Masks

They say to smile. I say you smile if you want to. I don’t believe in masks, but I wear them well. I don’t like others to know there is something wrong. I don’t feel solace in the comfort of strangers, as if they understand what is wrong and can solve things with a pep talk. I appreciate their effort, will never tell them to stop, but it just doesn’t work.

You go off, seeking the therapeutic advice of a person who has read books on what you’re going through. It makes sense to listen, but it doesn’t make you happy. You let them into the deepest parts of you, parts no one has ever seen, and now they have a massive weapon against you. What if they think you’re crazy? What do they say to those around them, are they writing a paper about you, just changing the names and places?

How do you open yourself up to be healed, when people constantly tear at the same wounds. The scars never healing, just disfiguring you more. Are you okay with the scars, without letting them define who you were and what you’ve become? Are you like this because of them, or was it destined to be regardless?

With a deep breath I open the door. With caution I let you in. You don’t know me. If we passed each other on a street, you would never know. If standing together in an elevator, i would smile and ask “what floor?”, and the mask would never budge. Then you open this blog, you read my words, and the mask falls off…

 

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