#bjhfbd

do you care what others think of you?

jordan cares about what people think of her more than anything — really, truly anything. she can’t make peace with the fact that not everyone she comes across will like her, can’t accept that there are people you just can’t turn. it’s a compulsion, this disease of the brain, that enables her people-pleasing tendencies. a girl raised on the outskirts of her mother’s love will forever feel the cold, and she’ll forever be that girl that looks over her shoulder, watching to see if anyone’s witnessed her.

which, really, that compulsion in and of itself leads to a vicious cycle: feeling alone, hollowed out, which leads her to love-bombing her friends, which leads to her feeling hollowed out again, which leads to her focusing on everyone else’s wellbeing, which leads to feeling alone, and so on and so forth. she’s been to therapy for it on and off, but it’s hard to rewire your brain when that’s all you know. it’s all-consuming, but she’d rather burn herself up than face the root of those feelings directly.

all of that bubbles beneath the surface, however, away from prying eyes. jordan has always been especially skilled at hiding behind her bubbly persona — perpetually just out of view — and although her friendliness is genuine, her honesty is not. it’s a farce: a diversion tactic used to distract the viewer from digging any deeper. you can’t take the time to focus on anything real when she’s too busy showering you in all these shiny bits of nothing. 

on a lighter note though, jordan cares what people think of her, because she wants them to feel safe around her, like they can be their true selves with her — a luxury she, ironically, won’t allow herself. she wants to be the warmth that surrounds them on a cold, winter day; the pair of arms that can make them feel at home anywhere, no matter the circumstance. jordan desperately wants to emit good into the world, purposely wants to touch as many lives as she possibly can, as if to make up for the unending, cosmic sense of guilt she feels; as if to prove that she’s more than her mother’s daughter. 

who would you turn to if you were in desperate need of help?

for a moment, jordan thinks it’s a mockery: some sick, twisted way of poking fun at the state of her. her body steels, waiting for an attack that just doesn’t come. part of her forgets, sometimes, that curiosity for the sake of it is a thing, and not every bit of information has to come as part of a bargain, tied to something more. the muscles of her face relax, but her body doesn’t — can’t.

“i dunno.” for once: an honest answer. jordan knows desperation like the back of her hand — she’s lived in a state of it for years — but that familiarity doesn’t draw her any nearer to an answer. no, she doesn’t really have anyone that she turns to — doesn’t have someone that she can bear to place that burden on. faces flicker by behind her eyes, but none of them stick. her lips purse. alright, maybe one of them does: “lev, i guess.” the one and only constant in her life; a face as familiar to her as her own. “pretty sure he could move the whole damn world if he wanted to.”

one thought unravels another, bringing a new face to light: the worn face of a mentor. a face she so desperately wants to call a father; a face she’s hopelessly trying to rework into another. it’s a mortifying thought, smearing her in its various shades of watercolor pink. jordan bites down on the inside of her cheek. it doesn’t help. “marr’s got power, too,” which is all she’ll say on that.