I Wish

But you’re so nice and pretty. Bad things don’t happen to nice, pretty girls.

I wish.

People have said the above to me. I’m always nice. I’m always pretty. I’m always happy. And somehow, that automatically qualifies me for a good life?

I wish.

Why is it that if I’m good at keeping my problems to myself it means they don’t exist? Why must I share them with the internet for them to be real? Why must I log down every coworker with a story of my week? And if I don’t do this — it makes my problems less legitimate, you say?

I wish.

So maybe I am happy. So maybe I’m okay. But does that mean I’ve always been this way? Does this mean I’m not broken and bruised, scarred and shattered? Does it mean my pain is just a cheap device I use to gain a little sympathy?

I wish.

But I’m the one who listens. I’m the one you talk to when something’s going wrong. You’re having friend troubles? “Talk to her,” they say. Your job sucks? “Talk to her,” they say. You just went through a breakup? “Talk to her,” they say. And I’m always there — and I always care — and that means I don’t have problems?

I wish.

And as I deal with these breakups, and give them advice, they tell me I’m a good listener. They tell me I’m innocent. They hope I never have the same type of pain they have had.

I wish.

Because even without a billion breakups of my own, I know pain. I know what it’s like to be betrayed. I know what it’s like to feel alone. All alone. And I know what it’s like to wish the last candle in my life would burn out. I wish I didn’t.

I wish.

And if I give them both a shoulder to cry on, where do I go to cry? And what about these pieces — my broken pieces — that they don’t see? Who will put them back together? Who will replace them? Just because they don’t see them, does it mean they’re not there?

I wish.

And I’m nice and pretty. Bad things shouldn’t happen to nice, pretty girls. But they do. I hope they continue to.

I wish.

Because I am how I am because bad things happen to me. I care about people because I know what it’s like to suffer. I love people because they deserve to be loved. I’m nice to people because I want them to be okay — I know what it’s like to not be okay.

I wish.

I wish they were okay. But oftentimes nice people are strong people. They’re strong people because they’ve been shattered. At one time, they weren’t the only one who wasn’t okay. But now, I’m sure they’re fine. I’m sure they’re absolutely, perfectly fine.

I wish.

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.

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Shout out to all of you who are strong. Shout out to all of you who so graciously give up pieces of yourself to make others whole. I admire you. Selflessness is to be admired. That being said, I am sorry that sometimes you have to be strong alone. It won’t always be that way. I promise.

 

 

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