I was sick. So sick. Always meds. Always doctors. Nice doctors. Some mean, some ugly, some pretty, some kind, some bored. Tears flowed freely from a mother’s fearful eyes. Rigid determination to make it all better. Hard work paid off finally, after years of doctors, meds, and checkups. I remember nothing. I was oblivious. A little girl screaming for her mommy after her surgery. The nurses calm me. The endless Popsicles, everyone is so nice.
I felt stupid. Frustrated I was at all times. I hated to read, hated math, hated school. Didn’t want to play with other kids. I was alone, independent, better than they all were. A slow learner that was all they all said. No, something is wrong. My brother’s smart! Why aren’t I? Why aren’t I learning to read like everyone else so fast? Why is it hard to multiply three and three? And most of all, WHY IN THE WORLD DID THEY PUT ME IN GIFTED?!?! As a child, I remember hating to read and never being able to read well for a long time. I also was bad at multiplying; they didn’t move me up to the fifth grade math in fourth. A lot of others did, I still needed to finish the basics she said. I always wondered why the teachers thought I was Gifted. I think they were truly insane or probably did it because my brother was.
Soon I started to see, to learn. I read books more and more. I memorized my multiplication tables. Slowly but surely, things fell into place. I was a perfectionist. My first ‘B’ killed me. I was so disappointed, I cried for hours. In writing! Writing! I thought I was doing so well. Then that ‘B’! I kept up the hard work, and finished with straight ‘A’s’. Another ‘B’ in 7th grade. I knew I didn’t deserve it. Gifted Science. One late paper finished me off. I earned a ‘A’ but was given a ‘B’. My life was over. In eighth grade, I got an eight on the FCAT reading. Missed four questions. Cried for hours. SO much disappointment. I was stupid, I was bad, and I wasn’t worth anything. Mistakes, failures, disappointments, I hate them. It’s so hurtful and so painful to go through every single one. I wish lessons could be learned in a different way. I wish life wasn’t so mean sometimes.
Beautiful times. Oh, wondrously beautiful times. Times when the tears are for joy and the smiles are real. Times when the world stops and everything is a quiet happiness. I love those times. I love the sunsets and the clouds. I love watching a child laugh. I love great, warm hugs. Those times with the best of friends calm and comfortable, spilling over with secrets. I love the simple silent words passing between two loves. Eighth grade, spring band concert, advanced band playing. Time to announce the winner of Student Musician...my name...applause. Hearing people clapping, people whistling, people screaming in joy! So perfect. I felt so happy. I had worked hard and now I got my prize. I didn’t want the award; I wanted the love the crowd gave me, the genuine cheers that resonated throughout the gym. Hearing someone say something nice about me when I wasn’t there. A rumor that was wonderfully sweet. A glance that made me melt. Wonderful times, exciting times, and all memorable times.
So few memories, but feeling like I still know my old self. I still know that little girl learning how to pronounce her letters right. The person who matured so fast. The people, places, and events of my life are many. I remember few. Knowing whom you were at that moment means more than knowing what you did. I remember who I was then and can compare that to the person I am now. Memories can be spectacular and some can be torture to bring back. By remembering, you can learn from who you were. You can copy what you have done in certain situation and you can become more and more yourself by improving upon you “memory self“. I have been ‘becoming’ myself all my life and will continue until I die. I am myself at all times, but I become a different ‘myself’ everyday. I change at every moment of the day and every time I breath.
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