I’m sitting in my bed drinking cold tea and thinking about why I can’t seem to write a monologue. I have a million ideas running through my head, I mean I could write about how I’m really mad at my friend, or how my father sometimes hurts me because he doesn’t even pretend to care about what I’m interested in … but every single one has some issue with it, this one is too emotional, this one takes itself too seriously, they are all wrong. And then I realize why exactly I can’t seem to get it right. I am trying to make this speech about sadness and I just know myself too well to believe any stupid story about a life-changing moment that I struggled through or a piece dedicated to my hurting soul because I know that’s not how I work. I don’t have deep thoughts or inner turmoil. Once, a few years back, I was extremely stressed about… just some stuff that was going on in my life. So stressed that I legitimate made myself sick. I couldn’t go into school for three days because I was puking. My parents kept asking me, why didn’t you tell us you felt this way? And, how could you do this to yourself? They didn’t understand that I didn’t tell them because I was fine. Even though I was horrible I knew cognitively that it was out of my hands and that making a fuss about it would do nothing. I knew that I would be OK and I just had to ride it out. I wanted this assignment to become some beautiful ode to my secret pain. The truth is I don’t have pain to keep secret. I am an optimistic, strategic, and confident person and I know how to get my life together when it falls apart. I know how to control my self-esteem issues and understand that they are something every person on this planet has to go through, I know how to remain optimistic even when it seems like I’m not going to come out the other side of a situation unharmed. I am self-sufficient. I am strong. And sitting in my bed drinking tea that has become even colder, I realize that I will never be able to write about any of that either.