The Impressionist
Masterman's Home for Creative Literary Work

      I know now that I wasn’t built to be dependent. I wasn’t put onto this earth only to rely on somebody else’s gravitational pull, even if when I look out into the open world, I see every other person leaning against somebody else. In my deeply, maybe too imaginative mind, I am the only one standing alone in my darkened room of life, with the only light shining through being just big enough to fit my 5 '8 self. My legs can barely fit through the space, I have to crawl on my hands and knees just to break through, but it’s been put there for me; I know at least that to be true. Once I break through, I’ll be an adult, living a life alone with a job I love with zero children to breastfeed and no man to please. I’ll become who I always thought I may become, and I’ll feel as impenetrable as ever, satisfied that my life involves no other to rely on.

      I am seventeen years old, but in my deep, maybe too imaginative mind, I am thirty-two. I am exhausted from a long day of work, but falling asleep on my modernized sofa in front of my ten foot tall, glass, perfectly clear window that overlooks Central Park, is enough for me. I am happy. At least, I think I am happy. Is it normal to be alive in your teen years while at the same time feeling like you are living through a life of all too much independence? “Independence is good,” I often tell myself. It teaches me things, like how to clean my own dishes, how early I should be falling asleep every night, how to choose whether or not to go out with my friends two nights in a row, and so on. Would my independent childhood be different today if I still had someone to rely on? That brings me to him. Did I rely on him? Is that the correct word to use in this scenario, in the scenario we shared? I mean, I of course thought it was completely okay to rely on a boy, since I continuously watched almost every friend of mine do the same, day by day. They seem miserable, though. Isn’t that funny? Anyways, long story short, I tried it. Relying on him. The ending was awful. He slipped away from my grasp, I had no other to call every night at 9 pm, but I survived.
     

      I’ve always survived. I’ve survived a lot. Maybe I’ve yet to survive losing a human for good, but I’ve survived losing a human for a time being; losing a best friend for what seems will be forever. I always end up okay in the end. I always end up okay. Is it okay to know all of these feelings at such a young age? Be honest, are you surprised you’re reading these words that only a teenager wrote? When you think about it, I mean really think about it, this age does feel so tiny, like I could hold it in the palm of my hand, but I’m afraid that when I let go, I’ll be thirty-two, trapped in that all too big apartment, feeling the exact same way I feel right now: independent and scared to rely on a person. Scared. Boys say I sound mature for my age, that I sound like I know what I’m doing, but that’s wrong. I’m just scared of them, so it’s simple, I act like I’m not. Isn’t that what they call “faking it till you make it?” Ah, to be young again. When I was sixteen, I wasn't fearful. Fear was miles away from where my body confidentially stood and it crawled farther and farther away the younger I used to be. Thirteen-year-old me was excited to meet a person that fit my thirteen-year-old list of criteria I had created after watching Grease too many times, and possibly owning every Taylor Swift CD you can think of. I basically believed, all too well, that I was going to find the perfect fit at seventeen. I’d never been farther from the truth. 

      So, yes, I am scared. This short essay began with my assertive statement that I was brought upon this earth to always be an independent woman living without the need to depend on anyone else’s gravitational pull, but the truth is, I only just now became that creature. I just now figured that out. However, maybe all these reasons I’ve become who I’ve become is not reason enough to be this person. I can erase and start all over again and try. Try relying. Grow up, have children, breastfeed, cook dinner for him, and be satisfied. Well, I’d rather not. I don’t want to have to expect the possibility of a man overlooking my everyday life, deciding which days I get to be joyous or not. That is definitely not a life I want to live. So, is being with an unreliable person worth it if I’m fully satisfied with myself in the end?