This I Believe

Courtney - Plano, Texas
Entered on May 10, 2007
Age Group: 18 - 30
Themes: hope

Broken and Holding a Fork

My mother and grandfather are email junkies; between the two of them I have received every chain letter, joke, and heart warming email since the internet was invented. Most I quickly glance at and delete, but not one.

The email that made me, a busy 18-year-old student, stop was about a woman who was buried with her fork in hand. Her reasoning behind this odd last request was that she loved it when at the end of a dinner party someone said, “Hold on to your fork!” because that meant dessert, something good, was soon to follow. I believe that every one of us has to cling to the idea that something good is to follow.

I consider myself broken or flawed. Everyday I wake up hoping I can make it through whatever obstacle I may have hurled into my path. My life is good; I come from a loving family, I have a good job, and a bright future.

So what do I have to be sad about? I walk alone. I have an above average personality; I am not just saying that– I’ve been told it’s true most of my life. But a great personality doesn’t make and keep friends; therefore, I am alone most of the time. And the worst part is I hate being alone; people need interaction with others. We need to feel wanted, loved, and needed. I need to feel wanted, loved, and needed.

It may be ironic that my idea in life involves a fork and dessert because I am a heavy person. I should say fat, but I hate that word. That word burns when I hear it and burns even worse when I’m called it. I don’t mind the idea that I am fat; I mind the fact that people care that I am. I accept the way I am in my own skin, but I want others to accept me for who I am.

Fat and happy was a phrase that was not coined by anyone in my generation because in my world it seems that the only way to be happy and feel accepted is to fit the mold selected by man to be the “perfect” person. I don’t fit this mold.

The world I live in is broken; all high school students are broken. We think inside the box, a box that screams, “There is only one kind of person and all others will not accepted!” It is no longer cool to speak from our hearts or our minds. It is looked down upon to care about anything or anyone other than yourself. We believe working hard for what we believe in is a waste of time; when it’s just as easy get someone else to do it for us.

I’m broken. The world I live in is broken. Yet, I cling to my fork. With my hand grasping the tiny metal object, I wait, wishing for something better.