Liz Darnell

Period 8 – Pomranka

27 April 2012

The Things You Carry

Everyone carries something that they are ashamed of, typically something that they are proud of too, but I believed those hard things are the ones that weigh the most on our souls. I carry keys, a ring, and hate with me everyday. These things can alienate a person from everything they have ever wanted. You don't chose the things you carry but you can with enough effort you can change how much they weigh on your soul.

Car keys for almost every single sixteen year old mean power, freedom, and independence. They weigh on me so much more than that. I have four keys. One to my mom and dad's gold Pontiac Grand Prix, a mail box key, a pool key, and an apartment key. The apartment key is a constant reminder that my so called "space" isn't really my space. An unknown number of people have lived there, and an unknown number of people will live there after me. The perfection of the white walls is a perfect way to show how imperfect and flawed I am. The car key. Too much power for one strip of metal. Every time I turn on that car, it is so scary. What might happen? If I speed will someone die? Will I die? As I pass down the roads I see the other cars, the passing buildings, the pedestrians, the other drives and most of all, the ditch. I calculate everything. If I drive off the road right now, how long would it take for someone to realize I am alone?

A silver ring, with two black lines, asymmetrical, and where the metal fuses together there is a small flaw. It was given to me by my parents when I was fifteen at Christmas 2010. They said it was to signify my growing up and show their love while I was in Georgia. But really for me it was just a way for me to think of all the bad things I have done while wearing it and how disappointed they would be in me if they knew.

My favorite, hate. Such a strong word it is. It is so secret, so big and so invisible. It took fifteen years and two months for everything to come out. All the hate I filled in for the love my parents couldn't give. Not because they didn't want to but because they couldn't. Every time my mom came home from a business trip, I got dressed up, so excited to see my mom. Every time she would get mad. At five years old I told myself I just wasn't good enough. And so there it was the first hate. Then 5 years later, I was ten and I was at least six inches taller than everyone. Apparently that set me apart. Cause all I heard for three years "You are too tall, too fat and too ugly." I guess after a while you start to believe it. Which leads me to January 2011. Food became the enemy because those ten year olds were in my head. I was too tall, too fat and too ugly. Maybe if I became emaciated I would be happy and someone would completely unconditionally love me. Maybe it would make me love me. It didn't. It made me avoid my friends, avoid my parents, and my most favorite avoid the dining hall. I wanted perfect grades, a perfect body, and all I got was this hate. My grades slipped, my mind slipped, everything I wanted to do slipped. This hatred of myself and of food, it weighs heavier than any backpack, any math book, anything I have ever carried. So I am supposed to talk myself away from it, along with the help of Zoloft, my little yellow oblong pill that does nothing. I need love, and all I do is hate.

We don't chose the things we carry, we don't decide how much they weigh but we do chose how we live. So while other people carry their optimism, I think that's crap. I think they are avoiding what they are really carrying, because optimism doesn't weigh heavier any of the hard feeling. So for everyone that says their lives are perfect I say get real, you carry stuff that you are just to afraid to admit.