The Hidden Toxin ✔(#6 in the Our Side of The Dice Series)

|| Author's Note 4: The Calcium Pill||

Before I document this installment of the author's notes, I deemed it essential to tell anyone reading this that I'm still a work in progress. I haven't figured out what most of my feelings are — even the things I used to feel in the past. Hence, I may not be so organized in accurately describing my sentiments as I proceed to write this author's notes. I'm not writing this to figure it all out since I'm not done living my life or learning all the lessons I need to know. I'm just here to say things as it is — whether I've had it figured out or not, whether I'm able to name my feelings or not. Hence, I hope you enjoy this raw piece.

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Life went on, of course. I eventually studied law — as you all must have known. I wasn't one of those rebellious kids who would fail their courses on purpose just so their parents can let them study whatever course it was that they wished to study.

I began to study law a few months after I graduated from secondary school. Hence, life went on — in all aspects – including my legs. In the last author's notes, I talked about the birth of my insecurities, wishing I could walk perfectly well a few years after my surgery, and how my walking mannerism bothered me for quite some time upon becoming conscious of it.

When I proceeded to study at the university, I didn't care very much anymore. I was in a wider environment — where no one cared or looked at you twice once you crossed paths. Hence, my life felt easier and coursed very smoothly, knowing that no one would ever notice me, so I didn't have to be too insecure or conscious of how I walked all the time. I didn't always have to look at my reflection in the mirror while I walked or bother about who was looking at me.

My secondary school experience wasn't any different. I don't think anyone cared back then either. But at that time, it just felt different. It felt like the world revolved around me since my insecurities were all in my head, and I was still trying to process the fact that my legs were not one hundred percent perfect and straight.

So being in the university months after I'd already slightly adjusted to the situation of my legs just helped me not to care very much. Moreover, I didn't need anyone to care, so it was a great thing that no one cared or was interested in how I walked.

However, I wouldn't term this lack of concern for my legs as confidence. Confidence connotes accepting, loving, and seeing yourself in high regard despite your physical flaws. I wasn't accepting or loving of my legs despite their imperfection. I didn't hold or carry myself as someone with high esteem. I was floating — floating in my nonchalance and invisibility.

If I could use the nearest terminology to describe my state, numbness would be the most befitting word. You know that feeling of nothingness that you feel on the inside when you realize you can't change something? That was precisely how I was. After worrying so much, trying and wishing for ways to walk perfectly, I just got to the point where I couldn't feel anything anymore concerning my legs. I was neither here nor there.

So I started to focus on other things — other productive things. Things that could yield evident results and make me happy. Things that required and were worth my attention. Somethings in my life actually mattered (I'm saying this as a fact, not from a place of pettiness or self-sabotage), so I just revolved around those things and lived quite averagely.

Moreover, aside from the numbness I felt inside, there wasn't much reason to bother about my legs anymore or try to be that phenomenal girl because I had a slight growth disorder. After all, the other girl from my secondary school that my mum often compared me with didn't attend the same university as me, so there wasn't any pressure. I lived like everyone else and wasn't very special. I was just myself —  I made mistakes and had slight faults of my own.