First Draft of Narrative Essay

Optimistic & romantic were two words I confidently – and frequently – used to describe myself when I was younger. I've come to understand in the past couple of years that there is quite a big difference between being an idealist – which I do consider myself to be - and an optimist. My disposition though is cheery. It might have been more accurate to describe myself as a pessimist – I believe there is a comfort in the cocoon of darkness it provides – but I try to steer myself away from that type of thought process because I know the downward-spiral of a path that it tends leads me to. I am capable of being a realist, but that isn't the default filter on the metaphorical lens that I see life through; that might be due to the fact that I connotate realism with pessimism (the world can be a really ugly place, who wants to that to be in the forefront of their mind at all times?). As for being a romantic, that hasn't changed too much, but I have gotten into the habit of tacking on hopeless in front of it – because despite every life experience I've had so far, a part of me still wants to believe the easy, forever kind of love exists. The romantic love I strove for as a child was extremely distorted and logically so since my understanding of the most basic form of love - the feelings we develop for our caregivers – was also severely skewed.

[Before I continue, I’d like to say that whenever I talk about my family, I worry that it comes off as if I don't appreciate them and/or that they are horrible people and that's not completely true; except for my child-molester of a brother (the eldest), I believe they are, at their core, good people and still capable of growth.] Out of 7 kids (2 boys and 5 girls) I am the second youngest, so I had 5 older siblings to look up to, take direction from and attempt to imitate. Our parents have been married for over 40 years and I have never seen either of them lay a hand on the other nor has there ever been any question about their loyalty to each other and their family; I do not doubt that I would have been an even more broken person if their marriage wasn’t as solid as it is. I was raised to believe that “blood is thicker than water” and that we were a tight knit family – but what tied us so closely to each other (and what continues to hold them all together, despite my absence) was dysfunction and violence. We were taught to be suspicious of everyone outside of our immediate family, to follow the rules the laid out in front of us and to never question what our elders said just because and we most definitely did not air out our dirty laundry. Yelling and beating was the method of discipline, used by both my parents and my siblings. Rumble was the word I used when talking with my friends about what would happen at my house when there were discrepancies between my siblings (the ground beneath us would literally shake); sides were always taken and usually friends would be over to partake in the brawling. We never talked things out – although attempts would be made, it would usually just lead to another screaming session and/or beating – words are best used as weapons; the one with the sharpest tongue wins. We never worked through our problems, we’d hold grudges and ignore each other until someone caved and then the issue would be swept under the proverbial rug like dust to be kicked up again at the next disagreement.

The repercussions of growing up in that kind of environment has left me in a perpetual, somewhat scrambled egg state of being. I give my trust easily, I love quickly and I do so deeply, but I am always afraid of and waiting for the inevitable fallout. Connecting with others is second nature and I am an open book, but I am extremely sensitive and I withdraw and throw up my barriers at the first indication of pain (admittedly, usually a phantom provoked by my high anxiety). There are times when I feel like a strong, independent, happy and satisfied person and just as often, I feel so debilitated with anxiety, fear, anger, sadness and exhaustion. When I was little, I wanted my love story to be as perfect as the fairytales. I wanted a handsome prince to fall in love with me instantly, to come save me from the woes of my reality and make me happy until we both died within seconds of each other. In middle school, I remember even wanting to save my first kiss for my wedding day! It was around that time though that I had also started to believe that fighting was how you’d see someone’s true colors and that making up meant you had overcome a hardship band were destined to be together… at least, that’s what I gathered from my older sisters’ relationships. It was even better if fighting included uncontrollable crying, screaming awful things you took back afterwards and 100 points if they hit you. So began my training in reaching out for love from the opposite sex, trying to find the one who would fulfill my life’s epic love story… crushing the weaker ones and being destroyed by the ones even more broken than myself.

Then towards the end of my sophomore year in high school, I fell in love with the one I thought I could be with for the rest of my life and I gave him everything of me I could possibly give. I was left feeling empty and so completely, so irrevocably damaged… but I stayed because he was very obviously The One. I was convinced I could scrounge up even more of myself that I could give him, especially if we had good day. I could fix it (since I was always most likely the reason for breaking it in the first place), I could make him happy. What happened instead was I hit rock bottom and I was forced to take time to really focus on myself. While others saw that as a punishment, I saw it as an opportunity to connect with peers who had grown up in similar households and currently going through comparable relationship problems. I was also surrounded by supportive, loving adults who not only knew how to communicate in a healthy way, but they also wanted to talk to me. It took me being completely torn apart and lost to: begin to acknowledge and appreciate my strong suits, to recognize and reinforce my weak points, to begin piecing them all together and start finding myself.