concrete rose.
Who am I? Why am I awake still at 9 in the morning, wasting time on insignificant blogs. The more I grow older, the elss I realize I know...know about myself, mainly. It seems like I'm always learning something new, that I'm always questioning things. A rose blossoming through the cracks of concrete has been a cliche image used in everything from songs to poetry, yet the symbol is rather metaphoric in my life. Can a rose really survive on a busy sidewalk, without it being trampled on by some careless children or pierced by a business woman's merciless high heel? Or will it be tugged out from it's roots to be transplanted in a more expansive garden or will it be yanked out of its concrete home by a drunken fool who only throws it away on top of city garbage. Can a child grow with stability and normality in a home that lacks both. Can a child grow strong when she sees the person who needs to be there for her, cry and drink, cry and drink and chain smoke. all day. all night. Arguments, broken bottles, holes in the wall. Can she get past her own anger, her own hurt, her own anxiety and become something?
I constantly, and it's almost become a subconcious effort at this point, will do my best to give off an image that completely constrasts to who I use to be. I wear Hollister, watch Laguna Beach, look at me giggling and blonde. Tehee I like to shop teehee I'm a dumb blonde. It's just a fucking persona I can't get rid of, something that I go to when Im socially uncomfortable, but now it's become that people just see me as brainless, thoughtless, shallow. Even though I think too much, too fast for my own good. I have too much anxiety, I've had it since I was a child. I've had anxiety attacks and people misunderstood, "she's just crazy", "whats wrong with her". I've had overnight stays at the hospital, with nurses dolling out medicine to calm my nerves down. I remember in the hospital room, with myself hooked up to an EKG machine because my anxiety was so bad they thought I might have a heart attack. I remember praying to God to get me through this. Help me, God, HELP ME, PLEASE. I'm crying, I'm pleading, I don't want to die like this. I left with a prescription for anxiety medicine and five pounds lighter. I was only in there overnight. I shut out my past because of shame, I don't want to be that troubled sad girl. The weird girl with arm socks and tears and worries and insecurities. That's who I was. I still have anxiety, and I can manage it, I still worry but not to the extent it use to be. I want you - everyone - to see me. Not the blonde hair, not the giggling, not my anxiety, not who I dated or what I did and just see me. Not the arm socks I wore in high school or my pink hair I had once. I just want you to see/feel my heart. It's beating fast, it always is.
Here I am. Part of me is bubbly, giggly, feminine. I like Laguna Beach, cherry blossoms, art. I say random things and have had a strange and crazy past. This is me, imperfect..but who isn't? You can accept me as I am, or you can't. I'm tired of being ashamed of silly adolescence mistakes, I'm tired of trying to prove to people I'm more than blonde hair. I am not some bubblegum goth anymore, but I'm not some flaxen haired ditz. I am just me, the best I can be right now. I'm learning, trying to be the best me.
I want to be that concrete rose, defeating the odds. Becoming something despite the environment. Becoming something despite itself.
