Story of My Life

Do I dare write about the details not normally brought to light by authors driven by the fantasy and escapism, not the little inconvenient and ugly details that actually make up reality?

It has been my preoccupation for the greater part of my young life to hold myself back, seeing the terrible and awesome consequences of never holding on. As such, every single opportunity brings for me dread so intense that it nearly always paralyzes not just my carnal being but renders me witless as well.

Countless well-meaning and hard-earned friends have tried their damnedest to placate my silly fears only to bring themselves to shame once the most terrible things I prophesied reveal their true form. And so, I fold in to myself scared a hundred times more at the accuracy with which I consistently condemn myself.

Coming out of my shell has become such a rare occurrence that I have earned the reputation of being an ice princess -- cold, untouchable, unreachable...virgin. But most are never aware of the agony of opening even just to catch an elusive whiff of air. I am fraught with the intense pain it takes for me to force my hand to pull open the door handles and the heaviness pushing massively on my heart representative of the dread that lies unknown beyond the slightest opening.

It is such a painful experience that I have early on resolved to only allow myself to suffer through that if the the light were bright enough coming through the gap between the door and the floor or if the torture of loneliness drove me into becoming a shallow little headless chicken running amok until the impassive facade of the door slams hard into my faceless, headless self. And once open, the brilliance blinds me instantly that I never truly know the face of what is beyond the door.

Blind, I am left with no choice but to hold out my hands, letting go of all things that anchor me and keep me safe at the illusion of greatness; greatness that reveals itself to be unkind to those that closed their doors on it. And I closed my door on it, a long time ago. Thus, I am the victim of my own foolish unkindness, my fears. I turn into a messy and ugly whirlpool swallowing itself alive. And it goes on and on. In my crazed attempt to protect myself, I cursed myself.

This is the story of my life.