In real life, it is backbreaking, and what's humbling is the fact that it is never-ending. So, you cannot just say that you would endure this phase and get it done with. Haq!
There is a long line of phases, my darling, and your turn to take a chill pill isn't even number 1000. There is always a part of you that you have to peel off, willingly or not.
The thought of it would scare the living daylight out of you, so you would decide to hold it off, nervously waiting for the perfect time that you sure as hell know will never come.
Once in a while, you'll throw all caution to the wind and try to do it scared because everyone says to do it scared. I mean, how bad can it possibly get? Lee Min Ho—read as Leemao. You don't wait to find out because you don't even try.
It's like having a cold shower during harmattan. You'll dangle your feet in the water, hoping to gauge how deadly the suicide mission would be.
The first few drops on your feet send a shiver up and down your spine, and in response, your teeth chatter, and then it reduces to a wince.
You discard that method and decide to face it like a man, even though there is a difference of two letters between the spelling of your sex and this new identity of yours.
You resort to counting down to ten. You count to ten and realise that ten, though a round figure, is too short. You settle for fifty instead.
One to fifty is enough time for you to remember that you do not have any activity that requires you stepping outside for the day and that sometimes being able to inhale your own smell is a sign of self-love.
By the time you get to number 35, you've coughed up enough courage to wipe your face, underarms, and the other place where the sun doesn't shine and turned off the shower.
You'd go on to turn down outing invites the whole day, including the one that hints at stopping at your favourite shawarma joint.
Haven hidden in the shadows of people or things all my life, and slowly stepping out, I can tell you that stepping out isn't as robotic as nudging a foot after the other forward. It's like shedding skin—no. Scratch that.
It's like when a werewolf turns. (Cues in TVD.) The joints are jutting out of their former structure, forcing its owners to go on all fours—neck snapping, body wriggling helplessly with no time to wonder at how it is capable of what it's doing, claws sprouting from cuticles, and hairs (furs?) sprouting in spreads like the jaw of a man well-watered—“well-spirited.”
This might take a few minutes, but in those minutes, the thought that it might die would flash through its mind a million times. That's how serious the concept of change is.
Intrusive Thought Break—Who sold us that lie, though? That spirit, when applied to the jaw or edges, makes hair grow?
Going through a transformation isn't exactly horrifying to others, even though your eyes are blazing yellow and stinging, causing you to blink back tears.
To them it's just… amusing and something to adore you for; something to ginger you to try again when next you're weary of stepping into the light. Because don't we all need cheerleaders?
Change is easy, but only in movies.
Moral lesson? None—just a peek into my thoughts and present reality.
Ciao!