I Am What I Am

I sit on the park swing, just sitting.  I don’t swing on it anymore; to swing on it would mean that I was trying to have fun, to be innocent and carefree.  We all know I can’t swing anymore, I have forgotten, just like I forgot all the other little joys of being innocent.

I look up at the gloomy sky, filled with ominous clouds that cry for people like me.  I bet you are wondering what I mean by people like me right?  I mean the people that lost that piece of them that made them a child, that innocence that comes with being naïve.  The weather fits my mood perfectly, for once.  It’s summer, if you were wondering and I hate summer with a vengeance.  It’s too sunny, hot and cheery for my tastes.  I prefer fall, the dying season in which all plants die and scorching hot turns to chilling cold.

I look away from the sky and just stare straight ahead of me.  This park is usually filled with so many people at this time.  It’s the perfect time of day to be at the park, just a little after noon and a little before dinner.  But the park is empty now, everyone is at home singing “rain, rain go away, please come back another day.”  But not me, I like this weather.  It’s so nice to feel the cold tears of heaven fall upon my skin, just like it feels great to sit hear alone, for once.

It seems so long ago that I was just another innocent little child that would come here and play on the jungle gyms or swing around.  It makes my chest hurt to think about it.  Almost ten years, ten years since I was last called innocent.  That’s really sad if you think about it, I mean, I’m not even fifteen yet.

It was a day the polar opposite of today that I lost that piece of myself.  It wasn’t even my fault, nor did I deserve it, if you ask me.  But it’s not like I can go back and change anything, nor does it matter, now.  I remember it as if it were yesterday.  It was fall and still pretty warm.  I was sitting in my squad lines waiting for my kindergarten teacher to come and pick up my class.  I had always been the outsider of the class, since I could speak little to no English and often went in to fits of Russian when frustrated.  My class, just like any kindergarten class, had two fifth grade monitors there to make sure we didn’t get into trouble or to take us to the restroom.  I had to go though, so like anyone else would I walked up to both of them and asked to go.  The nice one, whose name I have sadly forgotten asked who I wanted to take me.  I made the error of choosing Jessica, a tall (at least to a five year old) brunette with a boyish cut. She took my hand and led me to the girls bathroom, where she instantly went off into word that at that time I did not know were vulgar and had no place to be directed at me.  She then went as far as to mentally and something close to physically abuse me.  She stole my innocence that day, that day and every day for the rest of my kindergarten year.  She forced me to go with her, and I would come home crying every day to my mother, and I would go to the teachers though why should they believe a little girl that can’t speak English right?  She’s just probably saying something wrong, why Jessica would never do anything like that!

How wrong they were, how wrong they were.  Who would have thought that seemingly “innocent” girl could forever cripple me, mentally?  I went through the rest of the year in misery.  But I got through it didn’t I? Sure, I went on to block out the entire year and only remember it almost four years later but that’s ok, right?  I only had to go through three years of psychiatric help for it, but it’s still all right.

No, it’s not all right.  Not now, and not ever again.  But there isn’t anything I can do to change that.  The scar runs too deep.  All I can do is hope that I can keep my emotions in control long enough to make it through the day, without causing anyone worry.  This is my problem, my shame; no one should have to deal with it.  No one should have to pick up the pieces after I shatter, other then me.

Jessica wasn’t the only one to make me who I am though, oh no, there are many others that come to fill her place, year after year.  The funny thing is, even after Jessica I was still naïve, not innocent, no, no, no, not that, just naïve.

I remember Irene, the supposedly nice, sweet, intelligent Asian girl.  She wouldn’t hurt a fly!  Apparently I was less then a fly, since she hurt me.  She was my friend from first or second grade, I can’t remember for sure anymore.  She was so nice some days, so cruel others.  She must have seen I was fragile, that I was damaged and broken but she never seemed to care, or else she was truly oblivious to my so obvious pain (which was quite impossible, so I chose the more logical reason as to that she just didn’t give a shit about me).  She toyed with me, led me along for her own pleasure.  She would be nice and talk to me some days. She would be nice and a good friend to me for a time, then, out of nowhere she would make false accusations about me being a bad friend and making me feel bad and cry.  She always had this twisted little smile, or a sadistic look in her eyes when watching me cry and feel pain from her words and disdain.  But then she had left the school, or something like that.  I seem to have blocked out most of my childhood, so well that I can actually pinpoint gaps in my memory.  But all that matters is that she left, and I never had to face her again, I was free from Irene.  But, of course, she wasn’t the last of my torturers. 

