December 16, 2014 What it Feels Like to be Me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
For a school assignment, we were instructed to write a personal essay on the prompt "what it feels like to be me". I kind of liked mine. Toward the end, I got bored and kinda lazy though.

Submitted: December 19, 2014

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Submitted: December 19, 2014

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A wave rushing, turning, speeding toward the shore with not a second to think, whipping its contents into a tornado of disorganization, all while hiding what’s underneath. I am confused. Constantly overwhelmed with school and family and homework and friends and a job and finding time to sleep and trying to just be a kid. So overwhelmed, in fact, that I have no idea who I truly am, what makes me happy, or what’s really underneath that giant, never resting wave. Do I actually like to sleep for 12 hours at a time, or am I just so exhausted with my factory-production lifestyle that it’s easier to sleep? Do I truly like to be extremely organized with twelve dividers in a binder and six different high lighters? Or do I secretly think that my papers are the only thing I can control and one wrong mark or placement will send my castle of multi-colored, destroyed trees tumbling to the ground? And like the majority of the world’s oceans, I am yet to be discovered. What lies underneath the roaring surface? What is to be found in the dark, murky area inside me? Who am I?

I am constantly questioning myself. I can never be happy with my decisions and I can never be happy with how I exist. Was that the right answer on the test? Will one point make the difference between being happy in life and being a failure? Maybe so. How about this dress? Does it look okay on me, or do I look like an awkward sixth grader that has no clue what they’re doing? I’ll go with the latter.  Why don’t I have a lot of friends? Is it how I look? My actions? Why can’t I be happy with who I am? Who am I?

I will always hate mirrors. It is not an issue with body image. By looking in this pane of glass, I am forced to look at myself. I must face my confusion and see its effects on me. My hair is constantly changing, unsure of what shade suits it best. How can I alter my physical appearance to make myself better? The natural light-brown wasn’t good enough. It wanted to be heard and not ignored. But that purple was a little too obnoxious: people always stared. And that red? No that wouldn’t do either. What about blue? No, that probably wouldn’t work with the eyes. Like myself, my hair is eternally confused. It is a glimpse of what it’s like to be me. Unsure of what it wants and if it's doing the right thing. Who am I?

Writing about myself makes me nervous. To do that, I have to think about everything I hide from the world. Of course, it wouldn’t be that hard to string together a couple of lies and create a fake character that could be me. But that’s not really what the teachers want, is it? Describing myself is the most difficult part. Strapping on all of my scuba-diving gear, I descend into the crazy ocean of myself to figure out what is there. What am I like? What are my favorite things to do? The answers to all of these questions lie under the heaviest rocks at the bottom of the deepest abyss in the ocean: things I do not think I will ever be able to discover. Who am I?

Who am I?


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