Her hair is a dark brown, the kind of dark brown you can’t have naturally. It’s laced with reds and caramels and shades of brown, all the result of years of indecisiveness. Why have one hair color when you can try them all? Why not just see what it’ll look like? It’s not permanent anyway.
And that’s just a minute example of her life as a whole. Indecisiveness swarms around her thoughts like a mob of angry bees. No thought is born without a second, smaller yet persistent “what-if” thought. A decision translates to permanence and heaven forbid she let anything in her life give her a sense of security.
It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? She bases her personality on her outfit for the day; therefor her personalities change. Some days she’s a workout guru cloaked in athleisure pieces, the next day she hates her body and cowers inside an over-sized sweater topped by an over-sized denim jacket. She’s proud of her legs that have carried her through life thus far, admiring them in her healed booties; the next she’s wary of her thighs that don’t have The Gap.
She’s afraid of commitment in the sense of the abstract. Afraid of being too vulnerable in case it results in a broken heart or empty mind. She’s funny because she’s afraid of sounding dumb. She doesn’t share her opinions in case she wants to change her mind or passion (how dare she do either).
She sees herself as a failure because she sees herself through other people’s eyes. She feels less-than because other people with their strong opinions and vulnerability make her feel inferior. She’s stuck in a place of hunger and she’s too afraid to eat. She feels low, basing her self-worth on her schooling and choice of education (or lack thereof).
She’s a perfectionist and lets it hold her back from triumph. She doesn’t follow through because if it’s not good enough now it never will be. She doesn’t put time into learning or allowing herself to have minor setbacks because she’s impatient and doesn’t think she has the time for that. It’s a goddamn curse to be both a perfectionist and impatient, she can tell you that.
She’s a giver and has given to the point of self-sacrifice but she’ll never admit it. She’s afraid of ownership, afraid she’s not going to live up to her own expectations. She’s talented, that girl, but she’ll never tell herself or anyone else.
Comparison has killed a piece of her. Social media has taken it’s dreaded toll on her, the one people worry about. She idolizes the rich and hard-working without working hard herself. She’s lazier than she’ll ever admit and uses that as a crutch on which excuses flow.
Expectations have taken another piece of her, and disappointment following close behind. She assumes and hopes for actions from others that she knows will never be fulfilled. She’s surrounded by more happiness and love than she’ll ever know but she’ll never feel it; it’ll never be enough.
Despite it all, despite the head on her shoulders that’s clouded by fear and unrealistic expectations of herself, she’s going to be fine. One day she’s going to shake her head clear and open her damn eyes. She’s going to reach the surface of the water she doesn’t know she’s drowning in, fill her lungs with the fresh air she doesn’t know she’s in desperate need of, and let the sun coax her back to life.
I’ll let you know when the warmth heals me.