I was sitting at your kitchen table when you asked what I wanted to be when I was older. By that point, I had abandoned my dream of becoming a roller coaster designer, largely due to realizing my fear of heights meant I would never be able to enjoy my own creations. I had instead decided to settle on something I considered more reasonable.

“A writer,” I said.

“A writer? What are you going to write about?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

“All you do is sit around and play video games all day. What could you possible write about?”

It wasn’t just the way you tried to shoot down my wider dream. What really hurt was that revelation that you saw me as nothing more than a lazy child living in a world of fantasy, never engaging with the reality around me.

Did you ever really see me as a person? I didn’t know what I wanted to write about at that moment, but I knew I had to. If only to prove you wrong, I had to.

It’s never been some dream to become a famous author, no, I just have always felt the need to express something inside me. Even as a child I had already gone through so much; if you couldn’t see that, who would? I had to learn how to put into words what other people wouldn’t notice on the surface. How else would anyone see me as anything beyond some bored video game player?

So I guess that’s the true draw of this writing project for me. To write so much about solely myself, to prove to you that I am someone. That I have gone through so much that my life is an endless source of material, and you can never deny my personhood again.

And I wish you were still alive so I could shove this project into your stupid face.

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