Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Last Saturday I had a session with my counselor and we discussed being positive, saying "I will do it, it will happen," instead of, "I hope I can do it, I hope it happens." We talked about acting like it was just going to be, acting as though it was just something to be expected, just as one expects their heart to beat. It will just happen. Stop expecting, anticipating, and trying to dodge around failure. Yes, failure will happen. But success will too.
The small, pure, courageous girl inside me finally, finally feels hope and that maybemaybemaybe yesyesyes this will happen and I will finally live my dreams.
And then my dad happens.
A different part of me punches my heart and ribcage and lungs and kidneys over and over, frustration at myself spilling over for being so bloody stupid and not expecting this or at least preparing for it better; I should be able to talkbacktalkbacktalkback stand up for myself and stop letting him walk all over me like I'm some insignificant worm under his foot.
My mind turns so fast the gears start burning from friction and my heart runs as if to catch up, thoughts turn toward my actions as my dad opens his mouth, "Are you working on your packet?"
Every time he asks me that I can feel that little, honest, true me inside burst into tears and another, not so little, yet still honest and true me ravage my own soul in anger, because there's nothing else inside me for her to destroy and the scared one inside me won't let her out to rip a new one on my dad.
And yes, yes, I had today I had called the lady who was in her important meeting and it was too late to go visit and so I planned to visit the next day, next day, next day. I planned to email her do something but now I can't remember and that's all out the window since everything is going overboard, up and out of my central processing system so that hopefully it will recover from it's current spasms.
Automatically the girl inside that's stubborn, the one that stands in front of the million others hiding inside my ribcage and living off my heart, the one that lives through my brain stands up and opens my mouth to protectprotectprotect.
"Maybe."
"No, you're not." He stands there in his garments and throws his hands in the air. "Failurefailurefailure..." One of me whispers in the back. The stubborn one shushes her; we have other things to focus on right now. "It's taken you 4 months to work on this packet and you're still not done with it."
"failurefailurefailure." "shut up."
"I know dad, I know."
"I'm just--" He throws his hands up again and shrugs. "like it's none of his concern, because he doesn't really care!" One whispers vehemently, face unrecognizable and poison seeping from her tongue. Hurt stands hidden behind her, squished in the fetal position and struggling to breath, as if she's been punched one too many times.
"I don't know what--"
But at this point We block it all out, unable to take anymore of his excusesexcusesexcuses; not only do we not want to hear but we have to focus on pinning Anger down, who is frothing at the mouth and flinging curses along and saliva everywhere. Hurt starts wailing and sobbing, tears puddling below her, but she goes unheard because of Anger's screams. Revenge is quiet for now, and watches our efforts with a blank, calculating face; after all, she can do nothing unless Anger is mobile and loose, so she does what she does best: she simmers patiently, waiting for us all to fizz over and explode, for control to be lost. She can wait a long time.
Dad is finally walking away, the silence thick with tension and anger and frustration, though the latter is more toward myself.
"failurefailurefailure..."
No one silences the familiar mantra anymore.
ba-bump, ba-bump... ba...bump....ba---
