Just like Meredith, I can’t pull off bright and shiny for long, but I’m very good at dark and twisty. (Incidentally, I don’t think she’s all that dark, but she is twisty.)
I think I’m quite easy to like, but I also think I’m very difficult to love. The more layers I let you see, you see how many more layers there are, and hardly any of them are pretty. Pretty on the outside only makes up for so much – more than it should, frankly.
I always have been and always will be a glass half-empty kind of gal; I have plenty of precedent for this position. Cut flowers and pets always die. I fully and completely expect the worst. I’m a fatalist, a catastrophist, a worse-case scenario proponent. The child’s shoe lying by the side of the freeway can only mean one thing. I’m depressed and anxious. I’m jealous and suspicious. My fragile self-esteem can be vaporized with the smallest slight, real or imagined. I care too much about what others think of me.
And yet, I have wonderful friends, a husband who adores me and the respect of my colleagues. How the hell did this happen?
The painting above is by Regina Lafay, part of a collection of art at the Survivor of Abuse and Trauma Art Gallery; this one is called Anxiety.