I often marvel at what other people think of me. I mean the image they have. Apparently I am some indestructible, always lands on her feet, warrior of perservance and (occasionally) truth. I think to myself ‘if only they knew.’
In fact, I am not that person. Oh sure, I aspire to be that person. I strive to be strong and gutsy emotionallly – independent and cheerful – all the good stuff. But if I were to be honest then I’d have to say that in many ways I’m fragile.
I break easily if you know just the right way to break me. And shatter into millions of pieces. Though you wouldn’t know it to look at me. Because I do my crying behind closed doors. Most of what stresses me out I make jokes out of or do posts about. I poke fun at them and me. In fact, I am the usual target of my own jokes. And everyone generally laughs with me. They think I’m a riot. Some goofy, eccentric oddball who has a very funny perspective on life.
I suppose that’s true in its own way. But I’m still fragile. I still break when I am crashed into a wall. I still bleed when I am cut. I cry when I am hurt. I am not indestructible. I am not the person who is untouched by any and every thing. And I just wish once in a while somebody acted like they knew that. I just wish that once in a while I could be the one leaning on somebody else. I just wish that once it wasn’t my job to cheer up the whole fricking world.
But it isn’t that way and I accept it.
Perhaps in my next life I will get to be the damsel in distress and see what it feels like to have everyone falling all over themselves to make me feel cared for. I wonder what that is like. I really do.