Everyone believes I am lazy. Well, maybe they are right. Or not. If they believed it, maybe there was a tinge of truth. I am a lot of things, but never one who lied to herself. I guess this was why I never believed that it was simply procrastination.
“I’m a terrible procrastinator” did not sound nearly as bad as “I’m a lazy person”. I saw people use the former a lot on social media. It almost sounded cool, like saying you were an underachiever. Now people found that one cool too. They even proudly displayed it on their profiles.
I certainly was an underachiever, come to think of it. Another truth that I owned was that I was a brilliant person. I had always been brilliant. But that had not translated to anything…tangible so far.
I remembered myself as a child, racking up the prizes in class. I remembered my parents, beaming with pride. My class teachers with wide smiles, proud they had a part to play molding such a talented girl. I remembered my schoolmates, mouth-slacked expressions of awe or envy as I stood up to collect yet another prize.
“You’re going to be a doctor, Miriam,” my father would say, planting me firmly on his laps. “It’s written in the stars. You’re going to be a doctor who will discover the cure for lots of diseases. You’re going to be famous like Ben Carson.” Oh, how he loved to show me off.
He never showed me off now. And when he spoke to me now, his words dripped with disappointment and barely disguised contempt.
My father was a broken man these days. He had lost most of all he ever worked for in a series of ghastly business decisions and investments. But I knew what broke him the most. My father had placed me at the pinnacle of dreams for the future. He had pushed and prodded and bribed and cajoled and threatened at different points in my life. I knew he was resigned now.
I puffed on the stick of weed and watched as the smoke rose before it was swept away by the fan’s currents. I knew the gusts of air did little to hide the smell from drifting downstairs to the living room where my father sat, half dozing as he watched a Nollywood movie. Usually, I never cared.
I crushed the weed on the ashtray. A single tear escaped my glistening eyes and streamed down my face. And then the dam broke, and my body racked with sobs.
When I was done crying, I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling. There was yet another truth about me. One that constant disappointments over the years had unraveled. When I dug in, I knew there was a boundless reservoir of resolve.
I just turned 31 years old, and I was tottering on the edge of several addictions. Single. I had never left home. I had never kept a job. And I had successfully pushed everyone who cared away. But I was brilliant once upon a time. And I knew that I could get my life back on track. If only I make a commitment to. I felt it within me that things could turn around. I could only hope that I was not late.
Slowly, I smiled up at the ceiling. The day did not look so gloomy anymore.
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About The Author…
Dan Attoe is a writer, editor, and proofreader. He’s also an aspiring tech bro who cannot wait to blow. He loves hiking, cartoons, pretending to be fit-fam, and the smell of both old and new books.
Dan is always open to writing or editing jobs. You can reach him via his email address (attoedanielernest@gmail.com) and check him out on Twitter (@the_mccoy), Instagram (@danthemccoy).
Love,
Diane.
