A Short: A Girl Named Blue.

There once was a girl named Blue.

Blue was just another human on earth, another passerby between here and there.
But Blue felt like anything but a passerby.
Blue felt…well, Blue felt everything.
That was the problem.
Blue felt too much.
Life and Blue were synonymous – the pains, the joys, it all passed through Blue like a vicious wind, causing hurricanes and tornadoes inside.
Blue loved the city. The thing about the city that Blue loved was that you couldn’t escape the sheer life of it all. The people were everywhere, their lives spilled across the pavements, their laughter reaching to 30th-floor apartments, their arguments reaching higher.
Blue liked it. Life was meant to be lived, and this was her way of living. Eyes wide open, pen at the ready, soaking up all that happened around her. The beauty in the pain, the pain in the beauty – it couldn’t be ignored.
But Blue often found herself being told things that didn’t sit right.
People would say “don’t let it get to you” or “get over it” or “you can’t fix things for everyone.”
And when Blue heard these words, she heard so much more.
She heard “why can’t you just be more like everyone else?”
But Blue didn’t want to.
See, the thing is, Blue loved the way she heard every song with a deeper note, saw every sunset with richer colors, and the way she knew there was potential in a universe that so many deemed destined for destruction.
But Blue also bruised more easily – hence, her name. She hurt easily. Pain found it’s way to her heart and sat there, comfortable in its familiar surroundings.
When others hurt, she hurt. She couldn’t help it. It was how she was made.
As everyone around her carried on, eyes dry and self-assured, Blue looked at her wounds and wondered why she wasn’t more like everyone else.
So she tried.
She tried to swallow it all.
She tried to ignore the rushing winds, the broken sidewalks, the vulnerabilities that called to her from everyone who walked past.
She bandaged her wounds and wore the right clothing that protected her.
She could be like others. She could care less. She could be less affected and infected by the life around her.
So she lived. Eyes shut, heart closed, she lived like the rest of the universe. She didn’t let the pain in. The joy couldn’t seem to find her either, but at least the pain wasn’t there.
But one day, her armor cracked.
And life began to sneak back in.
And the tears began to spill.
And Blues heart felt heavy.
And she noticed her arms and her legs and her soul begin to look blue once more.
And Blue broke.
Blue was angry. Angry with herself. Angry that she always seemed to be hurting. Angry that she couldn’t just live like others seem to.
Blue walked, and walked, and walked. She tried to walk off the way she felt so different than everyone around her. She tried to walk off the way that life grabbed onto her and didn’t let go.
As she walked, she saw a construction worker, tired and heavy from a hard days work lean over and hand a napkin to a child eating a cookie.
As she walked, she saw men. She saw women. She saw children.
All living.
She saw pain.
But she saw joy.
She heard laughter, smelled warm, soul-lifting food, saw the young being kind to the old, the old being kind to the young – and she knew.
Blue knew it was worth having the bruises. Blue knew it was worth having some days that the world punched her in the gut.
Because Blue knew that every wound had a story, every bruise made her stronger, every hurt propelled her forward. Blue began to realize that when she was no longer afraid of the bruises, those bruises made her braver.
She learned that being Blue was not something that happened to her, but something that was a result of her being her. Rather than running from being Blue, she began to embrace the Blue in everything around her. She realized that the people who loved her most, loved her as Blue.
And life for Blue began to look different.
Blue knew that life would always be more for her than it was for others, but she also knew she was entirely grateful for that.

She was entirely grateful that she was Blue.

Featured Photo by 秋白 on Unsplash

I Don’t Hate You

Dear Extroverts,

How’s it going over there? “There” meaning the place that holds so much laughter and good cheer. Excitement, good stories, connections. It all happens there, the place that extroverts join together in unison in their extroversion.
I remain on the outside, an observer, a sideline-extraordinaire.
I am an introvert.
My happy place is an empty room, an empty bathroom, a quiet backyard.
My mood soars when I hear the key in the lock, representing all other human beings leaving me home alone. That aloneness is blissful.
I love being alone. My inner world is complex and miles long, and it takes me hours to travel the length of it. I savor every moment that I get to lose myself within myself, take the side roads and look at the scenery.
It’s how I work.
I understand myself.
But that doesn’t stop the introvert guilt from seeping in.
Why do I not enjoy spending hours on end with my dearest friends? With my family?
Why do I always need to escape, to find solitude for even a brief few moments of recovery?
Because it sounds incredible.
Your crazy stories.
Your raucous laughter.
Your late night parties.
Your interest in late nights.
It sounds like you’re living it up, and in comparison, it seems like I’m living it down.
But the way you seek to go out and chase the parties, I yearn to stay in with a book.
 To many, I appear to completely open. Until they get to know me.
I have several personas I give to the world and each of them are me yet none of them are actually me.
Most often is my extroverted mask.
That mask jokes around, talks a lot, keeps a whole lot under wraps and keeps smiling.
That me is the me that most people get to know.
That me cracks completely when it gets to be too much.
That me pushes the real me over the edge.
Because everyone needs energy, and my way of accessing it is by connecting to myself and getting away from external distractions.
When I try to fake it, when I try to act extroverted because I feel as if that is what is required of me, I sever my access point. My path to genuine happiness and full energy is ignored and pushed away.
It builds and builds and builds until it becomes a dangerous explosive, and either it’ll just destroy me for a short time or it will hurt others around me and that’s unfair to all.
Why am I writing this letter?
Extroverts, I am envious of you. I am envious of your ease and comfort in the big wide world. I am envious of your epic adventurous stories. I am envious that you can have such a traditional good time and nobody blinks an eyelash at your idea of an enjoyable night. I am saddened that I am envious. I am frustrated that I have to convince people of my introversion, that people are insulted by my unwillingness to spend an extended amount of time with them, that I have to defend my obvious thrill in a night home alone.
I am frustrated that I have to convince myself that it’s okay to be an introvert. It’s okay to be the way I am. It’s okay to have to recharge this way.
It will makes things harder. It will make things more complex and often painful. But it’s okay.
I am writing this letter to vent and also to inform you that while you are having your wild good time and begging, cajoling and joking around, saying: “come on, you’re so boring, come out with us,” I am closing up inside, and my mask is going on. Because I want to spend time with you. But I just can’t come out every night, unless you want to see me cry.
Sometimes I have to put my hands out full stop and disappear.
The mask is hot and stuffy and it makes me cry hot tears to be in it for too long.
So listen, dear extroverts.
I love you.
I appreciate you.
I find great joy in being your friend or family member.
But I am an intense introvert, and that has to be okay. Until you understand that my desire to be alone has nothing to do with you, I will be unable to rid myself of the guilt that permeates my alone time.
I am I.
You are you.
Let’s accept it and meet halfway.
I may need to take a few breaks, but I’d love to hang out with you.
An introvert of fantastic proportions