Even when you do break through the shell that you learned to hate, you still carry all of those insecurities with you. You’re still left to battle with all of your old beliefs about yourself and try to forget all of those words people called you.
Our family wasn’t perfect, and neither was our house.
At some point, I became too afraid to be myself and reveal every part of me no matter how raw and ugly.
Everyone acts like the people in our lives are permanent, and it doesn’t have to be that way.
This is for all of the girls that wear their heart on their sleeve. The girls that love too much, too quickly, that tell their secrets too soon because they want someone to listen and not just hear them.
I felt wrong for asking at all, for being myself. Day after day it was millions of questions on what I’m doing wrong, why I’m not good enough to be more to you.
The second worst part next to heartbreak is getting over it. For me, it’s the same kind of grief you experience as when a relative or loved one dies.
Just like the warmer parts out of the shade, I’m okay most days. But then when it comes to be dark out, like March, your absence is not to be forgotten.
Here I am. Almost twenty three years old, and I still struggle day to day with my eating habits.
For so long, I have spent my short twenty-something adult life pretending that I’m the bravest woman ever. I have pretended not to care, to be aloof because everyone strives to not give a shit about anything these days.