“You can do it,” he said, “You’re the strongest person I know.”
Am I really?
My whole life, I’ve been strong enough. I’ve taken everything in a stride, a smile on my face. Game on. But I didn’t always feel that way.
I’ve always had a bit of a reputation. I’m the tough girl. Nothing cracks my shell. I can take anything you throw at me, and I can just deal with it. I won’t be damaged. Will I?
There is literally a stigma associated with my name. “That’s Jaycee,” they say, “and she can whoop anything’s ass into the ground.” I’m proud of it, for the most part. But there is always this expectation around me to act stronger than I am, when all I need is to just cry and be vulnerable for a while. But I can’t. I hate myself for caring. I hate myself for crying. But I shouldn’t. It should be okay for me to care and to cry. But I feel like it isn’t.
Even with so many people believing in me, I feel so unsure of myself. I have to put on a brave mask through everything, but I’m falling apart.
And maybe that’s okay sometimes.
So why do I still hate myself so much?