I saved 100 people

When I was younger, I always used to picture myself saving people. Picture 10-year-old Karlee lying in bed, staring at the walls of her purple bedroom and thinking about saving her redheaded love interest from some kind of tragic accident. Of running in front of a car right before it turned him into a bloody pancake and heroically, majestically, and badass-idly pushing him out of the way, letting it hit me. Which of course somehow resulted in me somehow living, him falling in love with me, and together, riding out the rest of the sixth grade (and impossibly infinity) as lovers.

I’ve always hated the idea of being the girl in distress waiting for some random dude with the good hair to come and save me from whatever bullshit I’ve gotten myself into. I’ve always been horrifically independent. I’ve always wanted to do things myself. To accomplish something myself. I’ve forever felt like I owe it to myself to figure my own shit out. And for the most part, I do.

But the thing is… Sometimes I feel completely powerless. Like the whole universe is flushing me down a toilet. Or giving me a wedgie. Or whatever it is that stereotypical bullies do to traumatize nerds. Some days, I’ll wake up and feel like I’ve got the sun in my hands. Some days, I look in the mirror and wish I was 100 different people. Anyone else but myself. Sometimes it’s so hard to be seen as a force to be reckoned with. As someone who can be respected. There is 100 people I’d rather be. A compilation of a model I saw on Instagram, that woman I saw in that red G-wagon on the freeway, literally any of the people I see who are ridiculously incredible at roller skating, someone who is a half inch taller than me, a professional cook, and a flying squirrel.

100 different faces and a 100 different bodies and different hair styles and life-styles and eye-color combinations and bank accounts and 100 different problems. I wish I could be them. Anyone else but myself. – And I absolutely despise it. I hate that I am that way. I hate thinking fragile. I hate feeling fragile.

I’ve been recently trying to figure out how many versions of myself I can come up with. Split style. Throughout all the years of my life, I’ve realized that I am more than just one thing. I am more than just one single person with the same alibi. I’ve realized that every single person that you bump shoulders with in this life can teach you something about yourself. That every human you make eye contact with sees you in a completely different light, in a completely different perspective, with a completely different mindset. Whether they think you’re rad, or obnoxious, or inspiring, or boring, or hot as hell, or ugly as fuck.

We are more than just one thing. We aren’t just singers, or artists. We aren’t just film-makers and concert goers. We are more than “that one kid who’s really good at the yo-yo” or the kid who can fit 12 jumbo marshmallows in his mouth for whatever reason. We are more than “sad” and we are more than “hyper”, “crazy”, “dramatic”, “bitchy”, or “annoying” or “weird”. We are more than the description of ourselves. We are like… A million different universes packed into one body that is home to a million different organisms and cells and atoms who can have the impact of infinite amounts of lives and homes and things and moments and even though if I took the impact of a car for a kid I barely knew it would most likely turn me into a penny after it goes through that penny-smasher machine only much bloodier, it doesn’t mean we can’t try and save people in different ways. Even of those people just so happen to be ourselves. Which is way, way more valuable than we think.