“I never said I wanted to work for a living. I want to be out in the real world. I want to live by my own standards and not by anyone else’s.” I stood in my defiance, knowing it would all come to bite me in the end.
“All I wanted to do is to be an artist. Please let me do what I want to do. If I fail, at least it will be on my own terms and at least live the way I wanted. How hard would it be to do what I love without any repercussions?”
Everyone in my family stared at me. I knew my rant had essentially come out of nowhere, but I needed to get it off my chest. It had been lingering for days and my anxiety was starting to build in my chest as well as my stomach. They all continued to stare at me, unblinking, and I was beginning to get nervous. I took a deep breath and tried to slow my heartbeat. I knew my mother could always tell when I was nervous and I needed to remove all the evidence. My racing heart, my sweaty hands, the way I wouldn’t look people in the eyes. She knew them all.
I wanted to tell them exactly what I thought and exactly why I wanted to live my life. If I couldn’t tell a two year-old picture of my family my plans, how could I do it in person?
One response to “Working For a Living”
I wake with a start, my heart banging along with the door. Damn it! They’re at it again. I hate the fighting and name calling. I pull the pillow around my head to block the sounds. They always end up billing and cooing afterward. I know how I don’t want a relationship to be. What does a good one look like? I tug my old soft rag doll close to heart and sing a lullaby.