I like to think you’d be proud of who I’ve become, of my stubborn passion and hyper-fixed ambition. I tell myself you’d beam at me with soft pride and hold my hand, whispering “I told you so“.
I don’t know if you would, though. I never will. I think that’ll be what kills me.
I don’t know if you’d hate that I’m following your professional footsteps. I don’t know if my immovable drive would drive you up the wall until you’d be bitching at me from the ceiling. I don’t know if you’d be okay with my self reflection, with me seeing you in the hindsight of all my choices. I don’t know if you’d be happy with where I am, with who I am.
I tell myself you would be, because that’s often the only way I can keep pushing. It feels like I’m lying, though. Putting words in your mouth and painting emotions on your grave. I hate that. I hate myself for that. I just don’t know what else to do.
This would all be a little easier if you had been pretending for the last going-on-six years. Come out of hiding, won’t you? Tell me what to do, how to feel, how to think.