I'm standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, attempting to fix my unruly hair. And the thought comes to me that the person I am seeing is not the person inside of me. The wrinkles, the sagging jowls, the sad baggy eyes; they don't accurately represent the real woman that is me. Or do they?
The woman inside is young. She longs to be free. She wishes for a better life. She wants to be loved. She is classy and confident, able to make anyone feel welcome and comfortable. She is an adventurer, longing to travel to foreign places, to explore this world and all its beauty.
The woman inside is damaged, but not beyond repair. She is hurt, but she can heal. She is angry, but she won't lash out. She won't let anyone know, not anymore.
The woman inside is smart. She knows what's going on, and yet she refuses to let it affect her. She is stubborn and is determined to stand on what she believes is right and what is wrong.
The woman inside has plans, ideas and desires to do something important. She wants to create beauty. She wants to create an atmosphere of peace for those in turmoil, so they can finally breathe. She wants to extend friendship and acceptance to those who have no-one who cares. She wants the invisible to know they are seen.
Yet, the woman inside is so tired. Exhausted might be a better word, for there doesn't seem to be any reprieve from the attacks on her mind. She tries to be in control of those thoughts, but fails sometimes. She ends up doubting everything she once was certain of.
