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My parents are concerned about me. They are worried sick that I may have a serious problem. They don’t like it that I keep to myself these days. They tell me not to me so moody, spending so much time behind the closed door of my room. Painting and poetry befit people of gloom, I am told.
But within the comfort of my room, I am myself. Nobody to be
compared with, none to compete with. I spend my time reading, writing, painting
and dreaming. I enjoy the slow pace of life here. My mom sees this as a danger
signal. She thinks that I’d be better off doing the things she has planned so
meticulously for me.
Strangely, those are the very things I loathe. Being dragged from
piano lessons to dance class to martial arts to public speaking and debate
clubs. Participating in endless competitions. Bringing home shining golden
trophies that will be showcased in our living room. A spectacular display of my
failure. Failure to freely do what I love.
Sometimes I want to scream. I want to tell my parents that I
am not one bit excited about their plans for me. That I find solace in the
silence of my room, putting my thoughts into words. I want them to know that I
am not insane just because I prefer to be on my own. How can I tell them that it
is their plans that suffocate me? Plans where I don’t belong.
As we sit with the psychiatrist, my mother goes on and on
about how I am so downcast in spite of them being such encouraging parents and
me being an achiever. As usual I keep waiting for my turn to talk knowing that it will never come.
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