There was no trauma. Not per se. Nothing drastically wounding which caused her to grow too quickly for her age. She just thought a lot.
Her thoughts, like anyone else's, were unique to her and defined her persona. The problem was that her thoughts were too alive for her liking in one way, and too cryptic in another. She lacked control. She let her thoughts guide her wherever they went and they usually spiraled into one thing - helplessness.
(Unless it was one of those exceptionally phenomenal days where all thoughts were euphoric and lead to hope. These days scared her when she went to bed after - how long would they last?)
Anything she did, she criticized. She was unsatisfiable. What made her a little unique was that she didn't criticize others for an act of their's which could have contributed to her 'not-so-satisfactory' work. She always blamed herself. You could say it was in her nature. She hated being that way.
She was too selfless. Too caring. Too forgiving. She let people in completely. She knew it was hopeless. She just hoped otherwise.
Isn't Hope a treacherous thing? It leads you on till a certain point and then leaves as suddenly as it appears. At the most crucial moment, when you can take all the positive energy you'll get, Hope bails on you. And it knows you'll take it back when it comes to you again, because you wouldn't be able to do without it.
She knew this, yet, she chose to go on. Hope kept her going, just like it keeps the rest of us going.
In one way, she was perfectly normal. She thought, she hoped, she hurt and she went on.
