Thoughts of a Quiet Girl

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You told me to write what I know.

Which is nothing.

I know nothing.

I know nothing to the extent of I don't even know how I feel.

How can one pass if they don't know how to?

I was told I need a tutor.

Not in math nor in science.

I need a tutor in how to pass life.

Because me trying to understand what's going on in my head is like a dyslexic kid reading a Shakespearean play.

It is all one big, jumbled mess.

Everyone told me it was because I was lazy.

Because I didn't want to pass.

But how can you expect to me to pass, when I don't know what to do, to do it?

Fast forward a couple years.

I'm still struggling with my learning.

But I have found a tutor, the perfect teacher.

At first I was still confused on what I was supposed to be learning.

On how to learn it.

I was told to write my truest, deepest emotions.

How am I supposed to do that when I don't know what they are?

When emotion is such an unfamiliar and misunderstood word for me.

Yet, I tried anyway.

I read, and reread it.

Contemplated.

Reconsidered.

Just sat and stared at it even.

I didn't like how it was written.

What it said.

How it said it.

So I rewrote it.

This was the first time in a long time I had cared enough about something, to want to make it more than it originally was.

Three pages.

One measly paragraph, with no depth.

Turned into three pages, of something I was finally starting to understand.

Everyone has been raving about my progress.

How I just seem that much 'brighter'.

But no one wants to acknowledge how I got there.

They want to congratulate me on my great achievements, but not wonder how I was motivated to achieve them.

They want me to pass.

But they don't want my teacher.

My perfect teacher.

My unacknowledged teacher.

No one wanted me to learn through experience.

Through someone who will help me to learn.

Help me to pass.

They wanted me to pour over everything.

And teach myself.

As they sit there being praised for their phenomenal child.

How well she is passing.

As they sit there collecting their undeserved paycheck.

My perfect teacher.

My unacknowledged teacher.

Goes unpaid, unappreciated.

And yet, he is still there to be my teacher.

So yes.

I am passing.

But not by the means you think I am.

But by the hand of,

My perfect teacher.

My unacknowledged teacher.