I use to stare at it for some time. I was delighted with what I saw–at least that is how it use to be. I’d shimmy, I’d dance, I’d pose, I’d smile. . .with much certainty I was certain that that woman in the mirror is the shit.
As I write this I don’t have a clear message in mind to deliver. I am a writer; I know a message is important. But I perceive whomever reads this can get something out of it. I will not promise positivity. I will deliver a dose of reality that may smear.
If there isn’t a message here for you, perhaps you will walk away feeling blessed about your life.
Or maybe you will nod because you know this truth: I am not the only person in this world who has felt the lost before. I am being honest here.
It is difficult to admit that I avoid the mirror because when I look at myself, that bubbly woman described…
I’d ask rhetorical questions. “What happened to me?” “Who am I?” I have since grown tired of: I use to be this. I loved (keyword: loved) to do that.
The magnitude of experiences, which ultimately brought me here, cause me to tussle with typing.
But I am a writer, this is what I do. This is what I use to do. You see, I know that I can use the metaphor: puzzle pieces, but as my professor would say, “That is too cliché.” I may envision a creative simile, but it would not mesh well with the tone. Those literary tools fit best in fictional pieces.
I understand that now.
This is an essay about the reality of my life. I can’t seem to fit the fiction in the non-fiction. There were times in the past when I use to describe metaphors in conversation so that people would get it, see the entire picture. There were times when I’d have a grumpy audience who would ask, why don’t you just get to the point? They refused the concrete. And as it appears, I somehow shifted from fictional writer to essayist during my “transition”.
I didn’t see that coming.
So there are reactions and responses to experiences that your parents, friends, mentors and professors are not able to teach you. There were times when I cursed out loud, got angry at my parents for not preparing me to face real life grown up problems.
Or maybe they all contributed to my downfall. Prepped my future with lies, told me anything is possible because you can have and be who you want to be. If you grow up on sound morals and soak in all that you see and hear, you become a byproduct. A walking byproduct ready to soak in some more for the future. With that in mind, who should be held responsible for my destruction? The world or my past? Because I set goals, accomplished them and one-by-one witnessed them get snatched from me.
It’s not fun when you’re caught in the middle of the shit storm watching the very things you worked for sail past your face in the sharpest wind no one can keep up with.
Maturity smacks you here. This is the time in your life when you curse your parents. Why didn’t they warn me about this? You don’t call them for a week, and later on they wonder why they haven’t heard from you in such a while.
But this essay isn’t about what happened to me, it is about who I am now. Most days I do not straighten my hair. I . . .don’t care for my nails and do not have the cash for a refill. I have little food in my cabinets. I have a foreclosure hanging over my head and home. I shall have two college degrees by the end of this year.
I try to hide the tears but my two children have a knack for stepping into my bedroom without knocking.
If I were able to gain what I lost, would I then be the same person I was before?
I loved her. I fucking loved her so much. My kids loved her and they didn’t even know how much they did. My kids can’t even recognize the change but I can see a difference in them and I hate it-the good energy I had isn’t rubbing off on them. I was the happy person everyone wanted to be around.
That was my reflection.
I am Danielle.
I am Femcandee.
I am the main character of this.
I am the Mainecarerickter?