If you met me, talked to me, you would think to yourselfÂ “Now here is a beautiful, intelligent woman that has it all together. She is strong, self-confident, blunt and capable.” If you knew me, the me inside, you would know even better than that. You would know the self-doubt, the belief that I am ugly, incapable, on the verge of stupid, weak. You would know that I do not have it all together. I was taught that to show weakness only brings pain, emotional and physical. I was taught that tears are for those who want to manipulate, that nothing is worth crying for. I was taught that I am supposed to show only my strengths and none of my weaknesses to the world.
Because of this, people that know me only know the surface of me, only know the me I am allowed to present to the world, the me I can only safely show. I am funny, witty, out-going. But the struggle has to be there in my eyes, doesn’t it? Why can’t anyone see it? The very few times I have let someone in, they were shocked. They couldn’t handle the me that lies underneath the facade. I’ve cut myself, taken pills, held a shotgun in my lap and wished for the guts to end it all. I’ve thought of a million ways to end it all, I’ve planned it, thought it out carefully. But then a little voice says to me that I don’t have the guts, that I’m really just a scared little girl. And you know what? ThatÂ voice is so right. I really am just a scared little girl in a woman’s body. My whole world in a stage in which I act out the role expected of me, except that I don’t get to change my costume after the show. I don’t get to break down, to lick my wounds, to talk about the pain, the anguish, the turmoil going on inside my head.
It stays there, for me to analyze, break apart and put back together again, but the pieces keep falling in the same place. The answers remain elusive. I hate this and I hate life.