I think people overestimate me. All around me, I have friends and family that tell me I can do anything, that if I work hard enough all of my dreams will come true. They congratulate me on the hard work and sleepless nights I put in. They tell me that my dedication is a good thing, that I'm young and it's okay, the hard work will pay off. They tell me these things, and I thank them for their support, but a small part of me is angry about it. A small part of me feels a resentment for it because I am in such a constant place of pressure and exhaustion, and they keep telling me that it's good to feel that way. It's good to push myself to the breaking point, it's good to push myself so hard that I hardly see them, that I hardly recognize the world around me because I'm in a perpetual state of motion.
It isn't that I'm not happy, or that I don't like my life. It's that there's this person inside of me that is already so tired, and she doesn't care for the climb, she cares about being happy.
This side of me usually pops up in the odd hours of the night, when my hair is doing funny things and I am convinced that I have to cut it. I'll spend hours looking at haircuts and colors, wondering whether I could pull off a shorter hair cut without looking too much like my dad. Then the hair colors lead to tattoos, and the tattoos lead to piercings, and before I realize it I'm creating a whole new person in my head. A person with rose quartz hair in an odd, choppy, overgrown pixie haircut. Her ears are pierced up the sides like she's wanted since she was fourteen. Her nose is pierced too, and she has tattoos scattered on her body like a constellation.
She writes in her off time, which is a lot, but mostly only for herself. She doesn't stress about work or class because she quit the job that took up so much of her time, and school became an idea she just couldn't continue to pursue. Her job is simple, retail, or night stocking. She likes the idea of seeing her progress as she goes. She has headphones in during the small hours of the morning while she works. She might even sing a little.
I'm so entranced by this tiny person because she's so happy. She's relaxed. She's not pursuing anything, she's just going with the flow. I like this person, and on many occasions, I want to be this person. I want to forget about all of the hard work, the stress, the sleepless nights. I want to take my final paycheck and run to the salon and watch my locks fall to the floor. I want to smell the color as it works on my head. I want to feel the pain of needles digging into my skin to slowly transform me into a person who has stopped caring about everyone else's expectations. I want to be her so badly on those nights that I think about it. My night always ends with a headache from staring at the monitor and an ache in my chest, because the next day I'll wake up and I'll still be me. Sometimes that feels like a defeat, but more commonly it's starting to feel like a success.
As much as I want to be this person, as much as I want to take it easy and relax, I don't think I have it in me. I am at the point in my life that I can no longer continue to write simply for myself, I want my voice to be heard. I can't quit school, I have less than 40 credit hours to go. A year if I squeeze them in and want it badly enough. I can't quit my job. I love it for some strange reason. I find myself drawn to a kind of work that I never thought I'd be sucked into. I never planned on being anyone's boss, I never wanted it because I never thought I would be good at it, but life is funny that way. It twists us in places we never thought we'd be, but we can either accept the responsibility of what life gives us, or ignore the gifts altogether and quit accepting them.
My life is a constant struggle of keeping this person of ease at bay. For now. Eventually, I'll get the piercings and the pink hair and the tattoos, but my life isn't there right now, it's not meant to be, so I'll keep on with my sleepless nights and hard work. I'll wait, because she's there, waiting for me. Maybe instead of writing in her free time, she'll write novels for everyone else. Maybe she won't need the night job because she makes enough money for herself that way, but I think she'd keep the stocking job anyway, just to relax.
Ask me what I want to do with my life and I'll tell you: librarian, writer, author. Ask me what I would do if I lost my job tomorrow, and I'll tell you the story of how I always wanted to be a nighttime stocker at Walmart.
