She’s free spirited. She’s energetic. She’s young.
You might even remark or think amongst yourself that you’d like to know what life is like in her shoes. To be in young skin – maybe even twenty-six again – causes you to take an extra glance at her. After all, she’s lived at nine different addresses, another coast, and two different countries in a four year duration. You see clips of Los Angeles, Russia, Turkey, and a plethora of beautiful, fresh faces alongside her. She seems to always have something up her sleeve. One minute, she has a camera in hand, followed by a gallery of beautiful images in pristine light and shadow. Another minute, she swaps hats and is digging her forearm and thumb into a client’s neuromuscular issue. You see the Instagram and Facebook story flicks of life in between: The 8, 10, 15 mile runs at the first glimmer of dawn, how it quite literally takes two to tango (and rumba and waltz and swing and cha cha), previews of her conceptual self portraits she took during a depressive episode, random tidbits of pretty things in just the right light, at just the right nanosecond of time. She tries to keep it as real as social media is “real”, and you even comment on how her authenticity – even pain – oddly draw beauty from darkness. She seems to do as she pleases. When she walks into the room, she’s probably smiling or laughing at an inappropriate joke, followed by the aroma of either an essential oil blend, or Viktor&Rolf Flowerbomb, depending on how she’s feeling that day…crunchy or Parisian. She’s either dressed in a simplistically down to earth sandal and sundress, or a confident chunky heel; eyelids graced with liquid liner and a dusting of Urban Decay’s infamous Naked Palette. She’s often found outside the whopping one coffee shop in her small town; iced americano in hand and pair of shades atop her head. She has some wickedly great stories, quirky taste in art, and seems to be one of those people you just can’t quite crack. You diagnose her to be “one of those people” whose life you kind of want to experience, get to know, or maybe even secretly hate. In your perception, the odds are in her favor. She’s kooky, healthy, creative, eclectic, energetic, keeps in shape, posts about her beet smoothies and weird food concoctions, and in your eyes, she seems to just laugh off the weight of the world and things thrown at her. Maybe she hasn’t replied to your DM in a week and you assume – maybe even scoff – that she’s just living it up and doesn’t have time for you; that she has it that good. Maybe you even admire from afar and commend your perceived version of her happiness, her bubbliness, her supposed carefreeness. Maybe you see her as the epitome of young, wild, and free. Maybe you’re right. But behind her young skin…
maybe you’re wrong.
If she were to unzip her own self and shed her flesh like an exoskeleton – the unseen – there, you would find her soul. You would see her strongest ambitions, deepest fears, wounds of the past, and race track of thoughts that eat her alive. What you don’t see behind her young skin – the seen – is that she is weary. She is anxious. She is overwhelmed and steamrolled by life. You don’t see the constant pressures or skepticisms placed on her, or the stresses of running two small businesses, or the combined stress of a professional life and personal life. You don’t see how men approach her like she’s just a piece of meat to chomp on; a pretty face and pile of body parts. And how old it gets. How she would like to be seen for who she truly is on the inside and not just a fresh face on the outside. How she wants to feel like a lovable woman; not a fleetingly pleasurable motherf*cker. You don’t see the manipulative, suicidal texts sent to her and the anxious middle that puts her in. You don’t see her inner critic and paranoia and obsessions. Because really, she’s kind of a crap show if you were to see inside. She lost $500 of the month’s income just from last minute cancellations. She has a stack of medical debt on the dresser. She ran because she needed an escape. She ran because she woke up and felt unattractive; “fat”. She has a headache today because she drank too much red wine because her anxiety was too intense. She hasn’t replied or reached out the last 48 hours because she’s in the middle of a lawsuit, and her attorney had an urgent request and the tension made it hard to think straight. She’s told to enjoy life as a free woman, because life supposedly becomes harder the other way around. And she does. But sometimes, she desires for someone to just help bear the burden. Sometimes, the world feels like a mountain on her little shoulders. She doesn’t need to be carried – because Heaven knows, she certainly has the strength in her legs by now – but to have the mountain lifted for a few moments. That would bring relief. Her heart is fragile. She carries a roster of a failed love life, trust issues, and voices of the past. She smiled and laughed with you today, but as soon as she got home, she cried into a stiff drink and felt quashed by her own self. Sometimes, it’s not so much the big things that bring her to her knees, but the small things that build; like a thousand paper cuts on the heart. They are tiny but they sting. Behind her creative endeavors – the very thing that makes her heart beat – there is heartbreak. Sometimes, it feels like she cannot do anything right, no matter how hard she tries. Her photo gallery is criticized. Her voice can’t get the note right during the lesson. She can’t get the new steps right. Her injured hip keeps her from running. All the while, phone calls and emails and DMs and texts roll in. Friends, clients, attorneys, healthcare, appointments. Somedays she carries it well.