Ms. Curse

I think I carry a curse that no other person on the planet has.

If you think about it, I grew up normally and was provided with the things someone needs for a comfortable life. A roof over my head, three meals a day, and any snacks I crave in between. Occasional vacations and money I can spend however I want. Quality education and a chance to discover myself freely, without having to worry about responsibilities most of us have. Overall, I sleep soundly at night because I do not carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Still, I feel so unlucky. Not because I lack resources and opportunities growing up, but because I do not know how to handle them.

I’ve missed chances because I was scared of becoming a failure to myself. I push away people because being a burden terrifies me. I’ve received material gifts from friends and family, but I have either lost or broken them because I do not know how to take care of anything. And no matter how great the experience was, once I get home from the adventure, I feel more numb than before I went on the trip.

For some reason, I’m both reckless and hard to satisfy. Contentment does not come naturally for someone like me, and it breaks my heart.

I carry a curse because of how I present myself to the world. It’s full of pretense, of stoicism, and of an impression that I do not have problems that are impossible to overcome. I portray myself as someone adventurous, a woman who won’t budge even if my life has fallen out of its place.

But as I grew older, I realized I carry myself publicly with such grace because the problem has always been inside me, and if you’re someone outside, NOT looking in, you won’t see the hidden bruise left by none other than myself.

I am scared these marks won’t ever go away, and I worry that I don’t even know how to lick my own wounds. Actually, the thought of constantly having challenges to silently overcome terrifies me. I don’t want to keep learning from life; I just want to live.

I try my best to be grateful and to always thank God for all the blessings. I do my best to give back to friends who’ve done me a service and have proven their loyalty. Most of my colleagues consider me a fine woman who grew up gracefully because I know that I owe it to my family to ensure that I won’t be their shame.

I grew up fine, and if we’re referencing the societal standard of success, I’m definitely not a failure. But is “fine” all that matters? Will I just be satisfactory until I take my last breath of air?

What about my dreams of an endless adventure? My ambitions? My desires, both good and evil? What about me without feeling incomplete, with all the contentment life has to offer, and with every material thing just within my reach?

I want everything, and I will not be truly happy if I don’t get it. I lust for a life where nothing ever goes wrong. That is my curse.

After everything, I know that I will continue to present myself with grace and light. But in my mind, there will always be a voice screaming, “I’m not good enough.” In my heart, there will always be a crack impossible to mend. My muscles will always be on the verge of shaking, and my feet — wearing the classiest heels I own — are always ready to walk away.

I was cursed, I am cursed, and inevitably, I will be the curse itself to lovers who choose not to let me go.

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