Be Your Own Heroine
This world of disease, it's bizarre. One day you are a young woman living in Miami, partying in penthouses on South Beach, blissfully ignorant of hardship and chronically absorbed in a world so small that the idea of other people existing in the town beside you, forget about other states, countries, or continents, is a notion that stays quietly tucked in your periphery until some sort of urgent, short-lived need requires you to consider life beyond yourself. The next day, in what seems like one monumental, astronomical shift, but is really a series of poor decisions and a never ending assemblage of fiendish bad habits, your pristine world makes an about face transforming itself from fairy tale to strikingly horrifying urban legend full of Jersey devils and alligators in the sewers.
Any day now you expect to find yourself, like the urban legend has it, buried alive, and you do, but not in the way of inhabiting a shallow grave before you’ve taken your last breath. It’s almost worse because you are slowly being suffocated by your own fear, worry, pain and self-doubt, and how is a mere mortal supposed to survive such a horrific betrayal by life? At least in the urban legend an upstanding citizen can walk by a patch of freshly tilled earth that wasn’t there yesterday and franticly search for help or use his very hands to give you back the life you thought you lost. Or better yet, you could awake in a cold sweat only to realize the horrific scene, despite feeling incredibly real, was only a harrowing nightmare.
Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, you often have to be your own heroine to have any chance at survival, sitting in a therapist’s office slowly chipping away at the heaviness perched upon your shoulders and the problems that threaten to snuff you out or on your knees in the privacy of your own home begging God (or whatever you believe in) for help as you surrender the outcome over to the divine. Some days, I don’t particularly want to be my own heroine. In fact, I pray for someone to rescue me, be it prince charming on his white horse or some silver bullet pill in the form of the latest and greatest cure, but both of the choices are short-lived. Eventually, when the high of excitement wears off, you come down only to be faced once again with yourself, all of your flaws in the same form they were in when you thought the life raft extended to you would bring instant happiness.
That instant happiness doesn’t exist, and it certainly waxes and wanes during each passing day. Some days I’m on it, feeling good and looking good, and other days not so much. But the most important thing is that every single day I try. I try to be my own heroine, and I try to be happy. I don’t mean to brag, but most days, I am able to find joy, and as long as I’m happy on more days than I am unhappy, I feel like a heroine. I feel like a success.