They're so proud of me.

A short nonfiction piece about some inner conflict I'm dealing with right now.

“I’m so proud of you.” The words bring hot shame to my face. Don’t be. A small voice in my head responds. “Thanks mom.” A loud voice outside of me responds.

“I’m so proud of you.” The small voice is back, Stop it. “Thanks Grandma.” My fingers type.

“I’m so proud of you. We’re so proud of who you’ve become. We’re so proud. So proud of you. So proud. Proud of you.” Stop it! Stop saying that! Stop saying those words. Don’t be proud of me. Don’t be proud of who I’ve become. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not who I think I am. I- I don’t know who I am. I’ve been this me, for so long. I’ve been on this path, for so long. Is it still a goal? Or just a habit? Is it really my dream? Or a mouthful of lies? It’s getting harder to swallow.

                Distractions abound, but always- always coming back here. What if I went my own way? If instead of taking this road, I took the road not taken.

Dear Mr. Frost,

My sincerest apologies.

Your most humble, ever learning reader.

But no. I can’t do that. I can’t diverge. They’re so proud of me. Of who they think is me. They can’t wait for that degree. They can’t wait for that job. They can’t wait to have everyone else be proud and jealous of me. They’re so proud.

I hate who I’ve become. This unsure, unstable mess in my perfect, goal driven body. She won’t leave. She won’t give me back, the girl who knows what she wants to do. Who she wants to be. Who she is. She holds hostage the girl who had her life figured out. Whos only concern was where to live after college. Whos whole life was laid out in front of her like a road map to happiness. That girl, is gone. And I’m afraid I’ll never see her again. I’m afraid I’m stuck with this girl who only wants her freedom. Who only wants the open road and endless possibilities. I’m terrified I’m stuck with this transient with only sixty dollars to her name and a beat up old Chevy with half a tank. She’s not an adult. She doesn’t have her life figured out. She’s the opposite of what I had before and I’m terrified I like her better. I’m terrified that this drifter working the bar at the local dive excites me. I’m terrified that this vagabond in the grimy motel with no more than a duffel bag gives me more feeling than the girl with the great life ahead of her ever could. I’m terrified that this nomad with the disposable cell phone and no real home makes me smile, truly smile.

The girl with the stable job and the house in the suburbs, and the white picket fence and the husband, and the 2.5 kids, and the golden retriever… the girl with the dead eyes and the drooping smile. The girl, with regrets on her back and a ball and chain on her leg. The girl who say’s “I wish I had…” Instead of “I’m glad I did.” That’s the girl they’re proud of. That’s the girl I’m pretending to be. That’s the girl I have to be. I’ve gone too far to not be her. That transient can’t pay off my student loans. That drifter can’t put my parents in the home they deserve. That vagabond can’t contribute to society. That nomad can’t make them proud. That beat up old Chevy with half a tank becomes a 4 door with a trunk full of soccer gear.  That dive bar become a school with screeching children and other dead eyed women. That grimy motel becomes a picture out of better homes and gardens. That disposable cell phone becomes a plan that bundles with cable. And this unsure, unstable mess sits screaming inside me, until she withers and rots, and I become an empty shell.

 

They’re so proud of me.