I need a fix 'cause I'm going down

After her return home from Europe, she became quite used to taking larger steps than her legs could handle, it usually meant tripping, falling and even getting all screwed up, but Eleanor didn't care. She liked her scars, she liked the memories of all her falls and crashes, never regret, she told me. I never got accustomed to this reckless posture, maybe because I grew fond of her "happy shiny smiley" self. After that party she spent months being "normal", plain, absolutely ordinary, she hated it more than one can imagine. I simply got to know her that way, truly believed she was just a shallow cheerful puddle of blondness. It was easy to be with her, no drama, no tears, she had no problems. I had forgotten about the strange scene at that party, until another event unchained a series of lapses of behavior, as if Eleanor was replaced by someone else, enraged and troubled, whenever people said things related to let's say optimist approach on life, even trivial comments on her humor started to thrown her out. That particular event, trigger to the new Eleanor, took place in Paris. I read her journal when I went to collect her stuff from the clinic. Nobody knew what she had gone through there, what he made her go through. And after such traumatic episode, she came back almost doubled. She could be sweet and sour, happy and sad, the same Eleanor, but restless whenever someone mentioned she was perky, intense, vivacious. She would always frown, her face darkened and ripped words crossed her lips: you know nothing about me, life, or anything that matters, for that matter. After a while she took up the negligent conduct that led her to reveal all the problems I thought, we thought, she didn't have. And that's when all the wounds and scars begun to show.