There are so many things I’d do differently if I had the chance. Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck here, unable to appreciate what others would consider achievements, because they are far from the things I am passionate about. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so scared that I might have peaked in high school, or at best, the first year of college. I am at a place where there is no singing with rapture or dancing like dervishes.
A friend said that subconsciously, I must really want to be a doctor, because I made it to this point. The thing is, should something as big as this be subconscious? Shouldn’t a passion be raging, bursting, clearly-defined? Because I would much rather make a career out of teaching literature. Because reading and writing about what you read and using that to change people, to move them into moving mountains – that sounds like something I would jump out of bed for, every day. But here I am, three months from taking the boards, because it is the logical, practical and conveniently noble thing to do. Honestly, if it takes me this much effort to care, then I don’t really think I’d make a great doctor.
Then and now pictures of myself show no changes. And yet I now hate having my photograph taken, because I see so many flaws that I previously called character-defining. It’s a testament, I suppose, to the level of self-esteem I had when I was younger, that I never felt inferior despite being surrounded by friends who were equally intelligent and infinitely more beautiful.
I shouldn’t complain, I never wanted for basic necessities. It’s just that I don’t want to stop at this.
People say that happiness is a choice, but what they rarely realize is how much we on the receiving end wish for it to be true.