Have Kids, Then We'll Talk

Introductions, for me, never come quite so eloquently out of my mouth. Rather, when I speak, it ends up being a jumble of ideas and words that few can make sense of. I shall treat this as a letter. To whom I am writing is still unclear.

I might say I am writing this for you, whoever you are. It would be a lie. There is not a single word I have written in my entire life without wholehearted selfishness. I suppose I shall start with the most obvious words for such an introduction: Cassandra Lauren Lee. This is my name, a name I have carried proudly and meaninglessly for sixteen years.

It is my last name in particular that confuses most. My father's name is not Lee. I do not know what it is. I don't even know who he is and so I carry my mother's name. My mother is the angel of many who proudly sing out her words claiming she alone has brought them to life. Amy Lynn Lee did indeed bring me to life and has lately done a spectacular job of making me wish otherwise.

I do not know who I am any more than my mother does. I have a reflection, like any other person. Blonde hair that I suppose came from my father and blue eyes from my mother. Her mouth, his nose. His erratic quirks, her voice. This voice...I don't want it anymore. She told me I was given his gift for words and her gift for the piano. Her voice, her instruments--anyone would kill for these. But they are killing me.

I write. I write with neither thought nor remorse. And what I write is what I am. The desire for love, for truth, for my father, for my name to have meaning. I suppose it is my fingers, not my pen, that are my tools. They take control and when I write, I can control. Manipulate, create, imagine.

I have already stated: this is entirely selfish. I am entirely selfish. My mother, who has raised me on her own with not even a picture of my other parent to live off, has begun to feel the blow of this. Perhaps I inherited my selfishness from her as well. My dreams are not hers. I am not her. Blue eyes seem to send different signals to the world. Protected as I was growing up, most tell me I'm "just like Amy" on first impression. I am nothing "like Amy". Physical resemblences and acquired traits mean little to what I plan for my future. I plan to be in control of my future.

I plan to write until my pen falls to the ground as my trembling fingers, exhausted, cannot venture to pick it up again.

I don't understand it. Charlie, whom I've known since my memory started, claims she does. What she understands, she refuses to tell me. My mother refuses to try. My father...perhaps. I might never know. I can see--nay, read. I can read everyone around me like a book. Except for myself.

My name is Cassandra Lauren. I am sixteen and I am still learning to read.