Dependent Variable

I’m an individual.  No, not in the sense that I am different than the rest of the world, but because I am a single person.

I breath. You breath.

I work.  You work.

I dream.  You dream.

You see, we’re more similar than you thought.

Today, people are more and more obsessed with making sure they’re unique.  “You won’t find anyone else like me,” seems to be a way to guarantee to someone that you’re one in a million.  But here’s the secret, you aren’t.

In a world where everyone is being more open about their lives, struggles, and behaviors it’s hard to say that you’re the only exception to a situation.

 

I get sad.  Often.  But I’m not the only one.

 

I like to write.  Fiction.  But I’m not alone.

 

I love and get hurt, more often than I would wish.  But shit happens.

 

You are one in over seven billion people.  Chances are we will never meet, or bump carts in the grocery store, but odds are we get each other.

 

I was mocked throughout middle school for my weight, fashion sense, and tomboyish behaviors.  Some of my closest friends made fun of me for wearing pink flipflops, and called me a lesbian for getting my cartilage pierced in my right ear.

Sometimes I have a hard time sleeping.  I’m not necessarily thinking, there’s just a million and one thoughts running through my head at once.

At night, I get sad, spontaneously.  I don’t want to sleep, and I usually want a hug from one of my best friends, but that doesn’t happen much when you all attend different colleges.

 

You see, I’m 19.  I go to a small private school in New York, where everyone knows everyone, and where cliques are created before you can take your first test.  Weekends get lonely, weekdays are stressful, and the nights are full of unsettling nostalgia and counting down the days till I can see the people who mean the most to me.

Most say I’m crazy, and lucky,  to be able to spend as much time as I do with my friends.  That doing everything we do together is amazing, especially considering that we’ve only known eachother for five years.  

Five years ago I wasn’t sure who I was, and I admit that I still don’t, but the picture is a little clearer now.  Five years ago my parents were divorcing, and I was moving schools.  I was an overly happy 13 year old, especially considering  the situation.  I loved Polly Pockets, and animals, and I knew that I was either going to be a vet or a travel agent.  I loathed my first day of school, and soon found that I had a lot of unamusing emotion buried deep in my chest.  I lost close friends, failed tests, and often found myself curled up in the corner of my bed, knees to my chest, wanting it all to end.

Then a girl asked me for a ride home.

A boy told me he liked my sweatshirt.

Another shoved me into a locker.

And one sang “Imma B” by the Black Eyed Peas to me in the middle of science.

 

Since there have been bonfires, and fights.  Transitions from juice boxes to rum.  And an additional three to six inches, depending upon who you look at.  We’re the randomest bunch you’ll ever meet, but we’re all connected in one way or another.

We’ve all seen some form of tragedy in our lives, some smaller than others.

We’ve hurt ourselves physically.

Broke down mentally.

Watched parents pass.

Seen loved ones disappear.

Had the ones we loved most try and leave.

Thought and tried to not be here anymore.

And had broken hearts.

 

We were more similar than we would have ever thought, and we bonded through the raw emotions that tragedy brings about.  

 

I am paranoid, and empathetic.  I wish to be loved, and fear that I am screwing it all up.  I’ve formed a family that accepts me for these things, and it still scare me half to death every day.

They’re the reason I’m writing right now.

They’re the reason I’ve had some of my lowest times.

But I put this all aside.  It’s worth it when you feel the love that they can give, and the warmth that they can provide.

The little things have always meant the most.

Being told you’re more important than Demi Lovato.

Texting till three AM, even though you have an eight AM class.

The two hour hungover phone calls.

And the words, “You really are an amazing friend,” have all made it worth it.

 

This is my dysfunctional family, that seems to barely make it through a day.  The family that has its ups and downs, and would be no where without movie nights and ice cream.

We were drama nerds who needed a home.  

Introverts who craved friendship.

And members of the Island of Misfit Toys.

 

These are the people who accept my weirdest thoughts and questions.

They’ve agreed to write my obituary.

Know where I keep my unofficial written will.

And get the drunk “I love you,” messages every time

 

I’m an individual.  I am one person in a sea of over seven million.  

I’m a thinker, dreamer, and adventurer.

I’m a dependent variable in our vast world.

I am not alone.





 

This poem is about: 
Me

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