It's a strange, sick game we play, pretending to be what others want of us. Looking into the only mirror we know...the one held by another and slightly slanted, arguably skewed, but we want people to like us, accept us, so we transform ourselves into pretty, little make-believe selves so someone will love us and never see our warts of insecurity.
We portend to be real, to be genuine, but, alas, most are naught.
Dare I say I no longer care what anyone thinks of me? Of my manner? Of my dress? What kind of tiny minority does that slide me into?
We deny and hide our hurts, insecurities and fears...so that they may forever loom and grow larger, devouring us in our sleep.
Ha, and I storm into closets, beat the shit, beat the fears and tears till they run rampant out of the darkness and into the light where I analyze, come face-to-face and yell and scream and beat them into submission, into dust. I deal with my fears and that makes me a threat. I don't deny truth and it is more than most can bear. So, I growl and bear some more.
My dirty laundry hangs, in my front yard, flapping in the breeze for all to see. Turn away if you must. Walk away so your fears don't grow large and impatient and want to join in the airing.
I build myself a pedestal, so I can see how far I've come.
I can look back over the garbage dumps, the fetid sewers, the oozing slime of my youth. I can see over societies well worn road of the mundane, the trivial and their river of denial. The emotionally stunted zombies who walk by as if emotions, feelings and bad childhoods don't exist. They are everywhere.
Everyone walks with pain, some large, some small, most of it invisible to eyes, but it's there.
Society has ass backward rules, looks the other way, as long as you pay your taxes and go to church, you needn't notice the starving and the poor. You needn't open your eyes and see the children suffering with incest, beatings and hunger. Nope, everything is okay here.
Who ever speaks about how lonely they feel? How much they crave love, affection and someone to listen? Who says aloud how much they hurt?
Just walking wounded in pretty coats.
Maybe most are not hurting...but shouldn't they be helping the ones that are?
Just walk away, carrying your sack lunch and pretend that man on the sidewalk isn't hungry.
The artist and poet can be all fluff and butter or the truest in their unpretty wretchedness in words and pictures of the unpleasant realities.
Who doesn't want a pretty, petty, rosy picture? Instead of realizing that the sewer is overflowing and needs to be covered up...again.
The stench is stifling.
When I scream at night, it isn't so others will hear me...it is so I can hear some truth. Madness is a casual stroll amongst weeping buildings. If you listen for the deafening sorrow, you just might get real.
As I pour out my heart, people turn their heads and quicken their step. It must be nice to live in such a fantasy world where bad things don't happen to good, innocent people.
We are all innocent. We are all our parents prey, there insecurities, flaws and fears. Just some of us wear it better. Some grew up with a flower on the pillow, not sleeping naked on the floor.
You don't want to hear...how easy it is to make a sad, hurting person feel better. It's too easy, simple and completely out of your reach.
Smile. Look at someone when they are talking. Ask how you can help. Send a card, a short message, thinking of you, hope you are doing ok. Ask them how they are and don't look for a pat answer. Be willing to hear something other than marshmallow fluff.
Be kind. Be nice. Nicety is sooo underrated. Speak softly and slowly. Dare to talk about how you really feel.
Life hasn't been so kind to some of us. We, like you, just want acceptance and the ability to talk about large parts of our lives that we have been forced to hide and deny. Make it okay for us to speak our truth. Do not judge. Try and understand. Listen.
We seek connections from a very disconnected, confusing place.
I grew up surrounded by people that actively worked to trick and hurt me. Yeah, that left wounds and no clue as to how to trust.
I was told and treated as if I was a liar and a leper. That stings. Listen to me.
I was segregated, pushed away, treated like a pariah. Sit close.
I was routinely told I couldn't do anything right. Nothing was ever good enough. Give me a compliment, even a very small one.
Acknowledge me. Realize I have been severely wounded.
And I am working on healing. I need calm, lots of quiet, tons of rest and time to debrief. Just be there. Give a damn. Listen. Offer to help.
It's quite simple, really.
You wanted honesty.
If you read this whole tirade, I thank thee.