I laugh and dance and play and effervesce all over my own little world. My giggles run rampant and unrestrained, fueled by the delight I take in the world around me. I pull funny faces and sing off key, skate across the floor in mismatched socks, and skip carefree and breathless down the street. I'm awkward and clumsy, but don't take myself seriously enough to mind.
I snort when I laugh and drive around town with Yoda and Yoshi as my passengers. I go geek over a well-turned phrase or newly acquired addition to my personal vocabulary. I nuzzle my friends and milk the elbows of the people I care about. I'm a good friend. One who always listens, offering advice when needed and hugs always. I lend my shoulder for tears and my laugh for distraction. I enjoy making you smile, making sure you feel special and loved as everyone should.
But I also think and feel and hurt with a depth you don't give me credit for. Sometimes my smile is strained. Sometimes it spreads across my cheeks because the familiar upward lift of muscles is easier than giving in and breaking down. Other times it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep it in place so I don't shake the foundation of the image you've built of me. I can be selfish and cruel, jealous and vindictive. I cry. Sometimes it all rushes out in a wave that leaves me breathless and hiccuping, exhausted emotionally and physically by the sheer force of emotion, my face raw and ravaged by the physical manifestation of pain and frustration.
I've loved, hated, lusted, and obsessed. Despite my best intentions, I've hurt others. I've given too much of myself and had the pieces returned to me mangled and unrecognizable; and I've come out of it more jaded and cynical than I will ever let on.
I'm human. I'm complex, unpredictable, and driven by needs and desires that can never be fully understood or articulated. I don't expect everyone to fully grasp the totality of my personality, but sometimes the juxtaposition between what you see and what I am is exhausting. In the course of my life, I've managed to dichotomize myself to the point of personal tension. When my smile slips, I feel your expectations pulsing against my being. They pelt me erratically as I struggle to retain the Jessica you know. The one you rely on to make you feel better; to be a little silly, a little weird.
As I battle the resentment that rises in my throat when you look at me like I've let you down because my sunshine is a bit dimmer than normal, I suddenly feel lonely. In a room full of people, surrounded by sound and motion, I am alienated. Detached. Unanchored. To know so many, but be known by so few.
As much as I want to, I can't blame you: the masks I wear are my own creation. They've been carefully constructed over the years, molded perfectly to my being, keeping me hidden and safe and untouchable. When the day is over and I can peel them away, those interested in sharing my space lessen. The few that remain accept and love me, naked and raw as I am without my protective barriers.
The truth is, I'm just as beautiful and fucked up as everyone else.
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