It feels as if I have two people in me.Two very distinct, and different people within me.
One who’s vibrant, and talkative, and challenging, and confident, and as let-go as she can be. Someone who’s daring.
And then there’s the insecure one.
The one whose mouth shuts, and her brain freezes, and her cheeks burn, and she’s mute.
She opens her mouth to speak but nothing leaves.
Someone who has a storm growing in her stomach. A ball of stress.
And her insides burn.
She can feel the cold-hot flash make its way up her esophagus from her gut.
And she’s so awkward. So unnatural.
She tries too hard, and it shows in her every move. She tries too hard for approval from others. She tries to act “let-go,” and it doesn’t work for her.
It’s so obvious she’s putting her all into it.
She has trouble sleeping at night.
She has trouble accepting that things are this way.
She’s so scared.
She’s scared all the time, even though she does everything she can to not think about it. The things that scare her.
And she gets away with it. Most of the time. But it’s always there in the back of her head.
In the weight of her chest.
In the stutter of her heart.
It’s laced into her every thought.
She turns shadows into monsters. It consumes her.
It consumes her.
She feels paper thin. She in numb with fear.
She is hard to accept.
She is hard to protect.
She is hard to have faith in.
She can’t do it. She doesn’t have it in her. She doesn’t think so. She cares too much about what others think.
How could she not?
How could she not when all she can do is observe and form internal connections to them?
She thinks others are better than her. But not in the way you think. She knows they are human, and she is too. She knows she has been through her fair share of experiences, as have they.
She knows that, so far, they are equals.
But she thinks of their eyes looking at a very vulnerable, and naked part of her, and it hurts. It scares her. It-the thought of it-feels unbearable. Feels unfair.
That they get this very exposed piece of her to judge, and study, and share. That they only get that part without knowing the rest. The rest of her parts. The better parts. The ones she’s more comfortable in, and confident of.
But it’s hard to show those parts, as well.
It’s hard because it’s easy to pretend that they are the only parts.
And highering people’s expectations of you only serves to add more stress.
She’s crumpled up paper.
All bumps, and tangible pauses of awkwardness.
She’s the motion of writing on a piece of paper that’s laid upon a gravel road.
She confuses me.
She confuses me because I want to box her up, and hide her away. Pretend she does not exist.
But, I also want her to grow.
I want to water her, and put her under the sun, so that she may grow. So that she’s strong enough to handle all that comes her way. Just as I would a dear friend.
But I’m not dealing with a friend. A separate being.
I am dealing with myself.
And I can’t escape her fear.
I can’t escape my fear.
I feel drenched in it.
As if I’m being marinated in it.
I know what I have to do;
I’m just too afraid to do it.