Problem

I suppose that, whatever the expectation, if not met exactly, it becomes disappointed, rather the bearers of said expectation are disappointed. So they wanted a mathematical genius and I was an artist. Not that I can’t do math – I made a frikkin’ theorem and found a math error in the ACT… but I had a hard time knuckling down to study, so there are Bs and even B minuses on the record. That means that, despite my sports letters and choir, theater, yearbook awards, and college scholarship, I am a disappointment. I went to the wrong church too. Not instead of: as well as. Meaning, in addition to all morning Sunday, an hour each weekday before school, plus an extra hour and a half on Wednesday nights at their church, I went to a 40 minute service at a friend’s church Sunday nights. So that was a problem. I was a problem.
I couldn’t come to terms with being a problem until I realized how hard it is to change the expectations I have of other people. I want someone to think of me a certain way: react to my goofball antics a certain way. When that doesn’t happen, I’ve failed again. When they don’t do what I want, it’s my fault again. It would be nice if I hadn’t been conditioned to take the blame. Then I wonder if I wouldn’t rather dislike myself than other people. This way, if they like me, it’s a bonus (not that I don’t question their judgement or wait for the other shoe to drop). If they don’t like me, obviously I’ve disappointed them too.
Will I ever not disappoint myself? I doubt it. Now I’ll always try to do better, try to meet expectations. And people wonder why I can’t sleep – if they think of me at all. I’m terrified that I will do something, anything, wrong and then nobody will want me. Not that I believe people really do want me. They say something nice, and I smile and wonder what it is they really want, whether I can provide it, and how much they’ll hate me if I can’t. Is everyone as conniving as I’m afraid they are? Heartless predators: cold-blooded killers, bent on twisting the world to fit their whims? To see that their needs are fed as the day draws to a close?
Sunsets are beautiful, and sunsets over the ocean more so – but they always make me sad. Maybe because of so many unsaid goodbyes, and the farewell to each day reminds me of the farewells I missed. I always felt the most alive out in the evening ocean breeze – the most aware of people around me. I wish I’d been aware of myself, and my own frenzied needs – I was too afraid of judgement to risk sharing the beauty of the night, the beauty of sharing a moment when the sun kisses the horizon goodnight.