One of the best things to do when you are struggling with your future, is to take a good hard look at your past. Seems to make sense. Right? Right. Well, that's what I've been doing. Looking at my past. Staring at it, really. Looking at it so hard and for so long, I almost feel like the power of my gaze can make it change somehow. I know that isn't possible. Not even a little bit.

I have reevaluated all of my relationships, romantic and otherwise. I have analyzed the underlying motivations to pursue those relationships. I have looked at myself from every angle, and I still come up empty handed. Who am I?

One of the most enraging and yet constant questions I find myself consistently uttering while I lay in bed? Simple. Who would I have been had Mom never gotten sick? Who would I be now? How would things have been different? I suppose that one question of I would have been is so loaded, that it's filled to the brim with millions of other questions. They all stem from that one question though. If Mom never would have gotten sick... IF IF IF IF IF.

It seems so useless to delve into those possibilities, and yet it's what I am constantly consumed with. Every once in awhile, I feel like who I "really" am is sneaking back into my persona. It is finding its way back into my daily routines, fastening itself to my soul. Then in almost the same instant, it's completely vanished. I'm left with the leftovers yet again, trying to figure out if it's gone for good, or if I keep pushing it away.

I remember who I used to be. That's one thing that isn't all that hard to distinguish when I look back at the past. I remember what was important and what I wanted. I remember how I felt. I remember my morals and values. I remember the lessons my parents taught me. I remember how black and white everything appeared to be. There was only one way to live, and I was perfectly happy living that way. Was it because I didn't know any different? Or was it because that was the right way to live? That's where it gets a little hazy. That's when I get confused.

I remember hating myself. I remember being a teenager, staring really hard at the bathroom tiles, searching out their every imperfection, so I could put off looking at my own. I remember fiery arguments with my Mom, which typically served as the precursor for those bathroom staring sessions. I remember feeling worthless, sitting on the bathroom floor, hunched over as I stared at those tiles. I remember trying to cry as quietly as I could, so I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing she had gotten to me.

I remember so vividly telling myself that someday it would be better. Someday I would be beautiful. Someday my sisters wouldn't hate me. Someday I wouldn't feel like the entire earth was exploding inside of my chest. I remember thinking that I was going crazy. I tired immediately of my Mom's condescending explanations about hormones and teenage emotions. I was convinced I was different. My hurt was real, my thoughts were real.

Everyone has the difficult teenage years, but I am also positive that some have it far worse than others. I refuse to believe that the beautiful girls who taunted me went home to stare at bathroom tiles as they cried. I know they weren't hiding in dark corners writing melancholy poetry. Part of me enjoys the idea that they weren't writing, because they couldn't. They were shallow and far too preoccupied with looks and popularity to ever crack the binding on a notebook.

I remember the good times too. I remember the church musicals, and 'See you at the Pole', and everything that completely enveloped who I was. I was Corrie, the good Christian girl. I was Corrie, the writer. I was Corrie, the theater geek. I was Corrie, the Hanson fan--- who didn't care how many snarky comments followed her down the hallway as she proudly displayed a different Hanson t-shirt for each day of the week. I was Corrie, the sister. I was Corrie, the daughter. I was Corrie, the scapegoat. This was most likely my least favorite title, and yet the most common.

My sisters recognized that I caught the brunt of all chores, verbal assaults, and accusations. I was left home to fend for myself and cover for everyone while they went off and did whatever. I had lists to accomplish. I met with the consequences if they weren't. I was the hermit, and that was a consequence in and of itself. It was almost as if I was being punished for my lack of social standing. I was a shadow, so naturally... I was left in the background.

That's probably what led me to the stage in the first place. It was a place to momentarily step out of the shadows. I found a voice on the stage, and I never let go of it. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes that's bad. I've adopted traits of certain characters throughout the years. Namely the humorous ones. I've become a talented story teller, a better writer. I have things to say, and to my complete astonishment, people actually want to listen.

The stage... once a solution, now the problem. How much of me is a character? A facade comprised of dozens of personalities that don't even belong to me? How much of my attitudes, opinions, and views are actually mine? It's maddening to try and figure it all out, it really is.

It does, however, provide an excellent explanation as to why I am experiencing such an identity crisis right now. I suppose I have been for quite some time now. Directly after my Mom died, I feel like I just became whoever I had to be to survive. I was all over the map, adopting a dozen different personalities.

I was different in every single relationship I have ever been in. So completely different. I feel like I am changing again. I just want to stop changing for awhile. I want to see me, I want to see the people around me, and I want to look at them through my own eyes, with my own brain and personality behind those eyes. I don't want to be tainted by influence. It's impossible though. Every person is the person they are, because of the influences they grew up with. I grew up with such great ones. At least for a little while.

I need to figure all of this out. I really really do.