(This post is not a thought about structured post. This is just me, rambling, vomiting my thoughts out, trying to make sleepless nights bearable.)
Sometimes I wonder what my readers think I am like.
What do people I know in reality think I am like? What am I really like?
In the 20 years of my life, I have spent the last 11 years lying about what I feel.
“How are you?” They would ask. “Terrific, outstanding, amazing, never been better”. I’d say all the things, I remotely didn’t feel.
The people who know me in real life would never be able to imagine the extent of my sorrows. So what, everyone gets bullied. So what, almost all women get abused. So what?
My feelings of despair were always tossed around by the people whom I was latching onto for support. Untill I realised that it was of no use.
Thanks to my years of practice, I have made it difficult for people to see through me.
I guess the better a person’s disguise – the deeper is his grief.
Although there is always a part of me that yearns to be seen, to be called. To be recogonised and perhaps looked after. But the possibility of being seen makes me vulnerable. And Vulnerability brings back memories. Memories of the kind that I have spent years pushing away. And so all my gates, and doors and windows are closed.
The darkness needn’t define us. They say. But doesn’t it define what we have been through and therefore defines what we end up as.
I wish I could look at myself from another’s perspective, and marvel at my pretense.
So who am I then? Just a mere reflection of what I was? Or a creation of my imagination. In trying to hide the depth of my feeling have I ended up as a facade? A mask of my true self. A bandage covering my wounds. So that nothing of substance shows at the surface. Does my surface define me then?