Something more than this
Feb. 27th, 2003 02:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenJust got off the phone with my mother, who managed to talk for five minutes solidly.
I am this close to giving up, letting go.
I did once before. Gave up. It lasted a whole twenty-four hours before I changed my mind again. I did it because I was so sick of fighting.
Again, I'm sick of it. Feel no shame for what you are, but I do. I can't help but wish things were different. Maybe... if my skin were a different colour.
Paler.
I wish I could make myself stop writing, stop wanting. Because if I could only stop... then I could forget I ever thought any different. I could give up fighting and go with the flow, and how nice that would be.
I am not special. There's nothing to say it will be different for me. The glass ceiling is glass, but it is there, and I'll hit it, it's over before it's begun.
Like she said, she is right. She is, she wants me to be happy, she does. She doesn't see I can never be happy like this. She thinks give me job security, enough money to be independent, the status that goes with the letters "MD" after my name, and it'll be all right, I'll be okay. I will be okay. Everything will be just that, okay. I can live. I can never forget that I do have dreams.
But dreams won't really get me anywhere. I hate being torn. There is something more than this... something I'm missing, because a choice can't be so stark, so two-dimensional. I can take the road well-travelled, follow it to the end, rise upwards steadily by virtue of those letters - "MD" - and live a normal, convention life for someone of my gender and colour.
Or, I can just not do that, and break my mother's heart, and try and do what I want, what I'd like, even though I'm not white, I'm a stranger in a strange land, and I'll never make it. That's the thing - I'll never make it, and I know in the end I'll have to turn round and say, you were right, I was wrong, I should have done what you said all those years ago, and I'm so tired.
I want out, I'm giving up.
I am this close to giving up, letting go.
I did once before. Gave up. It lasted a whole twenty-four hours before I changed my mind again. I did it because I was so sick of fighting.
Again, I'm sick of it. Feel no shame for what you are, but I do. I can't help but wish things were different. Maybe... if my skin were a different colour.
Paler.
I wish I could make myself stop writing, stop wanting. Because if I could only stop... then I could forget I ever thought any different. I could give up fighting and go with the flow, and how nice that would be.
I am not special. There's nothing to say it will be different for me. The glass ceiling is glass, but it is there, and I'll hit it, it's over before it's begun.
Like she said, she is right. She is, she wants me to be happy, she does. She doesn't see I can never be happy like this. She thinks give me job security, enough money to be independent, the status that goes with the letters "MD" after my name, and it'll be all right, I'll be okay. I will be okay. Everything will be just that, okay. I can live. I can never forget that I do have dreams.
But dreams won't really get me anywhere. I hate being torn. There is something more than this... something I'm missing, because a choice can't be so stark, so two-dimensional. I can take the road well-travelled, follow it to the end, rise upwards steadily by virtue of those letters - "MD" - and live a normal, convention life for someone of my gender and colour.
Or, I can just not do that, and break my mother's heart, and try and do what I want, what I'd like, even though I'm not white, I'm a stranger in a strange land, and I'll never make it. That's the thing - I'll never make it, and I know in the end I'll have to turn round and say, you were right, I was wrong, I should have done what you said all those years ago, and I'm so tired.
I want out, I'm giving up.
