trying

I try. 

I try really fucking hard. 

I always have. 

I am the girl who worked her ass off to be smart, to be talented, to be a good friend, to be the best at everything she did.

I had business meetings when I was 13, I was in charge of budgets by 14. I aced my classes, I got internships and experience and a resume full of volunteer work. I worked so I could have money saved up. I read everything I could get my hands on until I could have a coherent conversation with anyone from a construction worker to a fighter pilot to a social worker from Mexico. I learned hair and makeup and losing weight and how to be good looking. I learned to only sleep 5 hours a night.

Trying really fucking hard, pushing for what I want has gotten me nearly everything I’ve ever wanted. And I’m damn proud of it. While other teenage girls were hanging at the mall eating poutine, I was running a business, volunteering, tutoring and excelling. The amount of hours I spent improving myself have allowed me to have opportunities very few other people my age have had. Hell, opportunities that very few people of any age have had.

And I won’t deny that I have had help- my family is well off, they’ve always supported me in whatever I wanted to do. I grew up in a good neighbourhood. I’ve had opportunities to travel to exotic places. I was born with above average intelligence. (and apparently a larger than average ego, as well ). But there has been a hell of a lot of hard work too. 

However, I’ve recently discovered that there are some things you cannot hustle, you cannot improve with effort. When you push them, they crack. 

Emotions. 

Emotional maturity is something you cannot get, except with time. Up until a year ago, I didn’t know what feelings were. When I read about Helen and Paris, I wondered why the hell Helen was worried that Paris would be killed- he was duty bound, he would lose his honour if he didn’t fight. I didn’t read one of the most epic love stories, I read a story about the fallacy of lust and a discussion of ethical conduct. I watched sad movies, and cried because they were beautifully done, yes, but also because I knew I didn’t understand the depth of emotion. It was like being colour blind- everyone else was experiencing this wonderful thing, but i just could not grasp what it was. It was just out of my reach.

And then I went through a rough time and my emotions cracked. I was depressed, had post traumatic stress disorder, was completely fucked up, yada yada, whatever you want to call it. I hurt all over, inside and out and wished I could cut the hurt away, make it into something real, then light it on fire. I thought at the time it was all due to flashbacks and mental disorders, but now I wonder differently.

What if it was just me finally getting emotions? What if I am just starting to have the range of feeling that everyone else is capable of?

The more I look at it, the more I see myself acting like a child. When a child is learning to walk, they flail and lose their balance and fall and hurt themselves. When a child learns to write, they draw letters backwards, in wavering lines that climb up and down the page. My emotions over the past year have flailed and fallen and gone up and down, climbed out of control and hurt themselves.

 Huh.

What if all of my supposed pain wasn’t ever real? What if it was my entirely-too-accomplished mind making up an excuse for my feeble ability to control my newfound emotions?

Emotional stability wasn’t anything I ever tried at, was anything I pushed to try and make better. I just kind of assumed it would come gradually. But what if it didn’t?