Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time's running out. I look at the clock and wonder what's next. I'm sitting in a room. All alone. It's semi dark, with only a lamp and two computer screens to light it. At first glance, I look like a boring teenager, but when you take another look, you see something different. Hunched over the keyboard, with one foot on the shelf of my makeshift desk, another foot on a lower shelf, shifty eyes going back and forth from screen to screen, anxiety written all over it. Hair tied back with a meager ribbon, and a pretty but makeup smeared face. A mix between a grimace and confusion is the true face I wear. The mask of smiles, and joy, of confidence and pride is gone. For I try to conceal my true thoughts and feelings to the outside world, but here, there's no need.
But there's no denying the difference in me. I'm not typically a whinny, snobby teenage girl, who holds out her hand for money every chance she gets. No, I'm the type that doesn't care about how much money I have, or how nice my clothes are. Yes,I have pride in myself, and self esteem issues, but material things isn't part of me. With my fiance, laptop, ipod, and creativity, I'm fine. For the most part, well, generally the least part.
Look about my small room, and it will explain some things about my personality. It's a confusion of colors, shapes, and patterns. Clothes and random objects loiter the floor and everything is crammed together. nothing in my world makes sense, and that fact is very obvious.
My family tree is as crazy as my room. Different kinds of people all jumbled together, and tons of them. Some I know well, others not at all. But love courses through our veins.
God blessed and cursed me with a heart. A soft, sweet heart that cries for others, fights for the underdog and defends the defenseless. Rewards for my accomplishments, trials, and intentions usually entails mocking, rebuke, denial, and destruction. No one listens, no matter how hard I try, so why do I bother. I can't help the way I am, I just am the way I am. Give, take, or leave it.
If you dig a little deeper into the world I'm surrounded by, it's full of pain, mistakes, and remorse. And as the only granddaughter in part of the family, and the only one whose mistakes are the least, it is impressed upon me to fix the rest of the family. To mend ties, relationships, smooth over fights, and distribute the peace. However, I tend to take the blows in return.
My mother for instance is an odd thing, Just like her father, whom I sought escape from. No, they aren't bad, nor do I hate them. I love them dearly, but that doesn't stop their actions, words, and often their harsh ways. To tell my mother this, would surely result in much vulgarity and denial. Our relationship used to be like Lorelei and Rory's from Gilmore girls. More like friends than mother and daughter. The relationship envied among many. However, that sweet, innocent, and laughter filled time has passed, and tempers, harsh tones, and tears have replaced it. Not a day goes by, it seems, that life gives me a break.
I try not to complain, for I know I'm not always the most pleasant person in the world, and my tone of voice often gets me in trouble. I wish I could control it, but I can't. For some reason I just can't, though I've tried many times. I'm not a problem child, by any means, but I'm not an easy child to raise. For I'm not really a child, but half reckless teen, and half mature adult. It leads into loads of trouble and many disciplinary actions.
My mother acts like a child, and in many ways, I'm the adult in the house. I try not to be condescending, but often times, it comes off that way. My dad, who is my dad by marriage, and dad in my heart, doesn't get involved much into the parental affairs. Doctor appointments, prescriptions, discipline, who I see, where I go, pretty much anything that involves raising me falls to my mother. Every now and then, he steps in and takes control, when he sees things get really bad. Yes, he's involved in my life, but not as much as my mother
But there's something about them you must know. They are both ill. Not in a mood sense, but in physical sense. I have been watching my mother slowly deteriorate in front of me since I was a little girl. Smarter than most, I realized something was wrong at around the age of 7, despite the lies I was told to protect me from the harsh reality. My dad is disabled as well, but it's his soul that's been damaged the most. By his past, my mother, and now, even by me.
I don't intentionally hurt people, but often I do. I've been called many things, ranging from bossy, loud, something rhyming with witch, useless, a failure, to different, weird, even phsyco. At times, I may be, but though I'm defined by these by the world, really, I'm just a scared, anxious, determined little girl who had to grow up too fast, and tries her best to survive.
I'm loved, I'm hated. I'm destroyed, and made new. I'm pretty, I'm ugly. I'm weak, I'm strong. I live in a flip flop motion of life, on the brink of disaster, and rarely in the happy medium. I have many high's and low's, and often time end up in the floor crying.
But time is running out, I need to make something out of nothing. The materials I need are just out of reach. Close enough to be seen, but far enough away to tempt and tease me. Will I ever have my happy balance? Or will I be doomed to forever live in a world of chaos.
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick
Silence.
