I paint a picture.
A picture of a girl who emits a radiant glow, with a smile and a visual certainty she is happy. A girl who is put together — wearing a mask formed the way it was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. A girl who giggles, and blushes, and smiles so bright yet so carefully to make sure she doesn’t attract too much attention. A girl whose life seems perfect, with close friends and family, a relationship, good grades; things desired by those who do not hold them.
Yet the girl could break.
At ease, the cracks are covered, camouflaged on the surface; but within, seeping through is doubt, fear and panic. You don’t see that, but it’s there. It’s always there.
The colors splashing across the picture consume the girl, but do you see the worry in her eyes? Or the tears rolling down her porcelain cheeks? One more tear could shatter her. A fragile masterpiece, a beautiful controversy, as her mind limits her potential of achieving the world.
I am that girl.
I paint a picture of myself, where I form a broken doll, and my anxiety holds the strings. Where will I go? What will I do? I can’t escape my canvas.
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Thinkstock photo via Archv
I hope to share what I have suffered with, to aid others: in knowing that they are not alone, that they are not defined by their mental illness, and that they can be happy despite being encompassed by any kinds of pain.
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