Chapter Text
I love my life.
Octavius wrote the words again. The whole page was filled with the same repeated phrases.
I love my life.
I’m happy with myself.
I am good enough.
I like my body.
I am a good son.
Maybe writing it all one more time would make him believe it all. His teacher had told the class affirmations were a good way to keep your spirits up, they were good for you. A sort of placebo effect, Octavius had called it in his head, but he shook off the doubt and wrote it all again.
Five sentences. That’s all he required of himself. Five. Just fill a page with them and he could go to bed. Don’t forget to believe it.
I’m happy with myself.
No he wasn’t. He was getting pretty sick of himself by now. Rude, push-over, know-it-all. His flaws were as self-contradictory as the rest of him.
I am good enough.
He wished he could believe that one. No matter how many times he was told “your worth isn’t defined by…” he couldn’t get his brain to listen.
I like my body.
He didn’t. His reasons for not liking it were fuzzy, he wasn’t sure what about it was wrong. He just didn’t like it.
I am a good son.
He hoped he was. Much as he disagreed with his father, upset his mother, disappointed his sisters, he did want to be a good son. He didn’t know what would make him a good son. He got good grades, he was responsible, he kept his room and himself clean, he obeyed orders, he was an active member of the student council. Anything to make himself seem better than he was. Better than he perceived himself to be.
He finished the page. What a waste of ink and paper. He put down his pen and folded the paper up. Halves, quarters, eighths. He put it in the bottom drawer of his desk. Another token of the struggles he was too good to have.
Why didn’t Octavius like himself? He wished he knew. Maybe it was the fact that he was just-less-than perfect. Or he was lazy. It could’ve been that he knew he wasn’t doing his absolute best. Possibly because he recognized the waste of effort it took for his parents to uproot themselves from Italy to England, then England to America, only for him to have no idea what he was to do with his life. Perhaps he pushed himself too hard. There was a chance that his teachers had failed him.
The one thing Octavius never blamed was his parents. They couldn’t be at fault. They’d given up comfortable lives in Italy for him, he should have been grateful. America had bright opportunities for him. Good chances for a successful future.
Octavius could become many things. He could become a politician (if first he went back to Italy, wasting his parents’ move to America). He could become a businessman (if he lost all sense of dignity). He could become an actor (if he sold his soul to the industry).
He could do what he wanted and become happy. If he figured out what he wanted was. If he learned what happy felt like.
There was no possible way that the way he felt now was happy. When he only liked himself when he ignored half of his character. When fulfillment came only with seeing As, 100s, and the blank faces of proud adults. The only relief he found was in a confessional booth. He liked no one in his classes. His body was just a little bit wrong. Octavius hated to admit it, since he knew he had a loving family, but he felt alone. He wasn’t sure why.
“Happy people are good people,” he told himself. Quiet, so no one would know he was still awake. Maybe he needed more sleep than he was getting. He climbed into bed and fell asleep.