Blinded.
Sometimes if I cover my face just right, so that only a part of me shows, I can pretend that I am somebody else. My eyes would belong to an Egyptian princess and my mouth to a Greek goddess- both powerful women who might have had meaning and ambition in their life. But once the hand falls from my face I am just myself again and the unsatisfactory seeds growing inside the pit of my stomach cause me to look in the mirror once more and scrutinize every inch and detail. These lamentations are not only my own, but are also the thoughts of several young women who might feel like there is something missing. Life is not easy and the world has not grown kinder. Perfection is harder to achieve and those who miss their opportunities to thrive, to live, to truly love, end up old with a hard heart full of regrets and “what if’s.” I don’t want to be that person and yet I look down at my feet and see myself following a path I knew to avoid. I am afraid of change, and my feet are glued to the ground and I am too afraid to push past that, lift them up, turn around, and start over.
It’s a pity how today’s generation has mastered the art of smiling and laughing when in actuality, hearts are breaking. I almost feel hypocritical as I continue to write because I know that I am one of those people. If I get even remotely close to true happiness, something shuts off in my brain and warning signs light themselves up and before I know it I’m alone again. Sometimes at night I dream that I am in a maze and each time I get close to telling myself to be happy, the exit route changes and I’ve lost my way again. I am afraid of change. Like a chef, I prefer my batter to be smooth and consistent, not lumpy and unreliable. When I discover something to be wrong, the batch is discarded and I must start anew. The hardest part about doing this is losing people I love and throwing away a perfect opportunity to be happy. It’s a bit of a stretch to wish that everything were easier and I could forget about moments where I’ve been hurt. It’s too cliche to say I wanted a love like Jane and Rochester when in reality it’s probably more like Cathy and Heathcliff- a tug-o-war of emotions and torture. I am not an optimist. I do not trust easily. The fear of being broken outweighs the ability to let love in. I’m truly sorry for those I hurt along the way for my own selfish reasons but in all honesty- he’s better off without me.
I will be alone with two cats, two dogs, and a dusty book collection- the latter being my only true company.
