More Than Meets the Eye
I can’t tell you how excited I am about our guest today. It’s her first time on any blog, so please be kind to her. Instead of a traditional introduction, I’ll let her take the stage herself, so without further ado … please help me welcome our guest writer today, and be sure and give her some love in the comments section. ~Mandi
I don’t understand women. I try, but you all seem to be an enigma, a game I can’t quite master. And here’s the funny part. I’m one of you.
I can blame it on my looks. Sure, why would any woman like me? I’m tall, tan, blonde, and strikingly handsome. Your husbands turn their heads to stare at my breasts. I hear them whisper when I walk by about my legs, my ass, my body. I see the way you look at me with distaste. Disgust. Envy. You don’t want to be my friend. You don’t even want to know my name. You hate me, and you’ve never spoken to me.
I could be a philanthropist, volunteering my time at orphanages, feeding hungry animals, or rocking crack babies in the NICU, but you couldn’t see that even if it were true. (It’s not.) You see my exterior, a perfectly augmented polished blonde, and you hate me.
It’s okay. I don’t really care for you either.
I look at you with your perfect cookie cutter families, your matching precious children with their monogrammed jon jons and rompers, and I try to make myself fit into that mold, to be someone who is loving and kind and warm and motherly, but it’s not me.
I’m selfish and arrogant and unwilling to love.
Why, you wonder.
A lifetime of disappointment.
I grew up in the lap of luxury, an ever ready silver spoon at my lips feeding me whatever my little heart desired, mostly monetary things: clothes, cars, designer shoes. I learned what to do to get what I wanted. I toyed with manipulation from a young age and mastered the art of subtle control by the time I could legally drive a car, and at twenty-nine years old, I’ve perfected the craft. See? You’re still here, reading this, aren’t you? I’ve made you want to know who I am.
Who is this person spewing on this blog that is dedicated to supporting women about how she hates women?
I’ll tell you.
I’m human. That’s who I am. I have depth and feeling and shockingly (even to me), a heart that beats and breaks just like yours.
I’ve felt the thrill of excitement that comes with a conquest I join for a one night stand. The power I have over him as he worships my body, the joy I feel when I walk away from him, leaving him hungry for more his scent still heavy on my skin. I also know what it’s like when he takes it without my consent, when he shoves me up against a wall and cracks my head on the brick.
I may not show it. You can’t see from the outside, but I’ve experienced loss and grief and love and abandonment.
I’ve laid in my bed in my downtown apartment paid for by money I didn’t have to earn, and still it’s not enough. I’m not enough.
I hear the whispers of the voices in my head that tell me I don’t deserve to live.
I wake up every day with them. Often they’re shouting.
Every single morning, I place the one little pill on the tip of my tongue and swallow it with a drink of water while the other pills in my medicine cabinet scream at me to take them. All of them. To finish it.
So stop looking at me with disgust.
I’m beautiful but broken. Confident but terrified. Bold but fragile. Egotistical but insecure.
I am a woman just like you.
Paige Preston is the main character and narrator of my debut novel, Dear Stephanie, which is scheduled to be released ONE WEEK FROM TODAY!!! Click here to pre-order your ebook today.
In addition to her struggle with depression, Paige writes about sex, her affluent lifestyle, therapy, and her inability to love. She is gritty, funny, and shallow, but as she peels away the mask that protects her facade, you get a glimpse of the fragile human that lives beneath it.
I hope you enjoyed my little tease, but I thought it might be fun to let Paige do the talking. So tell me, what do you think of her? Do you hate her? Are you intrigued?