Wishing Death On A Part Of Me

I don't believe in suicide, and that makes things a little tricky. It's extreme. I don't want to kill me. But a small part of me, yes, I do. Her name is Shy, and I want her dead. 

Shy -- and all the other traits she brings with her (second guessing, waiting, missing opportunities because I simply don't take them) -- is nagging and annoying. She's smothering like a pastor is to his teenage daughter, or like a significant other fishing for some Instagram-worthy PDA. 

When I want to be let alone to just do my thing, here Shy comes, hovering over my shoulder like cartoon depictions of Satan. Whispering what-if's into my ear without giving the angel a chance to land on the other side of my mind and tell me go for it. You can do it. What have you got to lose? Go say hi to him. Go ask for a promotion. Start your own passion project. Ask and you shall receive. All that inner encouragement drowned out by the white noise of self-apprehension. Senseless fear and fuzziness. A barricade that I have no idea how to disassemble because Shy fixed it up good and tight, tossing out the instruction manual early on.  

When I was drifting into my late teens, there was so much that I wanted to change about myself. Physical things, mostly. I hated my feet. My knees. My bow legs. My boobs. My ears. My hair. My skin (never my skin color, though). I thought I was corny. Unpopular. A nerd. An oreo. A late bloomer. Luckily I did a lot of growing since then and eventually a lot of loving. I'm very happy with how I turned out and appreciative of the quirks God gave me. 

Except. Being. Shy.

That is the one thing about myself I wish I could isolate, extract and discard like a tumor. By nature, I'm a quiet one until someone gives me the okay to open up. When a person emits positive vibes, goofy even, I can drop enough of my guards to converse and laugh and joke. But not everyone is like that. Not everyone is going to have "I'm a jokester" written across their face. And that's okay. They have the right not to. They may be wonderful people. Helpful. Necessary. But closed. That's when I get shy. I turn into the person that doesn't speak until they're spoken to, retreating to her text message inbox to escape uneasiness and unfamiliarity. I hate that. 

Sometimes I think I can trick her. Shyness, I mean. I psyche myself up with a good pep talk. Run down my resume or the list of reasons why I'm awesome in my head. Cute guy in the distance. Project taking perfect form in my head. Job I think I'm perfect for. Show 'em what they're missing, girl! I tell myself. Then I make the mistake of thinking twice, and I freeze up. It feels a few degrees colder on the inside of my body. I feel dumb. I hold back. And I think about what could've happened in that moment if I didn't have cold feet.

Eff my confidence. My spontaneity. It's instantly cock-blocked. She shows up right on schedule, and I want to hurl both fists at the mirror without restraint. Shards of glass may splinter up and fly back in my direction, breaking skin here and there. But she'd be dead, right? The hindrance would no longer be there. I could do what I please, say what I want, step to whoever I find interesting or necessary without her attached to my hip like a conjoined twin. The freedom feels so close, so within reach...


But she always senses my cowardice, so she just stares back at me through the glass, challenging me. I back down. Shyness- 1, Me- 0.

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