Everyone breathing has a secret, that thing they don’t want anyone to know. Or that thing that only few people know. I use to have secrets. I thought my secrets were huge. They kept me from being free. I masked behind my smile and the great look that others said I had. I thought I had the worst secrets of anyone in the world. My secrets were dark, they were deep, they held me hostage and kept me in fear. They were not life threatening or manipulative, nothing that would cause anyone any hurt. Except me… I would be exposed. What would people think if they knew, would they isolate me, take advantage of me, or would they think I was weak? How would people view me if they knew I wasn’t perfect?

Not just the imperfection where my shirt wrinkles when I sit down and, and my hair is out of place. I mean an internal out of place imperfection. I hid behind a mask so well that sometimes I didn’t recognize myself. But I had to or how would I be able to help people with their problems if they knew I had my own? I was in bondage to myself, the fear of being human. But I don’t have secrets anymore, they don’t help anyone. Besides, I’m free, and yes there are things I’d rather people not know but it’s life (Kanye shrug). Nothing I go thorough is for me alone anyway. So I share my story when someone asks. I never know who I am helping. I used to cry a lot because people would judge me. They would say I thought I was all that. Which for a long time was far from true. Whatever confidence it took a person to have to think they were all that, I surely didn’t have.

I was often not excepted because girls was intimidated by me for being pretty at a time I would rather have had friends then to be pretty. Judge if you must, but I was far past teenage years when I looked in the mirror and decided I was pretty. Don’t get me wrong sometimes as a youth I would look in the mirror and think I looked beautiful, but those days were few and far in between. But because I was actually physically pretty I was often mistreated. In the eyes of others I was stuck up and I didn’t need a compliment or it would go to my head. I would dress really nice and have my hair done just right I’d wear the biggest smile ever waiting for validation that I often never got from the people who mattered most . If I wasn’t being validated I had no value. The good or bad of my day was often based on how I was received by people. My parents moved around a lot and by the time people got to know me it was time to go. Thats military life. It had its pros and cons. Girls would pick with me at school. I had the appearance of a prissy girl who couldn’t fight. (That’s that book judging thing we do) What I learned quickly was it only took one or two fights in a new area for everyone to get the news. You gain the most friends or what appears to be friends when you’re young, when people are afraid of you. That was then and this is now.

The characters in my story have changed but the actions remain the same. As old as I am I still go through the same things with people not liking me because of how I look. I still hear “she thinks she’s all that”. By the grace of God, I am free. I would love to be liked by all but I’d be fine being liked by none. I wear no chip on my shoulder and if I come across as confident know that it’s not me thinking I’m all that because I’m beautiful. I’m beautiful because the confidence of freedom that I’m able to put on daily because of God. So when I’m addressed by people who say that “I think I’m all that” I know that it’s not anything I’ve done. It’s not that I think I’m all that. It’s because they think I’m all that. I’ll take that validation but it’s no longer needed.

I’m free. I have no secrets. I don’t tell anyone everything but I tell everyone something. I won’t post everything good that happens to me nor will I post everything bad. But if ever asked I will alway be honest. I’m not perfect. I’m most often nice but I can be very mean. I’m very sometiming. Sometimes I want to be bothered and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I love my body and sometimes I don’t. I often love my hair but sometimes I don’t. I don’t go a week with out crying but I don’t go a day without laughing. Sometimes I look in the mirror and don’t feel as pretty as other days. But I always believe I’m beautiful, I’m a living glow stick; and like a glow stick I had to be broken. But now I’m qualified to shine In the dark.