I Am Me

One’s identity is a intricate hodgepodge of personal aspects wrapped into one simple word. To sum up one’s identity would take an eternity to compose. Every single person in this universe’s identity is so multifaceted, the only way to describe it, one must focus on a select few traits. When asked how to describe himself, a peer of mine answered, “I am me.” That statement is the generalized truth of an identity. Often people cannot define themselves and, thus, must reiterate they are themselves.

Labels are society’s attempt at putting identities into groups to oversimplify the impossible. One may see a girl dressed entirely in black and rudely retort, “Oh, she’s a goth.” I have often discussed the gothic label with my father and I will never forget his response, “Visigoth or Ostragoth?” My historically-inclined father does not understand today’s society, nor does he care to. To displace himself in such a manner puts him in a objective point of view that usually leads to laughter and insightful advice. In short, I am my mother and father optimized by use of their influences and tastes, my best friend, Jessica Foster, depression and desire.

When my mother was in high school, she was not popular in any way, shape or form. She had her few close friends and remained distant from her shallow, brainless classmates. She had her own force field filtering out the personalities that did not closely match with hers for the risk of being rejected. Some choices she made were not the smartest; however, they impacted her life positively later on. My mother joined the Air Force immediately after high school and found herself pregnant at the age of 19. The father was a devoutly Catholic man who automatically assumed she would leave the Air Force and marry him. She had absolutely no intention of doing so; therefore, she proceeded to have an abortion. This decision greatly influences my life to this day. When the controversial topic of abortion is brought up, I will literally fight until the person stops pressing their views onto mine. I refuse to believe abortion is detrimental and murder. In my theory, the fetus is not a life until it takes its first breath of air. At that point, it also receives its soul. Naturally, the vast majority of Christianity does not concur with my theory. Appropriately, that theory was told to me by my father, the other major influence of my life and second subject of this paper. After the Air Force, my mother decided to further her education and got her bachelor’s in computer science. She met her first husband during this schooling, but later divorced him for lack of substance in their relationship (i.e. basically, the only aspect they had in common was intelligence).

She met my father in 1984 and they were married in 1985. As a child, I used to say my parents experienced “love at first flight,” because it was in the Air Force, in a base in Germany, that they met when my mother was assigned to fly my father to another base. By 1988, my mother was pregnant with me, her first born.

My father was never Mr. Popularity either. He kept his focus on his studies. He rarely made impulsive decisions or disobeyed his parents. When he came of age to date, he took his first girlfriend bowling. The girl he lost his virginity to later became his first wife. Needless to say, he was not your average teenager. Unfortunately, I was always much closer to my mother and do not know nearly as much about his life up until I was born.

I was born at St. Anne’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio on April 23^rd, 1988 at 11:51 p.m. Two years later, my family was reassigned to Naples, Italy. For three years, I lived in the city Lago Patria with my mother, father and baby brother, Tristan. I do not have very many memories of my time there; however, I remember the orange tree we had in our backyard and a small swimming pool. I also remember losing my first tooth and our marble staircase. Later on, my parents reminded me of other quirks such as my ever-apparent love for jalapeno peppers and Madonna music videos. My father fed me jalapenos by the jar. I could out eat him any day. My mother has always been a fan of Madonna and we owned a VHS tape of some of her music videos that I would dance to. She told me she videotaped them, but they were lost on the move back to Columbus, Ohio.

