Happy?

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When I look at a blank sheet of paper, I see the possibilities of what could follow. I see the ever widening expanse of something to come. I wonder what I can create, what I can show the average reader. I can show people what they want to see. I can show them sadness, happiness, love, hate, anger, jealousy. What they don't see? Me.

Behind that screen is the clean, put together room of a young teenage girl. I don't want my room clean, that's how it has to be. It has to have everything put away, hidden, stowed in the nearest drawer. That's how it feels to live somewhere that is home, but just barely.

I've lived in this home for 8 years. I've memorized the creaks of the stairs, the squeaks of the floor when I step on them a certain way. I see the cracking on the deck, the one stain on the wall. It is home, but I feel trapped. I feel the need to run and run, run forever. Sometimes I want to leave this god-forsaken place. I want the walls to disappear. I want the rain to wash over my face. I want it to cover my tears, to disguise my pain.

Internet is this rain. It is my alternate world, my reality that isn't real. My online life is how I cope with the real world. It is how I escape my feelings. YouTube is the wings that carry me off to some foreign lands, where some of my stories could take place. When I write, it transports me to the world I could never live in.

But the internet isn't who I am. I've spent so much time trying to figure out who I am, who I want to be, but it's never quite right. I always act as if I'm so happy, so content with life, but what you see is a photoshopped version of me. It is my picture, just warped to fit society's standards. The real photo is the unedited version in my camera roll. The one you want to find but have to go digging in the depths of my phone storage.

But maybe that photo isn't quite right either. You see, I can become who I want to be. I am fortunate enough to live in a family who is supportive and helpful in almost every way. They are willing to do almost anything to be there for me. What they don't know, is that they are only seeing the photoshopped version.

PhotoshoppedDonde viven las historias. Descúbrelo ahora