I’m hesitant to write about this topic for a few reasons. For one, it is very much so something I’m still working through. I don’t yet have the benefit of hindsight to tell readers (or myself) the happy ending. Don’t get me wrong, I believe it’s coming. It’s that very hope I have clung onto the tightest when I’m feeling the lowest. I also know that what I’m going through pails in comparison to others’ experiences. No one died. My life, as it currently is, will not be going through any major change as a result of this. This by no means will be the “great tragedy” of my years on this earth, but for a twenty-something, I’ll admit, it feels big. Another reason I’m hesitant to write about this, it isn’t my story to tell. Consider me collateral damage. I’ll avoid telling his story, and stick to my own. Continue reading “The Big Lie”
Since I was in college, my mom was convinced I was destined to be a writer. I’m not entirely sure what sparked this. Looking back, has she ever read anything I wrote? Did she sneak a peak at my angsty high school journals (NOT diaries, they were JOURNALISTIC creations) and see some potential behind a melodramatic ramblings? She wasn’t the type of parent to help me with math homework every night and DEFINITELY didn’t read over my essays before turning them in. Maybe it was just that blind confidence each parent has in their child’s abounding potential.
All of that being said, when posing the question to myself “what are my hobbies?” recently, I drew a complete blank. The only thing I’ve consistently done my whole life, is write. I’ve never partaken in extra-curricular sports. I was forced to take swimming lessons, art classes, tennis lessons, and even a few soccer and basketball leagues, but nothing stuck. In high school I ran cross country and turned out being pretty good at it, but who wants to say their hobby is running? Who am I, Forrest Gump? I don’t even like running anyways. Why would anyone? I have to question the sanity of anyone voluntarily running marathons (and applaud, I guess.)