This is the story of a woman.
A woman who always sat at the front of class; who always took extensive notes; who always knew the answers; who always worked her hardest. A woman with a brilliant mind and a passion for life. Who drove to that passion despite the voices whispering around her:
What is your passion worth?
She lives in a time where people are more connected than ever. She can meet her soulmate who lives hours away with a click or a button. Have a best friend who she very rarely can meet face to face. A time where we are all given equality under the law. Where our differences define us, bond us, and separate us.
She is the girl who never shined because her voice choked in her throat.
She was told “What are the chances you will be a best selling author?” She was told, “You have talent at writing, but what worth is that?” This is the story of a woman whose talents are judged inconsequential compared to monetary gain. A story of a woman who lives in fear of anyone hearing her voice.
Despite the sun that shines through the blinds, they are always closed. The curtains always stay shut. A front door that is always bolted shut. These are her feeble attempts to close herself off from a world that’s always turning so she can shine with the comfort of being alone. A woman who only writes anonymously online because the shame of someone reading her words is to great to bear.
The sun shines outside, but inside a storm rages. The weather broadcast inside of her is always running, with continuous alarm bells that scream out danger. But they never tell what the danger is. And usually weather broadcaster, ironically enough, is wrong. That doesn’t stop the storm. Rain drops fall as hard as hail, stinging and scaring her bruised heart. The wind is so strong it blows her to her knees. Unable to get up. Unable to see past the fog right in front of her. Those around her tell her to pray and the storm will pass on. They always do. It cannot rain forever. But the rain doesn’t go away. She blames herself. If she had only prayed hard enough; believed strong enough; loved enough the storm would been taken away. The storm beats at her for so long it becomes routine. She crawls through the winds out of her home into the sunshine. She eats whatever she wants because nothing else feels as good as the taste of food. The storm inside of her obsesses about the mistakes she’s made— about ever nook and cranny left unturned. The wind becomes so loud she can’t take it. She shuts the doors because the voices outside are too loud. The world can only see a model, hard working citizen—lazy about her appearance, but otherwise acceptable. They can’t see the vice grips around her insides, the storm drowning the life out of her.
This is the story of a woman who cannot look in a mirror. Who passes by one and looks only out of the corner of her eye. The story of a woman who tells herself “your happy with who you are.” But that never feels true, does it? All she sees is her imperfections. The rolls of fat that hang off her body like an anchor. She’s lives in permanent disgust of her own image. But it is all she can do to deal with the howling wind, the stinging rain and thunder cracks inside of her.
She is alone. A woman uselessly fighting a storm on her own because asking for help shows weakness. It is better to go into public places shabbily dressed as if she has just rolled out of bed.That is less shameful that dealing with the rain.
She isn’t strong enough to tell it to stop
And when her knees buckle hard enough under the wind that she can no longer stand on her own, a miraculous thing happens.
A hand reaches through the clouds. A hand that society has shamed. A hand covered in tattoos, a face riddled with the markings left behind from piercings. A hand belonging to a man who never put himself first in anything he did.
He can’t lift her to her feet on his own, but he gives her weight to lean on. He gives her a shelter to stand under as the storm rages on. She is still pelted by rain, the winds still blow.
But she’s not alone anymore.
He pushes her to speak— not for himself— but for her. He believes in her voice even when she doesn’t. He sees beauty in her when she cannot gaze on her own reflection. But she can gaze on the love reflected in his eyes. His eyes that hold the world for her. Falling in love with him was like slipping into a warm bath— easy, relaxing and perfect. Loved for all her imperfections. He gives her his strength when she has none to give. He pushed her to see that the storm could calm: she would have to step forward.
Pills hail like rain. Words such as Serotonin Overload enter her life. The storm only gets worse.
She doesn’t sleep. She can’t sleep. She weeps for sleep, and he holds her all the while.
All the while he has storms of his own. He never says anything. He never says he’s not ok. He never says he falls to his knees too. He never tells her that he gives her all the strength he has left, and leaves none for himself. He keeps picking her up and moving her forward. He arranges his goals around her constant downpour of rain.
Until suddenly, something breaks way. Someone listens.
Her storm is given a name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
She bucked against it. She couldn’t accept it. She was no hero. She had never survived a war. She was just to weak.
He told her that’s she was a hero in her own right. A different kind of hero. She had survived. College Degrees. Esteemed recommendations. A job that she loves with all her heart.
All the while crawling through the storm.
The pills they give her have stigmas. So she doesn’t want to take them. What would people think? But she takes them everyday anyway and the fog starts to lift. Giving her storm a name lifts the fog. It explains the storm. Gives all the thunder inside of her a meaning. It gives her strength to manage it.
Not all at once, but a little at a time. She can drive without fog lights, and she can see the road ahead. The rain becomes scattered drizzles. It still storms. That doesn’t change.
But the sun starts to shine.
She doesn’t like her appearance. But she has the will to fix it.
She doesn’t like the bare walls of her home, but she has the will to color it with love and life.
She doesn’t like that he gives her all his strength, so she gives him some her own. They walk with each other, carrying each other. Burdens lighten by opening themselves up and letting the other see the storms inside.
She doesn’t like that she has laid her passion to waste. She does not like that she has put her pen down.
She does not like that others cannot read her words. The voices tell her no one will like her work. No one will relate. She will be ridiculed. An embarrassment.
So she publishes it anyway.
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