My Grandmother died of a heart attack when I was approximately nine years old. Unfortunately, I was home alone with her when it happened. It led to a preoccupation with death which has been carried through into adulthood. It caused me to have an intense relationship with my own heart. Every beat matters, every missed one could spell disaster. It beats thousands of times a day, to me these thuds are an indication of life to continue.
This life, an extraordinary gift to each one of us. Each one having to walk their own path. Is it therefore not wasted if we go through life trying to mimic others? Everyone else seems so much better. I have curly hair, yet I spend so much time to straighten it. The ethnic person with the bright blue contact lenses. The ever-popular weave of Africa. What about the Girl with anorexia who is still too fat. My Goodness, are we ever happy!?
The person you see in the magazine, on the television screen, the lady in the bus. They are perfect in every way, but are they? Angelina Jolie looks unhappy in the interview I watched. The paparazzi make millions from broadcasting her misery. What would I do to have that misery?
Do you see where I am going with this? I cannot and will never be Angelina or anyone else. The fact that I am here today is just incredible. I made it through my youth, I witnessed history unravel, and what a tale I could tell. So many words to share depicting many happy and many sad times. However, I am still here.
No one else could live my life. I doubt it would have turned out the same. Though many hardships I am as an adult happy, content and truly blessed. I never wanted to be like anyone else, never followed fashion, in fact, would call myself quite the rebel. We are all unique and all very special.
If it had been different and I was a victim of trends, where would I be now? Possibly very unhappy. You cannot keep up pretenses. It’s exhausting just thinking about it. I was not born me to be someone else.
I only let people see what they need to, or what is needed for them to know me. Every single one of my friends experiences me differently. Perhaps this is a wall I have put up to guard against negative opinions, or it could just be me stereotyping the person I am dealing with. So, therefore, they stereotype me. Oh, to be able to read minds. Possibly it is better not to know.
I often think I don’t have enough, always trying to improve my domestic bliss. How many people have sat in my home wishing they had just a touch of it. I so often complain about having nothing to wear, yet, truth be told there is no room left in my closet. Are we ever satisfied?
When I die, who will get my clothes, my household goods – Who will tell my story?
It is up to me to tell my story while I am here to give a true testament to my being. I was there alone. All that matters is that I have a beautiful story to tell, an inspirational one. One that teaches love, compassion the beauty of who I really am, not of what I’d like you to believe. Only our actions can narrate this tale. Be the person that leaves a path to be followed. Make sure that path is good, that it will lead to a beautiful place.
If you can do this, your heartbeat was not wasted!
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