A Little Piece Of Me Throwout

Photo Courtesy of Nathan Hainline Photography. Model Cassady Rose.

All rights to the above photo belong to the photographer.

 

Strength is something you don’t know you have until it is the only thing you have left. Strength is subjective though. Sometimes it is displayed in the physical sense. More often than not, strength is displayed in ways others, including one’s self, take for granted.

Sometimes the simple act of forcing yourself to draw breath for one more day requires more strength than anyone could know. You wake up and plaster on a smile, when all you want to do is scream or cry and just push forward. The reason you choose to do so is different for everyone who struggles with the same issue. The image of my child always hovers in my mind when I close my eyes and draw my first deep breath of the day. Most of the time, she is my only reason for everything—my only reason to exist.

Strength is a fickle thing.

When I consider my entire reason for remaining strong is the exact reason I have to be strong, it leaves me hollow. I feel as though I am wrapping my arms around air and hugging it to myself as tightly as I can, only it does not hug me back, because there is nothing there—just empty space.  

I brought a life into this world. Every day I soldier forth, trying my best to provide for that life. Placing that life before mine as if it were gospel. Loving that life more than I have ever loved myself. Yet, with all of the strength I have because of her, I know she is what makes me weakest.

How can it be, you ask?

It is simple. I refuse to sacrifice her happiness for my own, even if it requires me biting my tongue. If I am forced to suffer internally just to give her the life I was denied as a child, so be it. This is my weakness. I cannot see any other way. I often imagine myself doing something about it, and think about how much better things would be, but then self-doubt and guilt take over. How selfish would it be of me to take away everything she knows, just for a semblance of happiness which may never happen? No, I cannot do it. Even if I did have the “strength” to do so.

But, God, how I want to.

Have you ever looked at someone—like, really looked at them—in a moment when they didn’t know you were looking? I often do so. People are the most beautiful when they aren’t even trying to be. Your best friend, devoid of makeup, sobbing over life’s trials.  A man lost in thought, or intent on something he enjoys. A child, immersed in sleep. It is at these times when the human condition is at its most perfect. It is at these times when we are far more beautiful than we could ever dream to be.

This is my one and only hope. One day, someone will look at me and see the beauty behind the choices I make. Someone will see the elegance behind my pain. A person will see the riot of insecurity and self-doubt I carry and will think, wow, she is the most amazing, fucking thing I have ever laid eyes on. However, I know not to wait for this to happen.

I am a writer. My whole life revolves around putting pretty lies on paper for other people to hold on to. My profession requires me to sell altered truths and decorated fantasies. It is an escape. The job in and of itself allows me to live vicariously through my own twisted realities in which there is always a happily ever after, and the ugly duckling always gets her prince.

Therapy. My passion is therapy.

Writing helps me live through the experiences of others. In my books, I have found my prince. Men accept me as I am. They always see me—curves, stretch marks, and all—and by some miracle, they still want me. I get to travel to places I will never see in my lifetime. I get to love wholeheartedly, the way I want to love, and be loved in return.

So I write.

In a world where it is so wrong to have feelings, especially feelings which are so all encompassing, I fight to be understood. I don’t have a great story to tell. In one hundred years, no one will remember me.  Yet, I share—sometimes overly so—my struggle, so those people out there who think they are alone, know they are not. I see things others don’t.

I see you.

The people who stare off at nothing—their whole world crumbling inside of them. Yet when you address them, they smile and are as happy as ever.

I see you.

The little girl who is afraid of what life would be like if her parents get a divorce, but crawls into her mom’s lap when she knows all mom wants to do is cry.  If you could take her pain away, you would. She knows this.

I see you.

The woman holding down multiple jobs just to keep a roof over her head. Sacrificing everything so her children don’t know what it is to need for anything. Those babies know what you do for them.

I see you.

The man who grew up in a cold home, who only wants to be loved. You are overly kind and unsure of your worth. You allow people to walk all over you just for a glimpse of affection.

I see you.

We all have our own masks. We all have our own struggles. Not everyone can see through them. Hell, most people are content to just ignore them.

Not me.

I just sit and wait for those moments—those golden seconds when a person is truly real. I absorb them like a sponge, because those moments are what life is all about. It helps me realize, when I am at my lowest, I am not alone. In fact, most people are just like me.

I see you.