January the 17th of 2014 ultimately led to mandatory changes on how I live and perceive people from the past and present day. Since then, it has made me bitter yet hungry to prove everyone my worth is legit.

On this day five years ago, the world as I knew it and the person I once was catastrophically changed forever.

What was a day of “supposed justice,” unknowingly the worse was yet to come.

The night before, in my small dorm during freshman year at Idaho, I was fearing for the worst after nobody was picking up the phone from around 10pm to midnight. It wasn’t until an unknown number called me, turning out to be my parents who told I should go to sleep.

So I did went to sleep, but it wasn’t until that sunny Friday afternoon when I found out the dark reality that defined my first half of college, and life as I knew it since.

About the “supposed justice,” that was all a ruse because people from my Granite Falls days bombarded me with questions about what happened back home. I had no clue and why everyone was checking up on me. Then I knew, the once respectable family name had a permanent judgmental stain.

Those who know the story what I’m talking about, so I’m not going to bring up the details. It was the worst day of my life that doesn’t pertain myself as the issue. Stress levels kicked in at a high gear, concerned that I may never come back home without harassed about what happened.

That same night, I had my radio show at KUOI-FM Moscow 89.3 that very Friday. It was at a special time because I was subbing for one of the DJs, so it was a night shift from 8:30pm to 11pm. I thought of not doing it, but I took it as a true stress reliever and went on with the show. While it eased off some of the sadness, the anger didn’t.

For the rest of the year and essentially my entire time at Idaho was filled with wrath of fragile and rage. All thanks to what happened in 2014.

No longer I view January the 17th as my father’s birthday or the day I got my acceptance letter from Idaho in 2013, but that shallow unfortunate event.

I knew that my time at Granite Falls had expired and left the town for good in late 2014. The few times I’ve came back, I haven’t felt myself. As if I’m a dark cloud raining on the town’s parade. Like I’m not longer well accepted like I once was.

Sure, I still have great friends that I’ve made from that town and have the upmost respect for. I just knew that I and my entire family wasn’t going to be viewed the same way again. I don’t like discussing about that event or seeing jokes being made out of. The latter warranted multiple blocks.

The traumatic shock of 2014 hasn’t gone away when I stop by. That’s when I really knew that I’m forced to move on and change everything that I am.

There’s one post I saw recently that struck a cord. It went something like, “Glad my prime wasn’t in high school.” That had me shook because I feared that it was, and as you know from every cliche film, the popular ones have their comeuppance in some form.

Since 2014, the once energetic, caring person with a can-do attitude transformed into almost an unrecognizable, private, egotistical (well, I’ve had it for years but didn’t want to admit it in high school) monster. That in Idaho, they seemed to only know the latter.

I’ve became more confrontational in college and anytime that things didn’t go my way, I vocalized my anger on air. I know most of my fellow co-workers from The Argonaut didn’t took a liking of me because my personality didn’t warrant me to be my authentic self. They only saw the rubbish prick that happened to be the measly video editor and write about sports.

Very few I’ve allowed my real self to be displayed because I was too damn competitive and angry with the world. Not just in Idaho, but everywhere I go these days.

It’s the reason why one acquaintanceship ended up being awful my senior year and while I tried to patch things up once I was ready in October 2017, the damage was irreversible. Never spoken to the individual since.

If it wasn’t in 2014, then 2017 was pretty close.

Speaking of that dreaded year, it was also on that day when my story originally came out about my college run and living with Aspberger’s. There was some updates the following day, but that day obsoleted most of the gloom.

As most know, 2017 wasn’t great whatsoever and felt alienated by everyone.

Is it because that I didn’t rose to the top in my profession like everyone from Idaho or that dark past haunted me, people just don’t care if I crumble or I simply refused to speak with anyone?

While I’ll never have an answer as to why, but what it has done is made me bitter than ever.

It’s probably why one of my close friendships from my post high school days is just a distant memory. I’m still searching for answers to this very day, but that’s besides the point of this story.

Then I realized, rather than being bitter where it creates consequences, how about turning that bitter into motivation?

Sure, I’m far from satisfied working on a mundane job that keeps me financially stable to travel for the races and not “over (wrestling term for popularity)” in social media, specifically Twitter, that pent up frustration molded me to be stronger. It was the best way to say, “If I want to do what I love, I must work hard and prove everyone (from Washington to North Carolina) that I’m a valuable asset.”

One of those outlets has been my writing. Five years ago, you wouldn’t caught me dead writing my livelihood. Now, it has become a daily routine with my journals which I have a goal of turning it into a memoir (focusing on 2018) and cover racing for Motorsports Tribune.

I’ve had to suck it up and push to my absolute limit in any task I love such as camera work, photography or any on-assignments that come in my way (ex. spotlights or freelance photoshoots I’d love to do more in 2019). Even the non-media stuff, I have to push in order to make it the next day. While I refrain from sharing my weekday job, I still push my limits, hoping that someday it’ll mean something. At least that’s what mom told me.

When I’m at the race track or the few times I get to hang out with people, it’s my escape. I take the time to focus on where I am or who I’m with for a few hours because I get to learn more about my profession, how people are doing and understand society more.

As a result of my bitterness of not getting to what I studied for right out of the gate like all but like three or four Argonaut editors from Fall 2016 did, I’ve also decided that “You know what, I’m going to take a stand and do something that’ll make me happy and showcase that I am what I say, THE HARD WAY.”

It led to writing about my life and focusing on my “List of Promises.” Slowly but surely, my bitterness is fading away. Got a ways to go, but I’m working on it. Most of my anger goes towards NFL kickers these days, so if that doesn’t say much, I don’t know what will.

The moral message is maybe I’m serving my comeuppance and now that time period is near its conclusion. That’s what I hope it has meant and eventually, I’m no longer needing that non-media mundane job to make some sort of living.

While the mental and emotional wounds from five years ago are still there, it made me hungrier to succeed in life and not afraid to do anything to reach the summit. That’s why I do these blogs because I want to share my point of view to you guys and a nice way keeping track of where I was to where I am at this present moment.

Being popular in high school is a now distant memory and serving the last phase of my long-term detriments, but at least my reputation is far from going down the toilet. I’m stronger than ever before and still refuse submitting from those demonic monsters of yesteryears.

If I can accept my disabilities, then I can accept my bitterness just as long as I make something positive out of it on a regular and consistent basis.

Soon enough, my self-hatred will say goodbye from my mental consciousness.

For now, doubt me if you insist, prove me wrong if I give consent.

Published by Luis Torres

I'm a graduate from the University of Idaho, currently pursuing the dream of becoming a motorsports media personnel.

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