I feel tired. I feel tired and old and heart weary.

"Why are you insecure?" my friend Laura asked me last night. We lay lounging on my old sheepskin rugs, gently resting in the folds of a smooth stone.

"Because..." I try to word it. I think of my childhood, I think of my mother, I think of myself.

I think of my rainbow sweater: garish in its primary stripes, and fluffy. A staple in my wardrobe, because it's warm, dry, and makes me happy to look at.

I see how people look at me. Sometimes it's with happiness, or excitement.

Sometimes, especially downtown where the suits roam, it's with disdain. It's with disgust, or dismissal.

I see them. I see them looking, or pointedly not looking.

My style, my self, is not something that fits well into social norms. I cannot, and perhaps will not, blend in to the downtown crowd. I have come to accept and appreciate that, but sometimes it is hard, when I feel the eyes, when I hear the giggles...

I have dignity, yes. I have enough dignity to smile, incline my head, and move along.

I have self worth. I have love, I have pride.

These things carry me through most days, but I cannot pretend that those looks do not cut me a little bit every time.

I long ago decided that trying to squeeze myself into the mold society left out for me was not going to be a very good idea. Following fashion trends did not make me happy, nor did complying to modern ideas of beauty.

But...but there are times I wish I was happy fitting into that mold.

Oh, gods, there are times I wish I was happy in that mold.

I pass the trendy wine bars and lounges downtown and I look in the window at the suits, their jackets off and their ties loose, flirting with women with fake tans in pointy-toed heels. Endless, endless streams of them, all alike.

And I look at the men, with their sensible hair-cuts and white shirts, and I think: They could never satisfy me.

(A sweeping generalization, I know, but still. From my brushes with corporate types, I tend to leave them dazed and a little bit terrified.)

And I look at the women with their precisely done make-up and streaked hair, and I think: I have nothing in common with these women.

Their automatic reaction upon waking is probably shower, blow-dry and style, make-up, clothing, etc.

Mine? Mine is ohgodgottafindcleanpants.

They slip sling-back pumps on. I lace my feet into steel toed boots.

They have manicures. I have calluses.

These things, they make me who I am. They make me proud but also, they make me different.

Different is hard. Take it from someone who knows.

I try to express all this to Laura, who listens attentively, but doesn't say anything.

I am heart weary.

I was hoping something would come of Alex, but I am no longer hoping. I do not think I could handle his promiscuity, although I would like to know his brain better.

My brain has been on a stutter for the past twenty-four hours, a stutter of: I cannot--I cannot--I cannot--I cannot--

It is echoes of Paul. It is echoes that send shock waves of fear down my spine.

It slingshots me perilously close to a bad time, a bad mind frame.

I will not go back there. I will never go back to that head space.

Never. Never, no more. I'm done.

I am tired.

.

Rosie.

Before&After