I am fragile.
It’s a fact that I’ve known pretty much the entire of my almost-22 years of existence. Yes, the girl who claims herself to be the most optimistic person alive, worries and gets affected easily with what others say about her.
I worry. I cry. I get hurt.
What others say or do to me may stir and affect me more than anyone can imagine. Trickles of tears running down my face can quickly replace a happy look. A cry baby, that’s what I’ve always been. I find my feelings getting hurt, even by the most petty and mundane things. Admittedly, I am sensitive towards almost everything.
I have blinded those around me by hiding behind a mask of smiles. I may always seem jolly and perky, but a lot of times I’m really just forced to put on a carefree aura just to make everyone think that I’m okay. I fool people with my smiles and bouts of laughter, just so they won’t see how deeply hurt and bruised I am. Behind everything, what I am is just a girl who often sinks into a deep hole of depression. A hole so deep that sometimes it is a wonder how I would manage to lift myself out of it.
People perceive me as someone strong. Someone who’s always ready to take on any life bump or challenge with open arms. Yes, I can claim that I am just that, but before the optimism rubs in on me, I worry and become afraid. Only a handful of people know how weak I am. Only a handful know that before I become the strong person that everyone sees me as, I must be assured of warmth and security that everything will be okay. It is no wonder that I find myself clinging on to people around me: my strength would never be built without their help.
I am fragile and I am weak. I seek the help of others to build my inner strength. I know that’s not necessarily bad. It simply proves one thing – I am human.