Self_Heeling

As the lumpy, dull cardboard boxes continue to pour in, my stomach fills with lead and the lump in my throat gets more prominent. My assistant’s assistant walks in with a box smaller than the others, placing it on my desk and hands me the delivery slip, waiting there timidly for me to sign it. “That’s the last of them Miss Bortonè,” she says hesitantly. She stares down at her hands as I pass her the signed slip. “I heard about what happened Miss Bortonè, are you okay'” “I’m fine!” I snap. “It’s none of your business anyway, now get out!” I follow her out and lock the door behind her. I know I shouldn’t be getting my mother’s belongings delivered here, but I don’t want to be alone, and in reality, now that my mother has passed, I am alone. I become crippled as the reality comes crashing down on me.. I can’t show weakness. Weakness is the root of all failure. It wasn’t through showing emotion that I got to the position I’m in today. I’m Rosie Bortonè for Christ’s sake, CEO and chief designer of Bortonè Heels. I have shoes named after me. I have an image to uphold. I open the smaller box on my desk first and memories flow out and fill the room. Lying on top of a mess of trinkets and keepsakes are my old, brown, scraggy, suede flats. I throw them aside in disgust. Why did mum keep these' They were nothing special, especially considering the prized memorabilia that the box contained. I pick up a photo that was placed in the same box as my shoes. Mum’s favourite photo, her and I, hugging on the couch, Christmas Day 2004. I was so happy and naïve, wearing the ugly brown flats that mum had kept. Mum was wearing her beloved ugg boots, which she wore every day, no matter the temperature. To me, mum was those ugg boots; warm, soft, comforting and always reliable. I miss her. In comparison to this photo, the pictures lining my walls looked cold and empty. Frames filled with deliberate poses and fake smiles, hugging celebrities and designers I’d only just met. In the centre, a printed canvas of Christian Louboutin and I, the man who initially inspired me to want this job. I thought this job, this life, was everything I ever wanted. The girl on the canvas is not the girl in mum’s photo. I don’t want to be that canvas girl anymore. There is nothing I want more than to spend my life with my mother, the one who always encouraged me to fulfil my dreams. Ironically, now that she’s gone, my job isn’t my dream anymore. I look down at the shoes I’m wearing, a symbol of my life’s work. One of a kind, award winning pumps that are complimented on a daily basis. To others, it’s as if I am wearing a piece of heaven. But what they don’t see are the blisters and scars that they have caused me. To the world I am my shoes; unique, desired, perfect. But behind the beautiful façade, the heel is a bit too high, the front a bit too tight and after a while, nothing but a pain to the feet that people cant wait to get home to kick off. People always ask me what it’s like to walk in my shoes, but the truth is, the shoes I’m wearing aren’t mine. I had spent my entire life trying so hard to walk in other peoples shoes, always wanting what I didn’t have. All my life I have wanted to be accepted, making sacrifice after sacrifice to become a person that everyone idolised. But what I now understand is that in the process I sacrificed myself. It isn’t me who is accepted, rather this fake version of me. A person I don’t want to be, not anymore. Picking up my brown shoes that I carelessly tossed aside, it suddenly becomes clear. My lost naivety, individuality and innocence are lying in my hands. I hadn’t realised how much I missed my childhood until now. The flats are so soft and comfortable. They fill my heart with memories of who I was and purity that I once had. I may not have had the world lying at my feet but at least I had myself… and I had mum. Slowly, I begin to feel my mum’s presence surrounding me. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Even from the afterlife, she’s taking care of me, helping me to find myself. I slip off my beautiful multi award winning heels and replace them with my brown suede flats. Walking out of my office with my heels in my hand, my assistant’s assistant busies herself, careful not to make eye contact. As I pass her, I carefully place the shoes on her desk. “Here, these are your size if I’m not mistaken. Thankyou for all your help today and thanks for actually caring.” Without looking back, I casually stroll out of the office and into the world beyond. Today is the first time in a long time that I have walked home, not following the footsteps of others but walking in my own shoes.