I'm NOT weak. I'm not. I'm strong. I'm powerful. I'm beautiful. Charming. Kind. Loyal. Curious. Friendly.
I'm Jess. I'm all that I can be. Nothing more, nothing less. People might want me to be somebody else, they might want me to change. But I can't. I may be sad but I'm not weak.
But staying strong is unbelievably, painfully difficult. I'm scared, quiet, upset, sad, nervous, stressed, alone, frightened, angry, isolated.
It's like I've fallen into a pit, and I'm losing sight of the top, the opening, the light. I need somebody to help fish me out. But I guess my little pit is pretty invisible to most people. Maybe it's one of those pits that's all covered in leaves and twigs. To everyone else, it's just some normal looking ground. But from inside, it's the loneliest and most unsettling place I've ever been.
I may be sad but I'm not weak. Maybe to get out, all I need is me. All I've ever needed is me. I need to find me first. I'm certain I'm around here somewhere. I mean, how far could I really have gone? Shouldn't I now where I am? Just you wait. I'll find me. I'll be under a blanket in a corner, giggling my mind out. All jokes aside, this isn't me.
"It'll only define you if you let it."
What if I'm letting it? What if it takes over and I do something terrible? Something irreversible?
Everyone says we're too young to die at this age, but I don't get it. Maybe I'm only supposed to live until I'm 15. Maybe the next person is only supposed to live until they're 37. When you look at it that way, it's not so wrong. If I only have 15 years of life in me, then I've really done everything I need to. Besides, I'm sick of being so alone.
I don't want to get married or get a job or have a family. I don't want to sit around doing nothing forever. It feels like I'm almost done here, like there's a little oven timer in my tummy, and it's nearly up. And then I'll be finished. Job done, life complete. Because if you think about it the way I do, the way I think of only have 15 years of life in me, I lived it full and I lived it well. There's many tales I've lived to tell. So what's the big deal?
I'm already a misfit. Nobody gets me. But that's only because I don't get myself. It's tough. To not understand the person that you are. I feel like I'm constantly lying when I'm telling the truth. I always want something until I have it. Have something until I want it. I could happily sit in this room and read and write forever. Live in false realities. And create the hope I yearn to find through words, characters and stories that only exist in my head. I could easily never talk to another person again. I uphold perfectly wonderful conversations with myself. I'm all I need to get by. The rest of the world is just a hinderance. I already know what I want from "life". I want to have a warm place to sleep. I want to eat when I'm hungry. I want to have a notebook to create a world in, and I want an imagination to keep it running. I want to live in books. And I want to change somebody's life. Just one person. It doesn't even have to be that big of a deal. They don't even have to remember my name. But that's the final thing I really feel the need to do. Change somebody's life.
And then I'm done.