We ended up being transferred back to Ohio just in time for me to start school. At this time, both of my parents worked for the government and could afford private schooling. I attended a school named Village Academy in Powell, Ohio for kindergarten, first and second grade. In that frame of time, I met my first best friend, Chelsea Swisher, and I discovered a sport that would shape my life: figure skating. Chelsea and I met when we were about six years old and instantly became friends. We created our own girl super hero group -- The Glitter Girls. There were four of us: Mackenzie Green, Amanda Greenly, Chelsea and I. We all had different colors of glitter. If my memory serves me right, I was green. I saw footage of the 1994 Olympics when Oksana Baiul won the gold medal by one tenth of one point and instantly decided I was going to do the same thing. My first skating experience took place at the Columbus Zoo on double-bladed skates. It wasn’t what I expected because of the lack of space I had to try anything, but it was enough to fuel my obsession. A few months before seventh birthday, I had my first group lesson at the Dublin Chiller Ice Rink. Before stepping on the ice, I proudly declared the words, “I’m going to do a triple axel,” and fell as soon as my blades touched the ice. Once I reached the level Delta, I was doing waltz jumps when I wasn’t supposed to. That move was a level above the one I was in and my coach at the time, Sherri would constantly be yelling at me for doing so. My mother decided it was the right time for me to switch from ISIA (Ice Skating Institute of America) to USFSA (United States Figure Skating Association). The only difference being USFSA is the path taken to get to the Olympics. To a figure skater, this meant you were now expected to do moves above your level. By this time, my parents couldn’t afford to pay my school tuition and skating bills, so I was forced to chose between the two. The answer was obvious -- skating.

I would perpetually irk my mother by asking her if I was going to make it to the Olympics and she would always reply, “if you try really hard.” One day, that answer wouldn’t satisfy me. I wanted a straight answer -- and she said no. Yes, this seems harsh to tell an eight-year-old, but it was the truth. I had stopped progressing as fast and my mother knew it wasn’t going to happed. It has been my biggest letdown to date, but I didn’t stop. I was still going to give it my all. As I matured, I decided I needed a more realistic goal: I would make it to Regionals, a major competition. When I got into fifth grade, my mother decided to stop working and suddenly skating was not a necessity. I had to cut down on my lessons and ice time. I could not participate in out-of-state competitions or get my custom-made dresses anymore. My second goal seemed out of reach. Eventually, as I got older and skated less and less, I discovered the teenage life I had been missing. In a few words, I discovered boys and my best friend, Jessica Foster. She lived across the street from me in the apartment complex with her father and older sister, Kim. They were not stereotypical family whatsoever. She taught me more things about real life than I had ever learned by myself. I was shown not all families are married and live together, that there were actually girls who lost their virginity before they were married, what exactly was funny about the number 69, incorporating swear words into my everyday vocabulary, what smoking a cigarette was like and that kissing a girl is just like kissing a guy all by the time I was 12. After the shock had worn off, I began to settle into the fact that the world was not an ice rink and that Jessica was the best friend anyone could ever have.

By the end of eighth grade, I wasn’t nearly as happy as I used to be and by ninth grade, I wrote my first serious poem. One day in ninth grade, I was utterly hysterical. I would cry for the most random reasons and then be happy -- only to start crying again. I had no outlet for these highs and lows because I no longer figure skated. I was at the end of my rope when I recalled something Chelsea would when she was depressed and she always said she felt miraculously better afterward, but I was afraid to try it. I remembered her mother hiding all the knives in the house because she would always use them. At one point, she resorted to using the ends of paperclips and keys. I wish I could say she was a teenager when she was doing this, but as I recall, she was just finishing fifth grade. Maybe a few weeks later, I snuck a knife to my room and cut one shallow mark on my left arm. The pain felt strange, seeing as I had inflicted it on purpose, but watching the blood seep out of the wound was mesmerizing. I was too afraid to do it again, but the cutting didn’t stop. As time progressed, the cuts got deeper and more frequent. I had confronted my mother about my depression problems, but she insisted it was just hormones. The cutting persisted until she caught me doing it and fainted. I was immediately put on the anti-depressant Lexapro. It temporarily helped, but I still cut -- just not nearly as often. My breaking point was lifted much higher, as opposed to without the medication. To this day, I still struggle with cutting. My hectic schedule helps with the depression and so do my close friends, but I’m desperately afraid of going past my breaking point.

I am many things due to my upbringing and influences. I epitomize the depths of sadness and the heights of joy. I personify the bisexuality and polyandry. To summarize my identity, I am me.