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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2002-09-25
4:18 p.m.
If my demeanor for the majority of my life that I remember to this point could be described as defiant, it distresses me to recognize that I can now more easily be described as defeated.
The general feeling of being defeated isn’t at all a new impression for me, but, to this point, I had tried to fight valiantly and violently against that feeling. It's in my nature to fight against nature, and that was all I knew how to do. Defeat, for me, was always implied. Trying, realizing, and succeeding were not progressive steps along the way through life; all I knew was defeat. Even if I thought I was successful in a particular instance, I eventually came to learn that my success was illusory and cursory to my dark, inevitable failure.
The difference now is that I no longer care.
Everything is different from how I thought it would turn out to be. It turns out that this is one of those "facts of life" that everyone else seems to be able to come to terms with, while I stand in the background with the excruciating headache and the pressing concern that life is far too tragic to handle. It’s just not right. I don’t care if it’s a fact of life.
It’s not right.
When I was growing up, at least I had the ability to believe that my future would turn around. At least I had the ability to dream. I would go to bed each night with my brain overturning millions of episodes of ecstatic performances of my illustrious career before a gigantic audience of all those people in life who would one day think to themselves, "I can’t believe she’s done that well for herself."
I was to become the one famous person from my high school. I was to become the one famous person from my college class. I was to become the one person whose goals were never set too high to reach, never too unrealistic for the degree of hard work and discipline I always put into everything I did. I was to become the one person whose talents outshone everyone else’s expectations.
I was to surpass the overwhelming failure I’d previously experienced.
To an extent, I still believe I’ll be famous someday. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t have remained alive throughout a college career I hated just to prove to myself that I could perform better than the people from my high school. I wouldn’t have displayed my entire life on a website for the whole world to see if I didn’t believe it had something to say that would make people stop and think for a split second to themselves, "Well, I’ll be damned. That girl went through so much more than I ever could’ve imagined." I wouldn’t be working towards a Masters degree in a completely different field in order to prove to myself that I still have a life after failing miserably in every previous attempt to perform above average.
Average isn’t good enough for me.
But the dreams are gone. The fantasies are gone. The delusions are gone. The desire to show the world how well I can do is gone. I don’t care. Perhaps I’m trying to prove things to myself now rather than the rest of the people I never liked anyway. Perhaps this is growing up and becoming an adult. I don’t know. All I know is that the world passes me by with a steadily progressing wave of activity whether I agree or disagree, challenge or concede, and the only thing that never changes is my utter, unfailing belief in the bitter irony of my enduring failure.
