Why

I don’t know who I am.

I recently turned down an invitation to list seven things about myself because I was only identifying myself by my nationality, race, religious preference, occupation. I thought maybe I’d list two of those and then put up some things that pointed to me as a person.

I was disquieted by this and I creased my forehead. I was regretting that I had chosen to pay attention to this invitation when the giver clearly told me that I could ignore it. I wanted to be polite however, and I decided I would take a look at it. But I didn’t have anything to say. I was thinking about it too much. It was bothering me.

I was at work at the time, so I didn’t have the luxury of pondering this first before supplying answers. With my forehead still creased I closed the webpage and busied myself with something else.

*    *    *

Whenever I read anything I form a mental picture of the author and sometimes I don’t hear my own voice in my head because of that mental picture. I guess I’ll just tell you a few things to help you with your mental picture of me.

I’m twenty years old. I don’t think this is a really big deal but it kind of is because I’m not a teenager anymore and I can never go back to when I was six years old. I think my life was pretty awesome before I got to high school. It was great then too, but it slowly started to go downhill, and it’s still going. I’m realizing what it is to be alive in this world and not liking it at all. It’s even worse because I’m twenty. It only gets worse as I grow older. You can probably tell that I lived a sheltered life and was a bit spoiled.

I’m from Jamaica. I was born there and I lived there for seventeen years without ever setting foot on foreign soil. I now live on the east coast of America and it’s cold for most of the year. I don’t like having to wear more than one layer of clothing.

I’m not a science person. I was when I was in the third grade. I wanted to be like Dexter and mix liquids of different colours together to make others and have occasional explosions – small ones of course – but then in the ninth grade science got too detailed and I opted out.

*    *    *

I made this blog because I wanted to share my poems, and myself too. I wanted to find some bowl I could puke everything into. I have things I want to say, but no one to say them to. No one to say everything to. I want a therapist, but not a real, live, trained one. I did when I was in high school, but not anymore. Now I’m scared. I just want to talk, and I want someone to listen.

 

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