I have a confession to make, though you’ve probably well and truly predicted this Maria. I don’t exactly walk the talk and I don’t quite practice what I preach. I am a frail and pathetic individual, shrouded with insecurity and self-doubt. I’ve worn a consistent mask, cloaking something out of view. Something out of sight, out of mind and of what I can no longer be sure. I pretend to be someone I am not and I dislike this trait of mine. But what I most detest is the awareness of this flaw.
I am a big, fat fraud.
And because of this newly found perception I am overwhelmed with concerns and emotions when walking my sidekick around our leafy neighbourhood. I no longer enjoy fresh air brushing and soothing my exposed cheeks nor the sweet clarity of my thoughts since paranoia has taken firm hold of me. Delusions that the citizens of this suburbia are silently observing me from the shadows, predicting I’d wander past their homes as I do on a regular basis and judging me for it. I can almost detect their capricious eyes searing through those dainty drapes that guard the interior workings of that home. My ears burn in recognition to their words and my mind flurries with perceived insults.
“Oh there goes that girl who still lives with her parents, walking her dog during business hours. What ever does she do?”
Saturday night our neighbours celebrated their sons twenty-first birthday. A big ol’ cookout brimming with pretty young things and I naturally spent the night silent as a mouse and tiptoeing about in the dark in hopes of not stirring up their inebriated attentions. You see what I dreaded most was innocently informing those revellers that I was indeed home and alone on a Saturday night. And though there is absolutely nothing sinful in being alone on a Saturday night (I’m actually rather used to it now and am beginning to enjoy my solitude) what is utterly unsettling about that fact is that it’s my parents home. And that was what I feared most. I feared those merry youths getting their drunk on would finally expose my loser status and judge me. A grown-ass girl nearing her thirties, still residing with her parents and embarrassingly companionless on a Saturday night.
I wish I could stand tall and proudly exclaim that I don’t care what people think but truthfully I do. I bloody care, always have. I’ve grown up with constant judgement burdening me. I have always caved into peer pressure, despite what I may voice to others. I’ve spent my entire life being told I was never good enough and believing it. I’ve even witnessed this truth numerous times at that. Living under constant scrutiny by others has made me yearn to be like everyone else. To be “ordinary”, whatever that actually is. I crave wealth and I want it so I can obtain some semblance of that “ordinary” life that I see others so freely enjoying. I want to buy my own home so I can live without restrictions and without condemnation. To have an environment where I can dwell in peace. A roof over my head and walls teaming with brilliant works of art to inspire my overactive imagination. And maybe the occasional trip to Bali or the USA to relieve my restless soul.
I doubt I’ll ever become a trail blazer of some sort nor a style icon for the masses. I am a follower, always have been and I am certainly no role model at that. Not a pillar of strength nor poster child for individuality, even though I am different. I like to imagine that I am that type of proud individual but I’m sadly not, deep down at least. I let the opinions of sheep mould and guide me. I’m like Play-Doh. So you see what a total fraud I am? I want to be confident and fearless but I’m nothing more than cheap sparkling wine and will forever be an imitation.