shorthand

My mother is the only person who knows me, because she is the only person I trust and love enough to see me. Through this trust, I show her my worst, and I hurt her. I am not a good person. I am unassuming at five feet tall, with a baby face and voice. I volunteer in a historic town, work with the elderly, and clean nature preserves. I've never smoked, drank, or done drugs...but these are not things that define me as good. Felons volunteer every day, and smoking does not make one a villain. The concept of good and bad is difficult for me, and I think, for everyone. Reading Plato and Aristotle's words have not been able to save me, and each day, I fall deeper into badness. I judge people, especially my friends. I am biased. I value myself and my own worth above the worth of others, especially when it comes to knowing what is right and wrong. I dislike freely, with no thought for redemption. I am a bad person.

My mother, however, is good. She is patient, and she always has a kind word, even for those who speak against her. She survived mental illness, her brother's death, and an abusive relationship with my father without resentment and with her hope intact. She believes in the goodness of things, and she thinks that people can do anything. I treat her badly because despite her goodness, I don't think she lives an interesting life. The thought of inheriting her existence frightens me. This is, first and foremost, why I am a bad person. A good person would want to become my mother, because she is the epitome of purity, hope, and goodness. Instead, I strive for the devil in me--for the fast life, with too many stories and friends and desires. I don't think my life can be good if it's different than my mother's, because how does purity survive alongside desire? Aristotle writes that pleasure is acceptable, even good, but he also writes that owning slaves is acceptable. Aristotle, you give me no answers.

My mother told me last night about her day--she went to a movie with her uncle, just as she does every weekend. "Lunch was great, and the movie was great too, but both Sam and I are tired of Houlihan's potato soup!" I experienced vertigo, reliving conversations of the nights before. "Work is slow, but I'm really enjoying it. I hope it picks up soon." I murmured reassurances. "Well...I don't have much else to say." Our conversation ended just as always. I could scarcely bring myself to reply, and my answers were monosyllabic and forced. A deafening silence stretched after she asked me what was wrong.

I don't want my mother's life, so I angrily said goodbye and burst into tears. I cried steadily harder as I thought over our conversation. I had no reason to go from anger to depression, and I wondered if I was growing into my mother's illness, if I would soon be struck with inescapable mood swings and the inability to control my own mind--my mind, the part of me I held most dear. I cried harder. I thought again of my harsh words, looked at the tears on my baby face, and hated the girl I was becoming. I wasn't becoming my mother. I wasn't good enough.

I was all wrong.