i don’t remember a time i wasn’t tired (i’m tired writing this).
i only remember the scuffing of feet into a drained school,
the mornings i nearly cried in the car on the way.
i am better acquainted with crying while studying,
than understanding the material.
the stress was never worth it.
never will be.
“i’m smart,” i tell people.
“school is going well.”
“i’m doing fine, i’m just tired.”
“you’re a disappointment,” i tell myself.
“school is just going.”
“you haven’t been fine in years.”
i now know what it feels like to be my own worst enemy.
i wish my life away looking for the next weekend,
the next vacation,
the next break from the torture i put myself through.
my eighth grade self was excited for high school;
if they only knew.
i would tell them what i could.
“hold on to 13,” i would say. “you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
i’m a machine.
my week is a system of routines and lies.
“how are you?”
“fine.” (i don’t think i am)
“how much sleep do you get?”
“enough.” (i don’t know)
a broken record is not the life to live.
last year, i took ap european history.
(“it ruined my life,” i tell people. “great teacher but i just didn’t get it.)
this year, i took an honors class.
i have heard the horrors of IB american history;
i couldn’t spend another year stressing over a class i love.
“most of us went up a level,” my friend once said. “but you went down.”
“trust me,” i wanted to tell him. “i know.”
the weeks go by fast.
if it’s the fact that i’m wishing them away,
or blurring them out,
i’m not sure.
i just know one thing:
nine months, and years beyond that, of one cycle: stressing, crying, apathy.
but i am used to it (i find that sad), it is the life of a student.