I was talking to my sister the other day about college and life after high school and decisions made in high school and how they all add up or corelate somehow.  Kennedy wants to go to Harvard, or did.  While we were talking she mentioned she wasn’t sure if she wanted to anymore.  I told her not to settle for something because she thought it was easier.  If it’s what you want you can’t let the difficulty factor affect that. Having said that I started thinking about my own life.

Why had I really joined the army?  Was it because I wanted to or because I knew I could do it?  I had wanted to go to UNT for their kinesiology program and later get my Masters in Sports Science early in my senior year.  What had happened during that time period that made me change my mind?  I remember I was so psyched about it.  It was something that was perfect for me.  I loved anything that had to do with the human body and how it works.  I was in HOSA for as long as it was at my school and I competed every year.  I loved all sorts of sports; not always watching them but I loved playing them, even if I wasn’t the best.  So, what changed?

Looking back, I can see that my dad was pushing for me to go to WT even though he kept saying he’d support me no matter where I went.  Except anywhere in the Dallas area.  He refused to let me go anywhere near my mom because she would “find a way to mess it up.”  I won’t lie and say I have agreed with everything my mom has done.  I’ll even tell you that some of it has made my life more difficult but my dad has done the same.  He has made some decisions I don’t agree with, and some of them have made my life more difficult as well.  I digress.  That certainly contributed it to making it hard to go where I want.  I had my heart set on UNT and I couldn’t go without causing some kind of drama which I hate.  Then, of course, there was the financial issue.  If I had tried harder and filled out more forms, wrote more essays, I could’ve gotten more scholarships.  But I was tired of trying so hard.  Ever since I was a little kid I was pushed to be perfect and I couldn’t be.  It was like my dad was trying to squish all of ME out of… well, me.  He knew what he wanted me to be, and I always felt like I was under that pressure.  If he ever read this blog he would say I’m throwing a pity party for myself and making him out to be the bad guy.  He would make me feel bad by saying he tried so hard to help me and to make me the best and I don’t appreciate what he, or my stepmom has done.  But you know what?  I don’t care right now.  Maybe I am throwing a pity party.  Whatever.  I’m not going to say that my dad pushing me was the reason I didn’t go to UNT.  I’m just saying it made things more difficult.  No, it’s my fault I didn’t go to college.  Sure, there were other colleges that were going to take me, give me money.  But it wasn’t what I wanted, and what I wanted was too hard to get to around the obstacles, so I joined the army.  I settled for the easy option because I didn’t want to put forth the effort.  Don’t get me wrong, soldiers work their tails off.  But in a way that comes easy to me.  Finding my way around my father isn’t easy for me and never will be.  I would rather just avoid him and send a Christmas card or something.

My mom says I was pushed so hard when I was younger that I eventually just shut down.  I guess I would have to agree with her.  I couldn’t make anything less than an A.  I had to do a ridiculous amout of chores, which I wouldn’t mind if everyone else did too.  I couldn’t barely hang out with anyone and the one friend I could it was rare.  I was expected to hold a full time job to pay for an expensive car and insurance that I honestly didn’t want (I wanted to ride my bike everywhere), but still keep my grades up.  I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining because I’m sure other people have had to do it too.  But, my dad was a control freak on top of all of that.  He would read all of my texts every night.  He had to know exactly where I was and what time I was leaving and who I was with.  Every single person.  A few friends wasn’t enough information.  I had to give names, addresses, numbers, parents names, where in the town that was, all that was planned… and if I didn’t talk about a certain person very often, then Dad wanted to know why I wanted to hang out with them all of the sudden.  As if I tell him about every single one of my friends from school and everything we say to each other.  Obviously, he’s not going to know who all I talk to and I’m not going to mention every single person I come into contact with during our rare and super short conversations.  I feel as if that is really obvious and simple to understand.  But I guess not.  I’m starting to sound bitter now.  The point of all of this is…. I had to be perfect, act perfect, talk perfect, look perfect, do everything perfectly–and no matter how hard I tried or wanted it, I could never get approval.  Not from him, not from my stepmom.  Take that long enough, and of course your going to shut down.  I’m not sure if they realize what they did or how it affected me.  They say they love me (sometimes) and I do love them.  But I don’t think the right way.  I don’t know how to explain it.

I guess what I’ve been trying to get around to saying for the past 1,058 words is that I let myself feel that way and react that way.  I let them hurt me like that, whether they meant to or not.  I was the one who chose the army.  I was the one that opened bottle after bottle of tequila, rum, whiskey, champagne, and vodka and poured it down my throat until I couldn’t remember anymore.  I was the one who smoke pack after pack when no one was home to feel calm and in control.  I was the one who ate and ate until I was so full I could barely breathe to try and fill something up.  I was the one who tried over and over again to puke it back up.  I picked the razor and I picked the skin to cut.  For lack of a better way to put it, I was the one who fucked my life up.  Because I thought it was easier.

Now I’m at my mother’s house, with an hourly waged job, ticked off randomly through out the day, craving what I know I can’t go back to, trying to be a better person and a better role model, knowing that in the end it’s all my fault I settled because I was too scared to live my own life for once.

Knowing this, doesn’t make the cravings any easier.  But, it makes living a little more desired.  I am looking into going to college next semester.  It will be hard to get the money to do it, but if I have to take loans out I will.  Researching my degrees has relit the fire all over again and I’m ready to go.  This time I’m not settling until I’m the best at what I do.

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