The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

44 The Idea of an Essay: Volume 3 at the end of our driveway, which allowed for some shade to cool the pavement. A collection of pine needles would accompany the experiences stored in that 8ft x 8ft space. I lived in the rural area of Kentucky, with my backyard consisting of rolling hills and luscious grass; thick, juicy grass. The kind of grass that would make you itchy just by looking at it. It really didn’t help the fact that Kentucky is one of the most pollen- polluted areas in the country. Add being allergic to anything that’s green, with something the doctor called “iron deficiency”, and you have a kid who wants to do what all the other kids do, but without the energy to do it. Although having allergies and being anemic was a legitimate crutch of mine, I gradually began to associate that with a true weakness I struggled with: an indifference and unaggressive approach on life. From building LEGO to playing four-square, I would halfheartedly engage, and finish in the same lethargy I began. It was so normal for me to start something without completing it, that I didn’t even know I was doing it anymore.This trend continued, and I continued to embrace the belief that my undisciplined habits were just something that defined who I was, a character trait. I always had trouble expressing myself. Unlike my mom who could tell you everything about her just by the expression displayed on her face. I can see her waking upmy brothers and I in themorning singing a cheerful song to get us out of bed. I remember my mom saying to me, “I can never tell what you are thinking.” She would say with a thoughtful look on her face. My parents never treated me as a special kid, in fact, I even stopped telling everyone that I felt “dizzy” because I was tired of being called a quitter. I didn’t want to be special, or different. I didn’t want to have that handicap my dad talked about when he went golfing with my uncle. I still desired the attention, but just not the derogatoriness that was associated with it. My mom was always empathetic towards me because she understood that I enjoyed playing, and she assumed I wasn’t using my excuse as a way out like my siblings and cousins would complain about. I remember the words she told me that stuck with me, “Our greatest weaknesses grow to become our greatest strengths.” At eight years’ old, I didn’t understand what that meant, but it rang in my head again and again. “Just be honest, you don’t want to play, why can’t you admit it?” Phil, my older brother yelled to me as I ditched out early from