Breaking Down Your Walls

I’m not usually the girl that has walls.

I mean, to start off, I never stop talking. I am an open book, a never-ending story, a movie that lasts way too long, an annoying great-aunt that won’t stop telling her life story.

But, for some reason, I’m afraid. Afraid to be myself in front of certain people. To show the people I love and care about what really makes me, me. What makes me mad, sad, glad and all the other emotions that could possible go with that clever rhyme scheme.

I want people to know who I am. The important people that I want to keep around, the ones I want to spend my life with. I want them to learn the little quirks that brighten my day, the words I so desperately want to say; the flowers that will always make me smile, the movies I haven’t seen in awhile. The things that happen to make me feel weak, the words that I’m not quite sure how to speak. My secret obsessions and words of aggression; favorite food and need for attention.

Okay, sorry for all the rhyming. Sometimes I get carried away. But that’s my problem, lately, and I haven’t felt like myself. I am getting carried away; constantly living my life as if it were a never ending performance for my audience. I feel stuck. I have everything a girl could possibly want. I’ve accomplished a lot of things. I love a lot of people. So what makes me feel like this? For someone who has never had a problem with finding something to talk about, I don’t understand why I keep trying to be someone other than myself. Why I keep boxing up my personality in fear that someone will judge me. Why I hide parts of myself from the boy I love. Why I let people run me over, time after time, and keep my frustrations chained inside my brain until I break.

I’ve never been referred to as shy. Perhaps it’s due to my loud demeanor, weird facial expressions, or random outbursts, but shy just has never been one of those words I put in the “Choose three words to describe yourself” box. Usually what comes to mind is “outgoing”, “loud”, “friendly”. But for some reason, those aren’t the three words that have been describing me the past few months. And it took the person I loved most telling me that he never has seen these sides of me that I describe myself as before, for it to really resonate.

Not only resonate, but stab me, deep in the heart. The words have crawled under my skin, run through my brain, and hit me in the face like a kid slamming his bat as hard as he could at his piñata. How could I have hidden who I really was for so long? I never thought that I would ever become so self-conscious, so ashamed of who I was. I try to make myself out to be nice, sweet, normal, with just a touch of crazy. Desperately holding back all of my lame jokes, inappropriate outbursts, spastic dance moves, strange sound effects, and desire to laugh like a hyena having a seizure for 30 minutes. When I shouldn’t be. I should be embracing my true self at all times, knowing that if someone doesn’t like me for who I am and how I act, then I don’t need them in my life. And if I want to be someone that another person can love for the rest of their life, I need to show them every part of me, good or bad, embarrassing or boring. I have to eventually stop feeling sorry for myself and live. Show the world my true colors. Which are very, very bright and sparkly. Because dammit, I like bright colors and if everything came with sequins and rhinestones on it, my life would be so much better. But that’s besides the point. Kind of.

I keep trying to cover up the fact that I am weird and spunky, like to sing 24 hours a day and eat macaroni and cheese at 9 in the morning. But I don’t want to keep hiding, for the sake of the people in my life, but also for my sake. I keep trying to not seem crazy, but that is never going to work. I am crazy, in a I-like-to-be-loud-and-have-a-good-time kind of way. I don’t care if I am weird, because there is no real definition of normal. We are all weirdos. I am high maintenance, hard-to-handle, obnoxious, loud and ornery as hell; but my heart is huge, I would do anything for anyone, and I just want to be the reason people smile.

The walls must come down. And even though it’s going to be difficult, I have to do it. For me. For my family. For my friends. And for the boy that still gives me butterflies every time he looks my way. Who, I hope, after seeing just how strange I am realizes that the rest of his life would be more fun if he kept me in it. And the chance for that is worth the risk that I am about to take.

Even me, the weird girl who is obsessed with cows and talks way to much; deserves a happily ever after.

And I fully intend to get it.