At this very moment I should be present at a funeral. I should be dressed in black, standing beside my parents while biding farewell to a genuinely pure soul. And even though I did not know this lady well, only seeing her a handful of times at best, I still should be there.
And why am I not there?
Why? Because I am a self-consciously frightened fool. Because I am completely terrified of the likely scenario of bumping into lost friends or acquaintances. Because I am afraid of these people seeing me as I am today; people I’d prefer to remain within the confines of my past. But mostly because I am panicked over their pending judgements.
I should be there supporting our family friends, a husband and wife who have gone above and beyond for all members of our pathetic little family. A duo who have assisted and sustained us from the moment you left us Maria. I should be there to personally express my condolences with this women who has just lost her sister after a tiring campaign with cancer. I should be there returning the favour and support to a family who gave so freely and openly to us. I should be there for my mother who not only grieves the loss of a friend, but will be grieving for the loss of you too Maria.
I should be there, not seated on a cream couch typing away on a laptop that rests upon sweat pant covered knees.
And I want to go; I wish I could go. I wish I had the strength and courage to present myself as I am; flaws and all. I wish I had the confidence in myself to attend and be damned whoever may or may not be convened or what people may or may not think. I wish I could pay personal respects to a lady who always showed me such kindness and who always gave me the brightest of smiles.
I wish I led an alluring life. I wish I could have turned up in a Jeep and strolled out into the rain in a tailored Stella McCartney pant suit. I wish I could have draped a small Chanel handbag over my shoulder, it’s interlocking ‘C’s’ distracting eyes from the girl who carries it. And I wish I could have bumped into someone I once knew and struck a conversation with them. I’d pray they’d no longer show me such disdain as they once did but become enamoured with the flower I’ve blossomed into. And how I’d see the envy lining their eyes over my success and lifestyle, one filled with travel and photography and published words.
How I wish I could have truly presented myself in such a way today rather than being that girl who showed up with her parents wearing some ill-fitted black denims, a vintage black band tee and a cropped black blazer (because that is about as dressy as I get these days). Worst still I wish I wasn’t that girl who still resides with her parents, single, unattached and depressingly on welfare. And though she may write, she has nothing to show for it except for a fashion blog with repetitive content. And the jewel she values most of all, the blog with her proudest creations and achievements is of course completely anonymous. I feel like a failure, without value or merit to society.
And surely if I see and feel this then others no doubt will too.
I truly did not understand the extent of my self-consciousness until today and just how much it dictates my life. I never realised just how much power it and fear had within me and how they both hold me back terribly. I don’t really know how one overcomes such strong feelings, especially when life is intent on palming off lemons without the sugar to sweeten my lemonade. But how I wish I just did not care for the opinions of sheep. How I wish I could be proud of myself right now, struggles, flaws and all.
How I wish I wasn’t ashamed of me.