How is it that the moment I begin, I actually start to write, I’m blank? The fuck is this shit? A moment ago I had so much I wanted to say. So let’s backtrack. Back to beginnings. I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Ingrid. I’m 15, and halfway through year ten. This is all total honesty, so here goes, the most shallow introduction I can muster: I play sport seven days a week. My main two sports are cross country and rowing. Honest to God I love them so much. I live in the suburbs. I go to a big Catholic private school, not that anyone acts religious there. It’s just not derro. I’m a straight A student. No. That doesn’t sound right. I’m smart. I’m analytical. I love learning; I love school. I’m good at school. I don’t know how to say it, but it’s like my thing. That special skill you just seem to have, that you’ve always had. It’s something that if you’re honest and analytical (what a coincidence) enough, you can figure out. So here’s my thing: learning. My special skill is learning shit. How lame does that sound? And yet I love it. I’m exceptionally good at learning.I think in formulas. I think in analytical ways. I think abstractly. I inadvertently memorise things. I read informative articles for pleasure. Sometime this year, I figured out maths and English are my favourite subjects. How does that happen? But this doesn’t even matter. I like this. This doesn’t need to change. Everything else does.
So this is it. The Story. Highly sensationalised, romanticised, blurry, dull, yet completely and utterly true. It’s not even a story. This is me. This is me just figuring it out. Because I don’t know much about life, about myself. Because I know I’m meant to be something. Because I know that whatever I’m meant to be, whatever that is, it certainly isn’t this. And we’re changing that.