Confessions of a young woman
Sometimes I look at myself through the eyes of a stranger. Who I see is not the person I am. Merely a representation of all that other people want me to be. I try to make the world around me believe a different reality, the self-deception is excruciating sometimes, and exhausting. The real me is revolting just under the surface, but to the world around me, all is calm. What keeps this façade in place is the fact that no one cares about me. I know that for a fact. Sometimes I don’t even want to know who I am. It’s bad enough having to live with myself every day. Experiencing the joy of discovery and understanding real joy is a momentary feeling. There are hiccups of excitement coming from my stomach up into my throat when I allow myself to have that sensation of everything’s all right, and I’m all good with me. Sadly, it fades quickly. Who is allowed to entitle themselves to a speck of happiness? Nah, that’s just something you’re not allowed to experience, I say to myself.
Will it always be like this?