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Finding the Inspiration

It is so easy to just sit down and write in my private journals. No one is going to read them. The scariest part is to sit down and write something to be published. Something that everyone is going to read. Everyone around you will see a different part of you. Your thoughts and feelings in words, on paper. That’s the plus side with writing. I have always been bad with words when I am speaking to someone. So, I prefer writing e-mails, text messages, Facebook messages etc. I hate talking on the phone. When you talk to someone you can always be interrupted. Whereas, if you write or text something, it can be read.

I have these dark and twisted emotions in my soul. All the time. Every day I keep them inside of me and try to be as normal as possible. I am friendly, kind, outgoing and very amiable. The thing is, I never have that person to talk to. I always feel like the one who is misunderstood, neglected, disposable. I feel like the last person someone wants to invite to dinner. Sure, no one would have a problem with me, but also, no one would care about me either. There has always been this wall between me and the rest of the human race. It might be because I am bipolar. I got problems. I got a lot of problems. I am always the one who stays, even though everyone else walks in and out freely. I tell myself to not get attached to people, romantically or not, because people always leave. My heart is always the one broken. I love and I love more to reach the point of being empty and somehow it is never enough. I can never love completely. I am too broken. I can only love with all the broken little pieces I have left. If I’m lucky, I care too much and break a fuse. For a few moments, I would taste apathy. We’re on the same page. But I would remind myself to not get attached, people always leave.

It all sounds like I am throwing myself a pity party. To be honest, I do it a lot. I do it behind close doors where no one can see. I cry behind a closed door all the time. I cry behind my bedroom door, my house door, my bathroom door, public bathroom door, the dark little corner in my bedroom. I want to hide, pull the covers over my head and call it a day. That is not how this works! I have always been the victim my whole life. I have survived so much and I was the victim. When does the victim card expire? Isn’t it enough that we have already been through so much to even keep thinking about how much we went through? I’ve never been pessimistic. I have always been hopeful. When is being hopeful too much? When is there too much false hope?

The false hope is my dream. My dream is to make a living off of my passions. Every day counts. Every moment counts. Every checklist counts. I know this saying that I have read somewhere, “If you weren’t getting paid to do your job. Would you still do it?” Most people would say no. It is the goal of my life passion. I need to find something that is worth living for, not someone. Someone is so overrated. I have always been the girl to look for the someone. I leaned my whole life on some men who don’t even deserve it. Why try to kill myself over someone who doesn’t even care if I am alive or dead. Who doesn’t even care enough to check up on me? Who doesn’t even care enough to show up at my hospital bedside. I am no longer that girl. I hope. I believe that is biggest false hope, maybe I am still that girl. 

It doesn’t matter how inspirational I am. I am not inspirational. I make mistakes just like everyone else. Being emotionally abused has made me incredibly defensive towards being told what to do, but at the same time has made it hard for me to do things without someone telling me that it’s ok to do out if fear of doing something wrong and getting in trouble.  Hell, some people even think I am “a joke”. I am one of the many people who came into New York City, in hopes of making their dreams come true. I need to make my dreams true. I don’t care about those men anymore, even though I am thinking about one every day and night. I just let myself think about him. I don’t care about my family who says I am crazy. I still love them. I don’t care about the people who just don’t understand. It is not their life. It is mine. If I mess up, it is my problem. My dream? I want to be a freelancer and make a living out of it. Is that even possible? That is too big of a dream. I don’t know how to become one. I will just create. I will create with my passion. Stop loving the people who don’t deserve you. Become the person you would ideally fall in love with. That is my inspiration, my goal, my dream and I hope New York City will help me achieve it. That is my false hope.

Author:

Bridget Zhang is a dancer. performer. choreographer. teacher. writer. photographer. lover. daughter. granddaughter. niece. family. friend.

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