Some would say that a person’s path becomes apparent when they see themselves go through severe changes. They say that a person would find their proper way when the hurricane-like devastation is over and the sun has risen.
Some would agree.
Others—well others don’t, and with good reason.
I used to believe that when your told what your going to be it will actually happen, who knew that today, on my last month as an eighteen year-old my ideas of what I once had wanted to be are packaged into the side of my head that tells me it is all just a dream. The other logical side is fumbled and confused.
What do I want? This question should be posted with my nine digit number all along the Toronto streets.
I was certain of what I had wanted when I was younger, an artist perhaps, but my heart told me that that was simply a dream, what use have I for a dream? A dream that is so distant that it might as well be sitting on the moon admiring the view of planet earth. Why my mind is so tormented I have no idea, but the truth is that it is, and they always did say that the first step was admitting the problem.
The hard thing is: what is the base of my tormented mind? What caused me to have so many questions, worries, fears?
Maybe my answer is in my father’s death, the day that part of my childhood disappeared and was replaced by my too-soon adulthood. Whether it is in my hidden thoughts that are so encrypted in my mind that I can’t even reach them or in my thoughts that are always open to me, I think about that day at least once a day.
Hospitals had never scared me, their smells had never bugged me, and the idea of doctors talking cryptically to patients’ families always seemed like a T.V. show that had been filmed in the outskirts of the U.S. I had never been afraid of hospitals and how the only news you could leave with was either a simple yes or no; good or bad news. The waiting rooms varied, they could be large or small, and the sad idea was that whether a patient had many or no visitors, the waiting rooms were made and no matter how many rooms there were they all had echoing news of passed loved ones. That Thursday afternoon my father became one of the countless patients that left the hospital with neither a yes or no answer. He was one of the patients who’s family became one of the many that had to hear the news of a lost life; a lost piece of our family puzzle, and the more we lose the less connected the pieces will be. My family sat on every empty chairs—to make it clear, it does not matter how many a patient has visiting them, it is the fact that fate has been so unkind to them that they would need a fated waiting room all together—and we held our breathes, hid our tears, and silently prayed.
The nurse came in, the look of sadness painted on her face, and my mother was the first one up. Whispering began and I could see my mother’s face change and she did not need to speak to make us understand, they tried their best, she had said.
That was it; that was another life that hung in the balance while yet another family sat in a waiting room. That was almost seven years ago, and I remember it vividly.
Some would say that a child’s memory is vague; I would say they’re wrong. That day everything changed for me. All my dreams, my hopes, my fears. They all changed and because of that event.
So now I sit writing this in an attempt to slowly let myself reflect on a small percent of my hidden emotions. I guess a part of me is scared of losing another piece of my family’s puzzle and another part is scared of losing to the world that took my father.
I guess this, in some way, is preventing me from being all I can be.
Maybe it’s time for me to learn to take the plunge and follow what I believe, whether my dream is something simple or drastic.
Fear is something you shall have when fear itself scares you.