Writer’s Workbook #2

                                                 

   I’m Ashamed of What I’ve done

They expect me to be something I’m not. They want me to dress a certain way, act a certain way, look a certain way. They don’t want me to be perfect, just to fit into the right mold. But I don’t. I don’t even fit into the other mold they think people can go into.

Everyone expects me to be a girl, and I’m ashamed that I’m not.

I feel more comfortable not being a girl, and not being a boy. It feels right to exist outside of those boxes, with no defined gender and just being myself. Yet I’m ashamed that I can’t be what people want. I’m ashamed that I can’t truly be myself around my family because I’m afraid of how they’ll reject me.

The expectations weigh on me each and every day. “She” this and “her” that. When I say I want to wear a suit to homecoming, my parents give me a weird look and say “Why not a dress?” When I buy pants from the men’s section, I hear “The crotch will make you look like a boy.” It’s not that I don’t enjoy being feminine sometimes (lipstick and eyeliner are gifts to humanity) but I don’t want to feel pushback every time I wish to be more masculine. Everyday is a struggle to fit into society’s hope of what I should look like or who I should be, and I hate it.

I’m ashamed of what I’ve done, because I just couldn’t feel happy living as a girl. Realizing I wasn’t a girl has let me feel more comfortable in how I present myself. I always like masculine clothing, but because everyone had an idea in their heads that I was a “tomboy” I felt like I couldn’t be feminine. If I wore a dress to school, everyone would comment on how they had never seen me in a skirt before, and that it seemed foreign. It made me think I couldn’t wear skirts or dresses or even makeup if I ever wanted to. I was locked inside a box full of perceived notions and fixed ideas of who I should be.

So why am I the one who’s ashamed of what I’ve done?

Writer’s Workbook #1

There’s Nothing as Tempting as a Locked Door

                The only thing I needed was to figure out how to open it. It had a keyhole, but it was well rusted and didn’t look like anything was fitting into it anytime soon. This would be the primary problem if I actually had a key. Maybe the rusting would make it easier to open, if it rusted through the lock. Trying the knob, I found it completely sealed. The knob was stuck, and didn’t even jiggle the way most locked doorknobs do. I entertained the idea of being able to kick the door down, but quickly dismissed it. The door was hard, solid wood, and there was no way I was going to do anything but leave a footprint on it.

                I didn’t even know what was behind the door, I realized. I just wanted to open it. To prove I could get it open. Even if there was just an empty room only occupied by cobwebs, I wanted the door to open so I could see it. I needed to prove I could do this on my own, so that I could know that I was able to be independent. It was childish, I know, but I needed to stop relying on everyone else. There were probably much easier ways to find my independence than prying open a door that’s been locked for who knows how long, but an opportunity presented itself so I took it.

                I tried to survey the room I was already in to see if there was anything of use to me. Well, it wasn’t a room so much as a wide hallway. But the hallway came equipped with a small mirror on the wall, a little chair, and a large, empty vase.