Nothing is perfect. The girl that had the perfect fiance and got a job right out of college can no longer get up in the morning. His addictions are back, her pregnancy was earlier than planned; their parents are getting divorced. A best friend and an uncle die in the same month - both deaths by suicide. A brother gets cancer, a sister gets kicked out of the house; a student loan falls through. Nothing is perfect.
But everything is worth it. Amaretto Sours and Gin & Tonics, telling secrets; smoking cigarettes. Whispered sarcasm, pregnancy jokes; overwhelming baby stores. Solid memories, tears drowned in worn and soft sweatshirts; relationships that change lives. Drinking too much, sleeping too little; living too hard. Everything is worth it.
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For a long time, I couldn't remember what happy felt like. Was it when you laughed? When the tears finally stopped? When you managed a fake smile? For years I pretended. I pretended that I was okay, that I found things funny; that I knew how to smile. I hated laughter because it felt fake. I tried to find things to numb a pain I didn't understand.
Then one day a redhead hugged me. A brunette cared when I was sad. A boy danced around in bare feet. People wanted to be my friend - to see me smile, hear me laugh. Help me succeed and watch me surpass their expectations. The grass got greener; the flowers more yellow - everything lost its grey tint.
Coffee tasted good. Country music made me smile. I could get out of bed in the morning.
I always assumed that I was the way that I was because I wasn't strong enough to fix myself. And then the people walked in to my life that were supposed to be there - the ones that taught me that I was strong enough, and that I didn't have to do everything alone. The redhead. The brunette. The barefooted boy. The curly-haired best friend.
It remains that nothing is perfect. But all of a sudden every imperfection, every tear and ache of sadness is devastatingly worth it.
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