Conflicting Brea

"So dear, have you been thinking about what you want to do after high school?"

I sighed.  Mother had bombarded me with this question -- and many like it -- for the past two years.  The question botherd me for many reasons, besides the fact of its obvious repetition. 

I knew exactly what I wanted to do once I graduated and kissed good-bye to my high school life.  I wanted to write and act.  My mother didn't approve of this.  She and my step father wanted me to do something productive for my life.  In their eyes, writing novels and pretending to be someone else on a stage wasn't going to get me far.  My step father wanted me to take over the family law firm.  But to be honest, I was too argumentitive and hot headed for a lawyer.  I sometimes tended to punch first and find out who I hit later. 

My parents were the kind that had high expectations (one of which was that I'd follow their high expectations without question).  They were more comfortable at black tie dinner parties wearing Gucci while I was often hidden away outside, wearing ripped up jeans, pen and paper at my side.

I was a dreamer, a poet, and a hopeless romantic.  I often lived in my story worlds rather than reality.  Something that set my parent's teeth on edge.  I couldn't wait to get away from here. 

I wasn't really what you would call rebellious.  I never did anything simply because I wanted to.  There was always a motive, even -- and especially -- if I didn't know it.  Yes, sometimes I would do things without thinking them all the way through (hence me not going the lawyer path) but I call that passion.  When something pulls on your heart, it surpasses reason. 

I was kind of a lone wolf.  I had my group of friends, and I love them to death, but I never quite fit in anywhere.  I had some major trust issues.  The main reason I can link to this was my biological father.  He wasn't the nicest guy on the planet, and he had done some horrible things to me and my mother.  I figured that somehow, my brain had linked 'trust' and 'love' to what he'd done to us.  I trusted him to take care of us, and I still have bruises and scars to prove it.  He'd told my mother and I he loved us... the only kind of love I knew was shouting, violence, and alcohol.

I suppose that's why I write.  To escape the harsh violence that had been my reality, I put myself in someone else's shoes.  I wrote different outcomes, where lives always had happy endings. 

It didn't take me long to figure out that 'happily ever afters' didn't exist in my world. 

So, what to do?

The End

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