I always aspired to be one of those mystery girls. The ones
you see in the school hallways and as they pass by you that little annoying
internal voice of yourself goes, Damn,
there struts a girl who doesn’t cry into her bowl of Fruit Loops in the
morning. I am a hot mess by nature,
as I have no patience and a tendency to lose it at the slightest disarray. I have long draping hair that will absolutely
never blow out the direction I want it to go, and these two little sticks of
side bangs that cling flat to my forehead when I don’t fix my hair properly. To
top it all off, my skin is composed of over active sweat glands, my face gets
lobster colored when I get flustered, and whenever I try to speak up in class I
get this hoarse man voice that often cracks like a prepubescent teenage boy. In
summation, I live my life in a perpetual state of calamity.
I used to
really love myself too much. Narcissism was my downfall; I was prideful to the
point of looking in the trophy cabinet at school and casually shaking out my
curls and knowing that I thought I was perfect. I see pictures of myself from
that time, and I was so fearless. No abash for the opinions of others, no
concern over what I was or was not doing with my weekends. I felt pretty and
because of that I was. I dared other people to doubt who I was and stared them
down when they did. I enjoyed the control I realized I could empower over those
around me, and I began to realize the potential that simmered through my bones.
I knew I was flawed, but I didn’t notice and I just pretended no one else did
either.
Then slowly
there was a gradual but noticeable shift, as I began to age and started to
truly open my eyes to those around me. With enough time there will be fall out,
and there certainly was for me. All of my so-called glorious perfection began
to dissolve around me, dissipating into the air and taking with it all of my
spunky confidence and joy. It was a sluggish leak, but once the knob was
twisted I would never feel the same way about myself again. There was once a
light in my eyes, a glossy shine exuded into the atmosphere, but with each tear
down and disappointment, the light dimmed.
I grew up
in Louisiana, and spent my summers frolicking up and down the white coasts of
the Florida beaches. I had never seen a mountain until I was around the age of
seven. I asked my dad as we drove up to Tennessee what a mountain looked like,
as I mistook the rolling hills of Georgia for true summits. My dad had laughed
and smiled at me. These aren’t the real
mountains. The further we drove the more substantial the peaks became,
until I truly understood what he meant. His words launched back into my life as
the infinitesimal dilemmas of my teenage life began to evolve. Each new hurdle
was a little bit steeper, the rocks fell upon me a little bit more painfully,
and the slow leak morphed into a consistent seeping. At first it was just
school related, learning to manage high school classes and accept my
educational imperfections. Then it was about my friends and feeling lonely, and
I’d lose my footing as I climbed the slope, having to regroup on a new ledge.
Then I learned what it truly means to lose, and I began to accept a torrential
downpour of boulders upon my head. I even learned to open the umbrella to this
and shield myself from the bitter stabs. At some point I finally will reach the
pinnacle, but I ask myself at what cost? I will reach the top as everyone
eventually does, but what will I have lost and suffered along the way?
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