Yesterday, after the unwavering, impatient voice of the driving instructor resonated through my ears for a grueling 40 minutes (that took four weeks to schedule using the crappiest online scheduling system known to mankind), I started crying as I watched a girl and another boy practice for their driving test. I do not usually cry in public (or in private) so easily; I have not done so in the past six months. But this time I just lost it. I felt absolutely hopeless: two months and I was still having problems making turns. And the instructor commanded me around as if I were an idiot.
Yes, the poorly shaved Hispanic. He must be one of those second generation people. Do you know what the gas pedal does? There are three control mechanisms in a car. (Wrong… every button and switch in your car controls a subsystem.) What are you looking at? Make the turns tighter. TIGHTER. LET GO OF THE WHEEL. STOP TURNING. Brake if you have to. BRAKE. Now gas. ACCELERATE. Keep it smooth. Are you even listening? Now park there. No, not there. You know what? I’ll just let you do whatever you want. You think the car is parked correctly? Really? How do you know? Actually, it’s over the yellow line. Back the car up. Put it in reverse. Now stop. Okay, turn off the engine and let’s switch.
…All right, I need two more volunteers to put on blindfolds for the little game. Anyone? Anyone? “Okay, fine. I’ll volunteer myself for the cause.” Here’s a blindfold. Go out into the hallway.
Eleven people in the hallway, all with their blindfolds wrapped around their heads, laughing around and teasing each other. I look at my blindfold. It seemed to be tied wrong but the knot was too tight to be undone easily.
“…Uh, can somebody help me with this blindfold?”
“Sure.” He simply pulls on two sides and it’s a blindfold now. “Here you go.”
How did I not see that?
“Do you consider me as a friend? What about him?”
“No. I wouldn’t call him a friend. Just an… acquaintance.”
“You’re too stressed out driving. This is something you’ll do for the rest of your like. Take it easy. You’re anxious. Stop doing that with your hair.”
“Yeah, I am too stressed. It’s driving. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Look, if you keep acting like this, you’ll end up with ulcers in your stomach.”
“Fine, I will get stomach ulcers.”
“I thought you weren’t like your brother and you’re just like him. Pacing around back and forth. Come on, serve yourself some food.”
I humble myself to the point of depression. Do you know why I picked oldmud0 as my name? Because I act like I’m old, people treat me like mud, and I’m less significant than 1.
I am in dire need of mental help. I am not depressed all the time, but now it seems that I undergo mood swings at regular intervals. My parents care but they do not realize that I need a diagnosis from a professional. Why? Because they think that because I am “distinct” from my brother that I ought to remain that way, and so do the opposite of everything my brother did. Don’t apply to college locally. Do the tests earlier. Do college applications way earlier. Be more involved. My father knows that I am often grumpy, but he believes that I’m simply rebellious like any other teenager. But I’m not. I just tune out most of his obvious advice, which insultingly undercuts my actual intelligence.
I don’t like my life. If a life of poverty and asceticism in India brought me more enlightenment, I would choose it over this. It is a culture of death. They were right. They do not glorify the humans, they glorify what does not move, what does not have cells, what does not have sentience, what does not self-actualize. They glorify the shaved tanned shined legs, the black leggings, the high boots, the crystal iPhone, the golden hair, the horn rimmed glasses.
People do not think anymore. Where are my people? All the people at my school just hang out with their friends and their friends’ friends. I hate it.
I hate where I live. I hate that nobody supports me. The ten thousand words I am endowed to say daily simply seems to pour out onto none but myself.
I must build up the nerve to tell them.