Then there came all the boys (and girls) that bullied me in fourth to sixth grade.  They would call me a crybaby or a smart ass, just because I was sensitive and cried, and paid attention in class, respectively.  But that was not so bad, not compared to Jessica and Irene.  I learned to deal with them, they were either easy to ignore or easy to intimidate.  I got good at that, intimidating them.  All I had to do was not be afraid, or show that I was not afraid.  The sad part is I wanted to run away and cry to my mother most of the time...how sad it was.  But they never knew, all they saw was someone that wouldn’t be pushed over, someone who had a sharp tongue and a lethal glare.  I liberated from them very easily, especially when you move a hundred miles from them.  I haven’t seen any of then since the last day I attended David A. Boody Junior High School, but that’s all right.  I’m glad I am rid of them; I was able to breath a sigh of relief for a time.

Of course like all good things, my short-lived time of peace quickly ended.  Next came all the people I have made enemies with in Marlboro and Howell.  I just can’t seem to get along with people that just talk about music, clothes, teen idol, the latest “hotties”, or boys.  I need to talk about hobbies, books, anything but what they talked about!  I have never, and still don’t care about boys!  I have never dated, nor do I care if I do.  Of course that was the major reason as to why they didn’t like me.  I was different, unique in the fact that I didn’t care for what they did and that I was far more mature when it came down to it.

But the children I have to stand in order obtain my education with still pale in comparison to some of the others things that haunted me, some still haunt me, so much that at times I wonder why I haven’t killed myself yet.  By the stars, how many times have I thought about ending it all!  How easy, how simple it could have and still could all be!  But in the end it comes down to one thing:  am I brave enough to see it through?  Can I really kill myself?  And the answer has always been no.  I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.  I’m not afraid of what god will think. 

What god?  If there is a divine being, a universal soul that created all of us then why is there so much pain and suffering?  No, I cannot believe in a good, or any spirit above us.  If there truly were a god, I believe that I would never have had to live through my ordeals.  No, there is not god.  There is only man and his ability to cause himself suffering.  How I wish to still have the views of a child.  Everything was so simple then, no emotions to factor in to everything.

Anyway, back to my original thoughts.  I think just about everyone except Jessica pale next to my father.  He, above all helped create the person I am, the person I despise to see in the mirror day in and day out.  He was never satisfied with me, hell he never wanted me!  At least...that’s what it always seemed like, he wanted another boy, I knew that much.  I never could tell if he loved or hated me, or if he even cared at all.  I never could figure out if I loved or hated him either.  It would have been so easy to blame him for everything but I don’t blame my daddy.  I blame myself for everything.  I blame myself for being weak enough to fall to what I am today. 

All of a sudden a hurricane worthy wind rips through the little park, almost knocking me off the swing I still sit on.  I shiver from the cold; I guess being soaked through to my bones doesn’t help me.  Well it looks like I risked my health again.  I sigh, oh well. I better leave now though, it seems I’m not welcome here any longer from the way the wind spoke to me, no matter though.  Today was a good day.  Today I got to sit alone, in the rain, and contemplate my life, again.  It’s kind of silly though.  Why do I keep thinking about the past?  What’s done is done, nothing can change who I am.  They made me who I am.  I am me, and me is who I am.  I am who I am, what else matters...wait...I know what matters.  It is the one thing I have never achieved...

Happiness...

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Ok, this was REALLY hard to write...Too many bad memories!  It made me want to cry typing and rereading it!  PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, tell me what you think!  I need someone to tell me how I did on my first original short story!!  Thanks for reading!