It is more fascinating how many moves mean nothing.

People say so many things they don’t mean, have entire conversations without exchanging any information.

How is the weather, they ask, but they already know.

How are you, they wonder, not caring at all.

Let’s meet up again soon, they promise, but they never make plans.

I read online that this is just to show acknowledgment, that this is polite and safe. I read that this is just a way to connect.

Why don’t I feel that connection?

This part, I am good at. It is as fake as I feel, and the plastic smile on my face is comforting.

I am good at lying, at saying words that mean nothing.

I just don’t know why I have to keep saying it.

I’ve learned that I am good at ‘corporate speak,’ at saying things that are so politically correct and scripted that it sounds professional. I like to impress people with this skill, like to pretend it feels different than talking to them.

I am most comfortable at home, alone. The only person I don’t have to at around is myself.

But sometimes, I worry I don’t know who I am. I wonder what is like to exist without all my masks. Maybe I never take them all off.

Maybe, I worry that is underneath it all, is nothing.

Who are we without these games that shape our interactions with each other?

When we do not interact, what is our personality?

Do I have a real personality outside of who I pretend to be?

Will I ever find out?

I will just keep playing, keep pretending to know.

[typed-out]

meeting new people: a train of thought

Meeting new people can be complicated.

There are so many variables, and so much depends on the context.

How do I act around them? What mask of mind do they prefer? Who should I be?

I wonder if everyone asks these same questions.

I have this down to a science. I’m good at getting people to like me, to trust me. I do very well in job interviews. I do great at first impressions.

I am very proud of this, but not at all. It feels like I’ve successfully found a cheat code, like I’ve hacked some sort of game. It feels manipulative.

Do people like me because of who I am or because of who I pretend to be?

This is a trick question.

Who I pretend to be involves so many layers, it has become who I am.

Who I am is made up of who I pretend to be.

I’m great at first impressions, but I am not great at following up on it. The more I am around people, the more the masks slip and bend together.

I mess up.

I break rules.

They get uncomfortable and wonder what happened to me.

Why am I acting like this? Why would I say that? Don’t I know better?

I smile and giggle. I’m quirky. I’m funny.

Maybe if I make this a part of my masks, no one will notice. Maybe if I lead with goofy, funny, sweet, silly, no one will notice when I mess up. Maybe then I will be safe.

Manipulative. It feels like such a harsh word for what I do.

I’m not trying to hurt anyone. I don’t do it to be mean. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to fit in. I’m just trying to make friends.

I wonder if this is also why I ghost people so often. If they see too far in my mask, if they get a peak underneath, and then I have to run.

Or maybe it’s guilt. They get too attached to a person that isn’t real, to a person I’ve invented just for them. I cater myself to them, and I mold every bit of myself to what they want. They’re happy because I am what they need, they are thankful because I do what they want me to, they trust me because I say the right things.

It’s not real. I scream inside my own head, begging for them to see me. I dread seeing them because the mask doesn’t feel right anymore. It doesn’t feel like it’s mine because it belongs to them now. I’ve become who they want me to be, and there is no escape.

I leave, and they wonder what went wrong. Did they say something?

Yes and no. Not something but everything. They saw I’m perfect, they love me, and it hurts because I know it isn’t me they mean.

Does anyone love me? Has anyone ever met the real me and wanted to be around me? Has anyone ever actually seen me?

I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point. There is no return from what I’ve created.

Dare I strip the mask, no one would believe me. They would say, I’ve known you so long, this isn’t you. This isn’t real.

It’s too much work. I put the mask back on. I back off. I find a new person.

Maybe I’m the bad guy. Maybe I’m wrong. How do I stop?

I try to be honest. But it doesn’t work. No one wants me like this.

No mask to hide my imperfections. Nothing to brace myself.

Maybe I do it in self-defense. Maybe I tell myself, it’s better this way. This way, if they don’t like me, it doesn’t matter because it isn’t me.

If I show them the real me, and they don’t like me, then that’s that. There is nothing else.

If they don’t like the mask, I switch it. I move on. I am not hurt.

I never show anyone the real me. There is always a mask. And everyone likes masks.

I am good at meeting new people, but I know I shouldn’t be.

I won’t stop.

This is what works.