“I am tired of feeling like a foreigner in a foreign land.”
One of the first mistakes I did, in my ever-growing slew of errs, was to confess aloud the above statement to a random classmate. She will never remember this and frankly, she can’t even relate to this; she’s local. It is like I never fucking learn that wearing my self on my skin only ever hurts me. People don’t care. Too few people do.
“But I just…” I paused. A deep sigh. “I can’t do it anymore. I hate the feeling.”
If push comes to shove, I will do what is necessary: I will fake it till I make it. I will try, hard, to be one of them. I will do this, do that, to be socially accepted and well-acquainted. I will hate every minute of it, but my mother’s survival instincts do not live inside her alone; I have her spirit. Resilient. Adaptable. A phoenix.
Two months ago, a confession made while atop a hill in Austin, TX:
“But how do people write fiction and create their characters? How do they do that, create all these figures who are each distinct from each other? This is the reason I’m so bad at writing fiction and therefore don’t. It doesn’t matter if there are two or ten characters in my stories, male or female, young or old… they’re all me. I write myself in all of them.”
“No matter how they look or sound like – they’re all me.”