Jean: a definition

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Note: This is an essay for my Communication Theory class. Our professor asked us to answer the following questions through a composition:

1. How do you define yourself?

2. How do people affect the way you define yourself?

3. Who are the people that help you form that image?

I felt like sharing it, so I did. (Lol.)

 

My name is Jean and I am not special. Or unique. Or important. I am just. I am just that girl who you sat beside in the jeepney. Just that girl who keeps on mouthing the lyrics of a song only she, could hear. Just a girl who wears eyeglasses; hidden in the background and completely unimportant.

I am not pretty. I am just an abstract painting; a blur of lines and colors, a mess. I am a foreign language that requires patience in order to be understood, an erasure in a piece of paper; imperfect, ugly and wrong. I am an infinite of things. I cannot be defined, cannot be owned. But among all, I am just a 17 year old girl with black hair and too many thoughts. Just a girl with a heart bleeding with ink. Just a girl with a pen and big dreams. Just a girl who reads and writes fiction.

I am no thing and I am nothing. The society thinks I cannot hear their definition of me, but I am not deaf. I cried, laughed and was disgusted by their words. Their words are powerful. Powerful enough to make me stand on the edge. To make me believe that I am a useless person, that my dreams are far-fetched and that all hope is lost. But they didn’t know that I am stubborn. They didn’t know that I am strong. They thought that they can bring me down to where they are, but I am still here, speaking fluent sarcasm and constantly flipping my hair.

They didn’t wreck me. But they made me lose every amount of self-confidence in my system. Each of their criticisms and judgments banged me in the head, punched me in my stomach and drove me insane. Since then, I’ve stopped fighting with them. Because I am too busy battling with the demons that I’ve created with the help of them.

Despite of all of that, the good words eventually arrived. They brought me the sun; the symbol of hope. They gave me tomorrow and a chance to start again. They are my friends. My believers. The few people who are still holding into me. They helped me walk away from the edge. They are my missing pieces. My strength. My supporters.

Every person surrounding me helps me in building an image of myself, whether positive or negative. It’s a never ending cycle, really. And it’s impossible to escape. We cannot escape.

My name is Jean and I am who I am, and whatever comes next, comes next.

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