Summary of Freshman Year

A Song for September

Waiting

old faces.
new experiences?

I was expecting
when I
moisturized the soil
when I
shined upon it light
and planted
the seed....

I was ready.
It didn't grow.
But I'll give it time.
For I know it
takes it
(Even though I can't
stand it)

So I'll just wait.
I have patience.

I'm still waiting.

I find it rather hard to recall the events of a time that seems so distant, when it also seems like yesterday. Something that does bring flashbacks is my daily poetry: The poems being deposited on Instagram and Ajar.

The starting of a poetry account arose due to my increase interest in writing poetry (as evidently seen from Blocked). I love and am extremely grateful for the fact that I began it.

I cannot say if my poetry is better now, but I do feel like that is the case. The poems in Ajar are solely based on real events or thoughts throughout the school year, a poem for every day I trek through those halls.

And speaking of the halls, the first time I walked through them there was a great sense of fresh liberty. An entire year stood before me, and everything was so new, and this world seemed almost too big for me.

Unlike the environment, the habitat of my mind stayed relatively the same. I was still easily broken down. My acne had not really improved over the summer, and school pictures were heading up. My mother and I had gotten into an argument over whether to accept the option of having my school picture photoshopped to blemish away all the red spots. To me, editing my photo just seemed to artificial, but my mother just wanted to get a good-looking picture. As expected, I was not exactly happy for her saying that. I'm still a little upset she said that.

What happened after was undeniably several times worse. The strife that we had the previous night gave me to get the stupid idea of going to my school counselor for emotional assistance. What I figured to be a sort of therapeutic session eventually turned into an argument over calling my parents.

The reason for this being brought up was because I had spilled all my darkest secrets into my counselor's ears. It was such a terrible mistake. I had not thought about the fact that the school does not exactly wish to be sued, and so it was kind of her job to take action and call my parents.

My parents did not really react for a few days, but one night they told me that we had to discuss this the next morning. I can vividly remember the shaking I had in bed and how little I slept.

But that Saturday morning came all too soon, as inevitable as death.

And at first, the conversation was going well. They made me show them the scars that I had made several months before, which was something my mother did not take well. (It something that I, looking back, am rather ashamed of. As true the emotion behind them may be, I still am embarrassed of such immature actions.)

I told them everything, not because I wanted to, but because my mother began yelling at me for going to my counselor for "nothing" when I said nothing was wrong.

Over the next few days, I simply just stared at her blankly whenever she brought up that morning again. Why should I have to listen to her scrutiny?

I still can't fathom why she reacted the way she did. Was it because she really cared about me, and she just was expressing her concern (in a rather aggressive manner) of her son? Or was it more the fact that I had now caused more "embarrassment" to the family and caused too much drama for the family. I thought, and still think, the latter.

But one good thing that did come from the incident was the fact that I began to open more to my father. He never really judged. He, too, was upset that I had caused drama in the family, but he actually listened, and I must say that I feel much better because of it.

I took some thought into what my mother said, as well. (I self-prided myself for being able to understand where people come from, and why they might be angry. Seems a bit egotistical and silly, but I find that thinking that actually helps remind me that I should.) After the incident I tried to think in a more optimistic-realistic manner.

Anyway, as the relationship between me and my mother grew worse, that between my father and me grew better. He began to understand me more. I kind of wish my mother would be the same and be patient and listen, because then she'd be able to understand me, too.