"It's easy to love who you were, but it's a lot harder to love who you are." -Yours Truly
I started this writing account 8 years ago, when I was only 15 years old. It was an escape for me. A way to get my thoughts out of my head when they were becoming too much to handle. As I'm writing this now, I am 23 years old, as of yesterday to be exact. So, although a lot has changed, I guess some things never do. Because here I am, turning to the keyboard, asking this screen to hold my thoughts for me once again.
The older I get, the more I miss who I was when I started writing here... the girl in the sandbox. So, let me tell you about the girl I used to be.
She was beautiful, to say the least. With soft skin, defined features, long hair, and a smile that she hardly ever showed... but when she did, well, if she'd known what she knows now, she would've never hid it away in the first place.
She sang like a song bird and drew like she only dreamed on pieces of paper. With an imagination as big as the sky, nothing was out of reach. Someone once told her that when she wrote, it was as if she'd dipped the quill into her heart and used the blood as ink.
She was an optimist. Whether it was due to a genuine tendency of seeing the bright side, or a desperate attempt to convince herself that even storm clouds have silver linings. None the less, she was determined to keep her chin up and hope for the best in everything.
As with all girls her age, she was insecure. She couldn't look in a mirror longer than a fleeting moment without feeling uncomfortable. Little did she know, she was the most beautiful version of me that may ever be. I wish she could've had the eyes I have now. I know she was never perfect, but from the angle I view her in now, it seems like she couldn't be closer. Her imperfections made her special. Even though she saw them as obstacles in the way of reaching the societal beauty standard.
She bit her nails until they bled. It happened as often as breathing. She hated this about herself, and hid her hands from photographs and wondering eyes. Call it a nervous tick if you will, but with anxiety like hers, nervousness was her resting state. The anxiety she knew so well caused so many more unwanted traits for her.
Oh God. What I wouldn't give to be there for her. To take the knife out of her hand, and roll up her long sleeves in public.
She was innocent. In all the ways that a girl can be. She had never been touched, her heart nor her body. Never experienced real heartbreak. She had yet to know the feeling of loving someone unconditionally, while repeatedly being reminded that she wasn't loved back. She only compared herself to the girls in the hallways... not the girls in his bed. She had never even been stoned.
The only part of her that was no longer white as snow, was her mind. It was a dark place. She was passed from therapist to therapist like a broken toy. Each time she met a new one, her walls built themselves higher and her light became dimmer. She felt like a problem that nobody could solve. In fact that's exactly what she was. Not to me, of course. I guess PHD's aren't all it takes to understand that beautiful people are often the ones who hurt the most.
She was a beautiful mess. Picasso himself would've been jealous he hadn't thought of her first.
What an honor to share the skin that she lived in.
Sometimes, I mourn her a little harder than usual. It's as if she were a friend of mine that let the dark thoughts win. I forget that she is me. I forget that she still breathes each time I take a breath. I forget that every version of me that has ever been is still here. The toddler learning how to wink, the kindergartener dancing in the rain, the middle schooler with her rock collection, the teenager who sang from the heart, and every me between.
When it was their turn to live, they didn't realize how perfect they were. They didn't know how good they had it. They never imagined just how much they'd be missed.
I wonder how much I'll be missed. I wonder what the next me will feel when she looks back at the pictures. Will she say I outshined us all? Will she long to wear the skin the way I do? Will she wish she had the curves, the tan lines, and the dimples? I guess I'll know when she tells me.
Until then, it's okay to Mourn Me.
Because, the thing is, in the Morning I'll still be Me.
