Something to Be Proud Of
by dilly
Four nights. Four hours sleep.
I can't keep this up.
Every time I close my eyes, my mind flies in a thousand different directions and I can't stop it.
I won't be like my mother. I won't take pills to make my life easier. I won't take a drink to keep a friend, or to keep my wits, or to keep my sanity. She taught me by showing me what I never want to become.
I won't be like my father. I'll never get anything exactly right. I'll never be remembered as much more than a blip of existence. I'll never be important, or worth anything, or needed. He taught me by showing me what I can only wish I'll become.
The therapist my mother made me go to when I was fifteen told me that I had "issues with my parents that I should make an attempt to resolve." I'd like to see him try to make an attempt to resolve anything with either of those two. When my mother wasn't screaming at me about what I was, my father was chastising me for what I wasn't.
If my father read this, he'd tell me I was being a baby. That if I can't take it, I'm not a man. But if I'm not a man, what am I?
So, I go the armory and I play at blowing things up. I adjust things and try to improve things, but it's never enough. Everything's flawed. Nothing is perfect.
I strive to attain something that isn't possible. Does that mean I'll grow old and die with nothing to prove that I ever lived?
I see these great people around me every day. No one will forget Captain Archer. His name will be synonymous with Enterprise. And how about the cool-headed Vulcan that served on a human ship and carried out the human captain's wishes even when she didn't agree with them. And how about the miracle worker that kept the ship running and did the impossible on a daily basis.
Where does a tactical officer fit into this? The background. Oh, he's there all right and his name might get mentioned a few times, but he's not much more than scenery.
Or maybe it's not my position. Maybe it's just me.
It's my fault, I know. I try to speak, but nothing comes out the way I want it to. I struggle to be noticed, but in such an inconspicuous way that no one even realizes I'm there. And if they do, I back away as quickly as I can. I panic. My insides twist around themselves and I can't say a word or move a finger.
If I could only get something right. One thing. Just one thing.
So, I don't sleep at night.
The longer I lay, unconscious, the less likely that I will ever perfect anything.
I sit alone in the armory. Everyone else asleep. And I work. And if I work hard enough, maybe I'll do something that father would be proud of.
Maybe I'll do something that I would be proud of.