Just a simple grey sweatshirt hanging in the closet. Nothing too special, right? There are far nicer garments beside it. On the right hangs a beautifully crafted white and baby blue cardigan with seashell-shaped buttons. To the left, an athletic pullover. Black and red dragons travel the back and a miniature cross zipper over the chest. The average, dull sweatshirt cannot replicate the complexity and exquisiteness of its competitors. However, the simplicity of the sweatshirt has its own charms. The fuzz on the inside is still soft, gentle, and comforting. It’s still useful every so often. Although it strives to be as lovely as the cardigan or as original as the pull over, it cannot change what it is. It’s only a plain, uninteresting, humdrum little sweatshirt with a hole in the heart.

I’ll never be as intelligent as my sister, nor as admirable or dainty as she. I’ll never reach the amount of life experience as her and my brother have acquired. I’m the youngest of three, constantly compared to my older siblings--yet contrasted at the same time. My parents mix up our names, even when only one of us is present. My mom has made a habit of calling me ‘Christina,’ ‘Lance (Jr),’ and even addressing me as my dog, Luna. Unlike Christina, I want to become an artist. Of course my family says to “follow your dreams,” but they don’t see me making a ‘real’ future of my current work. They expect me to become something similar to an actuarial scientist like my older sister, but they continue to claim “you don’t have to grow up to be either of your siblings.” Isn’t that just contradiction? Hypocrisy? Yet I was and still am liable as the carbon copy of my brother growing up. They see me as nothing but a disgrace to their expectations. A temperamental, hot-headed idiot, I imagine. I still feel hurt with every word, though. Eh. No biggie.

As much as the sweater wants to deny it, it’s easily forgotten. It’s surely replaceable. It’s obnoxious, overbearing, and a clear as day pain in the neck. No one wants to carry around a big piece of fabric all day. I’m a burden, and even my own friends find me a nuisance. I am deemed lazy, oversensitive, and stupid nearly every day. Not for the things I do, but the things I don’t do. I don’t do my homework as soon as I get home from school. I don’t do the dishes before I log onto my computer. I don’t write as often as I used to. I’m a procrastinator. The medicine I’m taking every morning to make me feel “better,”doesn’t seem to heal 6+ years of depression right away, as expected. These “holes and rips,” per say, that I have experienced throughout my life still sting. They play fresh in my consciousness from the slightest trigger. From time-to-time, I lay in bed at 2 o'clock am wondering, “What am I even doing?” I carry this mental luggage, knowing it will slow me down… Make me “lifeless.” Ah, but it’s fine.
Although the sweatshirt can bring warmth and coziness, it can be too much. Or even-- too little. I really do try to help in the best way I’m able, but it still finds some way to backfire. Break ups, mood swings, or just feeling downright crummy, my instinct is to patch the wound and kiss it better. Eventually it comes to hating every second of how irritatingly clingy I can be and every aching time I’m aloof and haughty to the ones I hold dearest. Even my own jealousy causes me to be distant. But, sweatshirts are not supposed to be envious, nor anxious. Just plain old sweatshirts. To be there when you need them. To take them off when the heat is too intense. To slip on another layer if it’s insufficient.

Each thought I have has a purpose, but so do I. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an unspoken and unwritten rule for myself. “Dedicate yourself to making others smile, even if you yourself cannot.” That’s what has gotten me past this demented thing called “life.” The result of that unspoken rule are a few pals that lived through their worst nights and even new friends. I’ve been on this Earth for 16 years, 7 months, and 2 days (as of October 12th, 2016). I never really thought I’d get this far, to be completely honest. Nevertheless, I’ve got all hands on deck. This sweatshirt may be a little old, a little worn, and a little slashed, but it can always be sewn back up.

There may be large, gaping holes that appear irreparable. All that’s needed is extra fabric and a bit of love. Afterall, everything should be treated with care, even after it’s been beaten to hell. Even through the hardships I have faced in my short lifetime, I have been able to retain my “soft” heart and keep moving forward. There’s still some optimism left in this messed up, pessimistic blob of emotions and cringey puns.

My scars are still healing, but that’s okay. I’m still here for alleviation and affection. I’m still a bother, but I’m still shown love regardless. I won’t measure up to my “role models,” rather I’ll become my own and do what I think is best. I may be hurting. Even so, I can still beam through it and give others a reason to do the same.

I am a simple, uninteresting, humdrum little sweatshirt with a "patched up" heart.