ST2.1 Writing Personal Narrative

I grew up in a family where status in the public eye meant everything. The house had to be above average, our garden heavily maintained. We pride ourselves on projecting a picture of excellence, more so during functions involving family. A minor misfortune attracted severe beating, whereas small acts of disobedience ensured quick punishment back home. My grandmother was the reason for this system, repeating over and over again, "What others think of us is what matters most." Since my childhood, I had been molded to believe the opinion of others was above my own. That belief seemed glued to me, as it shaped almost every part of my life.

The inciting incident came one afternoon in the course of a family gathering when, out of the blue, I broke an antique vase. The room fell silent, and all ears were now turned towards me. My grandmother's piercing gaze shot chills down my spine as disappointment in her eyes seemed tangible. Her words cut deeper, cold, at home. These were the words one hears, weighted by a thousand expectations. I stood looking at myself in the mirror that night, a mirror of a boy whose every move had to be engineered outside himself. I whispered to myself, "What is wrong with me?" but nobody responded.

 

It wasn't until later in my life that everything began to make sense, this never-ending stress of keeping perfect gradually drove me away. I was average at school, yet nobody knew me. Other classmates were going on outings and to parties but nobody included me, for I was too frightened to let others see my facade crack.

The more I tried to fit in, the more of an outsider I felt.

"Why do I feel so lonely inside when I am surrounded by people?" was a question that kept echoing within the quiet corners of my mind. The realization came during grade school when I sat in my classroom watching other classmates leave for a celebration. I stared at the blank walls and felt an overwhelming wave of loneliness wash over me. That evening, I went to a nearby park and let the cool breeze calm my racing thoughts.

I sat on a bench and finally asked myself out loud, "What do I want?"

The silence that ensued was deafening, but it was also liberating. I realized that I didn't know, and for the first time, I admitted to myself how I had spent my life seeking to live for others. From that moment on, I decided to live for myselg. I started small by picking up a hobby I had abandoned a long time ago, dancing in my room. Still, I'd act polite, yet my grandmother's words didn't define me anymore. I started to explore what interested me, what brought me peace, and how to express myself. My life came apart, piece by piece, until finally I started to breathe. My childhood home, which once felt suffocatingly tight, did not change, but the hold it had on me loosened. The park at school became a place for solace where I went to reflect on my decisions. I had finally begun taking baby steps toward taking back my life. In those still moments, I would talk to myself, whispering affirmations into the atmosphere. "It's okay to be who you are," I'd tell myself. "You don't have to be someone you're not" The words felt foreign at first, and in time they would become my truth. The journey to rediscover myself had just begun for the first time in my life, but I felt so free.