Do you ever think you are okay with something that has scarred you in the past and you rarely think about anymore? Then someone asks you a question, and in your inability to lie or lie well you tell them about the incident. As you begin to speak you feel fine, but you know this is going to hurt, but you can’t stop yourself. In your mind you say, “I am 38-years-old I can handle this,” You think this, because the incident happened when I was thirteen. “I can handle it.”
As you speak you can feel this facade that is your face rip, then begin to crumble, revealing the wounded 13-year-old that did not want to be the freak. She hated being different and she drowned in self-pity. You are not that person anymore, but with sharing the experience you feel the emotions bubble to the surface, and you think, “I am an idiot for opening this emotional wound. Why did I share?”
“Why did I share?”
I know they saw the pain I was feeling in my chest; the inability to breathe, as my lungs collapse on themselves. I feel like I am crushing from the inside like an aluminum can. The confidence I had work so hard to gain is gone in a second. When I leave, feeling awkward, wondering, “Why did I share that?” and “What do they think of me now?” I tell myself, “It’s a superficial scar, get over it!” The problem is this particular scar has wounded me so deeply, that I feel my soul ripping apart from the inside as I speak. I feel like I’m bleeding from wounds that cannot be seen. I bleed drops of blood that echo: Freak! Ugly! Maimed! Ridiculous! While in my mind people from my past gather round me to laugh and gawk like I’m a freak show.
“I’m not 13-years-old anymore! I’m not 13-years-old anymore!”
I know that I am unique and I’m beautiful, but tell that to the memories. The memories cut deep and cause me to feel raw.
