I feel vulnerable. On display like a museum, with all my fears, insecurities and imperfections. With everything that’s wrong with me. I feel like a pray in a gunfight. With nothing to protect me between me and the trophy-hungry hunter, nowhere to hide. From the world. From me.
I feel like an open, festering wound, with curious passers-by who keep touching me to see if I’m still bleeding.
I feel like I’m naked in the middle of an avenue full of curious, mocking people. Just for fun. No one has anything personal with me, but they all stare at me with interest and disdain.
I feel vulnerable and God knows I hate feeling that way! I hate feeling vulnerable, like an open book that anyone can flip through at will.
I tried so hard to hide, to be as others wanted to see me, to show only the part of me that is strong, confident, optimistic. I tried so hard to be perfect. For others. The perfect daughter, the perfect professional, the perfect mother, the perfect wife, the perfect girlfriend. At some I failed miserably, and at others I’m still trying. But I’m not perfect. Neither perfect nor how others want me to be. I am simply me. Full of fears, mistrust, insecurities, fears and needs. Like any human being, I suppose. But I was supposed to be different. Why? To be accepted, to be loved, to be overlooked for not knowing and not being able to do things. And what’s the big deal if you don’t know everything and you can’t do them all, you ask. I don’t know. I was supposed to know. I’m supposed to be able to. Anything. Everything. And to my amazement, day after day, I find out more and more that I don’t. That I don’t know everything. That I can’t do everything. And that I don’t even want to know and be able to everything.
I am just me. And that’s it. With my good parts, with my bad parts, with my mistakes, with my insecurities, with my successes, with my fears, with my pride and my all. I’m just me and that is that.