(Part 2 of 5 in the Jaded Depression series...)
I'd like to think I'm pretty tough, with thick skin to protect me from any attacks coming my way. That's what I'd LIKE to think. That's what I tell myself and anyone who'll listen.
The fact is, I'm just a girl. I small, scared, insecure, lonely sad little girl, and a lot of things hurt me; wound me deeply.
Of course, I use my pride as a shield, full body armor, and no one knows how much I cry because of these wounds. I take up after my Mami that way- I'll shrug it off, flick my hand at it all and say, "whatever."
But what I'm really saying is "I've been hit, man down, call 911."
I won't complain, though, and I won't bring it up. I'll play the martyr (and the victim... Maybe I suffer from Munchausen by Proxy?) and chalk it up to life experience, live and learn and all that good shit. And just drown myself in the one thing that will never let me down.
Which is the only way that you are now able to know that I am a small, scared, insecure, lonely sad little girl. Because I used my words to tell you so.
But I don't just surround myself with my own words; many times, in fact, 85% of the time, I'll immerse myself in Ani DiFranco's words. Or Stephen King's words. Or Pablo Neruda's words. Or, as you read yesterday, John Cusack's words.
I don't care to speak these words out loud. Rarely if ever will you hear from my lips: I need help, I don't know what to do. Because saying them makes them too real. Oh, but writing them or reading them, well, that's just therapy. That's just art- subjective by definition, and therefore not real.
So for today I will use my words to say this...
I'm hurting. It HURTS to be me most days. It hurts to smile pretty for the camera and it hurts to laugh and breathe and be.
Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have some words waiting for me somewhere else.
*smooches...filling my void with GNR words tonight*
Axl's voice and Slash's guitar riffs will get me through...