You’d think I don’t have a lot of stuff that I keep to myself. Scroll through the archives and you REALLY wouldn’t think there’s a lot I keep to myself, I mean, for the love of pants, I am nothing if not straightforward with y’all. But there’s a great deal I do keep to myself, or save for my therapist, or more often than not, cry alone over. And it takes a toll.
I’m no different from anyone else in that regard – we all have shit that’s not fit for public consumption, and private aches and pains that tear us apart from the inside and to tell someone else, well that would mean coming to terms with it, really coming to terms with the stuff that we won’t dare say, all the ins and outs of our secrets, our shames, our pains.
And sometimes it’s better left unsaid.
Because there are things that haunt me that I can’t put into words, can’t make real, can’t face up to. And they bleed and bleed and bleed. And I keep putting band-aids over the bullet wounds and I wonder why it doesn’t make it better.
I’m no different from anyone else when I smile through a broken heart. We all do it, put on our best happy face and go outside every day into the big bad world, never letting anyone see how incredibly fragile we are inside. That would be too dangerous. A person could get hurt doing something like that.
Nail up the windows, barricade the door. Keep putting on those band-aids and hope that someday, somehow you’ll be strong enough to admit that you’ve been shot.