My life is not my own. Enter the 20s and I am not so different from the person I was in primary school. My mother and father still dictate the fabric of my life. They have outlined who I am supposed to be in so much detail that I fear being myself. It is a myth to be you in the modern world. My dreams and ambitions belong to my mother’s idea of who I am. Rebellion is not about disobedience but rather a claim to what belongs to me. I do not want to dictate what others should do or not. I just want to forge my own path in a world clouded with decisions. I want not to fear failure but to see it as a step further within the confines of my abilities and inabilities. Pardon me for preferring to stay in bed all week instead of going to lectures, they bore me. And frankly the lecturer is a dowdy bastard who lacks an imagination.
Let me be me simply because it is hard for me to be who you want me to be. I do not know that person. I have heard of her but she is unfamiliar to me. I will burst not from success but from suppression. It is not the tasks in courses or the tests we write that we find difficult, it is accepting defeat in a battle that you should not be fighting in the first place; the battle to be allowed to be you.
One day I will find courage to be me and drop out of university, not because it is hard but because I don’t like it. One day I will mould myself and not let society format me into another woman. I will marry a man for the hell of it and divorce him for a woman with a low self-esteem. Who is to say what else I am capable of, left to my devices? The insanity of being me is almost unimaginable. But until then my life remains at the hands of the people who pass and fail me. I remain a carbon copy of this person my parents perceive. I remain at the mercy of falsehood. I remain on top of a bridge contemplating when to jump.