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A Story of A Girl

She wanted desperately to be accepted. To be cool and normal.  Not to be wierd and different. She became so good at playing a part in order to be liked and accepted, the outline of who she really is became blurry. Distorted.  Making it nearly impossible to feel whole. 

She still gets glimmers of what lights her up.  And then promptly judges herself as lame, wierd, and so painfully unique there couldn't be anyone else out there that feels the same. And then when she finds others that share the same interest, she judges them as lame and wierd, as a reflection of the disgust she has for herself.

She has given away crutial parts of herself as a sacrifice in order to be liked. And needed. And wanted. It's just a little girl, wanting to fit in. She never did have a lot of support being herself. Her desires weren't fostered and gently guided or fed. So she looked very carefully in the eyes of those around her, to see what she should be. She is so good at reading other's eyes. She needs to look there to see her own reflection. She tries to be the type of person she respects. One she is proud of. All with the best of intentions.  But all still at the expense of who she is.

While others look at her and say, wow, you are so strong, courageous, kind, intelligent, fill in the blank... I feel the little girl smile deviously, because it worked. Her game, her job, her survival task to make people think she is a certain way. Because how else would she know, if not through the eyes of another?

But the validation and confirmation that her efforts pulled off the grand show begin to have less and less power. It has begun to fail to satisfy that longing to be valued and liked and respected by another. It begins to feel hollow, as if the words rattle through a dry reed and tumble out of the other end, falling to the ground.

The little girl is lost. She is empty. She is waiting to be saved. She has begun to imagine that there must be one special person that will reflect back to her exactly what she never had.  Knowing full well that magical hero does not exist outside of herself. It feels like a futile and exhausting journey.  But there is a pattern. She was always good at noticing.  She noticed that she continued to find people that do reflect back to her exactly what she never had, and exactly who she is.  The only mistake she makes is expecting the blessing to fit around her like a glove warmed slowly on an old wood stove. Snug and cozy around all her weary edges.  But instead, when the blessing touches the hollow corners of her heart, it brings the metallic taste of anxiety. It grips her with fear. It rips through her mind like a million angry hornets.

In martial arts, they teach you to relax before you take a punch. To tighten up is to invite pain. It hurts because right before she's ready to receive the blessing, she clenches in fear.  To trust, REALLY trust, that everything happens for a reason that is beyond your control and knowing, feels like freefalling. Like suicide. It truly is a death of sorts. It is death of the ego. And that bastard has been working hard to maintain some sort of normalcy for this chaotic, seemingly helpless little girl for years. It has done a good job protecting her. But at some point along the way, almost by mistake, this little girl realized she is far from helpless. She, at her core, is everything she ever needed to be and more. And she is ready to believe that. 

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