SHATTERED DREAMS

I had a dream once. And I’m not talking about the one with little fairies pouring hot tar over the dank castle walls onto evil three-eyed aliens who want to teach the village how to dance to techno.

It was a dream that seemed as though it had been the fuel of my power. It was that one powerful aspiration that kept me moving, persevering, and wanting more. It was a burning desire that raged in my chest from a distant place. And no, I don’t think it was a heart attack or heart burn. I believe it was a yearning for success—instead, I’ve received a gift of failure.

Those stupid positive memes on social media were supposed to encourage my dreams, not make the reality worse. There were not enough Zig Ziglar quotes on the internet to ease this ache. Miss Byrne could shove her Secrets up a dark crevice three feet below her head. At what point do the tears stop? The wrenching twisted gut? The hatred of words? I had a dream, but Mr. King took them to his grave.

I had spent so much time pretending that the Universe would deliver a platter of awards to my doorstep. The Universe has yet to present my trophies and I can’t pretend anymore. There’s no consolation prize. Instead, I was forced to tuck my dream into a miniscule box and bury it in the backyard next to the baby Robin that fell from its nest. If I could be honest here, I believe that Martha wanted more room and used a mighty tiny talon to kick Phil out and fall to his death. When Momma Robin came back sad, and heartbroken, I bet Martha pretended to show grief, but inside she smiled knowing she was the survival of the fittest.

Oops, yet again, I regress.

My secrets are now exposed to you, my friends, so you may hopefully learn from my mistakes. You see, I’m officially not qualified for a future in astrophysics. This means my dream of winning a Nobel Prize is gone.

According to the University of Chicago, first, I have to pass math classes higher than Algebra I. Also, as it turns out, I’ll need a strong background in chemistry. And in order to excel in chemistry, apparently, a person needs to understand math at a higher level than Algebra I. This puts me in a troublesome situation, one that churns my stomach acids; because I believe it is my destiny to make a difference in the world. And the one opportunity I had to do so, has slipped through my grasp.

It took a mere three attempts to pass Algebra I. Chemistry, if I recall from my late high school years, (no laughing) was easy until the math portion came into the equation. X has never really been a good friend of mine, but I can blow up a volcano of baking soda and vinegar like a rocket scientist.

To say I’m disheartened, is by no means a powerful enough statement for how I feel. I’m at a loss. This feeling of failure isn’t new. I’ve had a lifetime of pushbacks, high-rise walls, and electric fences to keep me out. And as a result, I’ve managed to claw and scratch my way out, or in, depending on the situation. I’ve dug below the surface and face-smacked cinderblock. Every time I’ve confronted that desolate wall, somehow, I’ve found a different route, a different approach.

One step forward. Two steps back, but I do not accept defeat. I will rise, one step at a time. I may be broken, but boxes of glue should arrive on my porch within two to three business days. And with this new padded layer of perseverance, I know that University of Chicago still needs me in their life; therefore, I’ve decided to earn one of the first Nobel Prizes awarded in…Psychology.