Trust and the benefit of the doubt are luxuries to some people. A gift even. Everyone has their own story – their own version of the truth, a rationale for how they act. Because everyone has a unique perspective.
Things have been rough lately. I’m at a constant, raging war against myself. Somehow, I’m losing. My friends haven’t really been my friends lately, or so it feels. I’ve managed to make it through the work day, but the second I get alone in the car I’m a complete wreck. I cry myself to sleep. I have nightmares. I wake up with puffy, red, dark circled eyes. I don’t really understand what’s changed so much in the last couple of months. I have a hard time getting out of my bed. I go to sleep at night with dark thoughts, hoping that I don’t wake up. I’m disappointed every morning that my eyes decide to flutter open. I go through the motions. Brush my teeth. Throw on some mascara. Drive to work. “No, you can’t have that day off”. “Yes, follow the One Best Way”. Smile. Wave. “Hi, How are you?” “Yes, I’m fine.”
I go to the doctor, I’ve managed to fool all of them too.
“Everything is WONDERFUL! I hang out with my friends when I’m sad. I love my job. Everything is finally starting to look up!” When in fact, it’s the exact opposite. I go to my radiation treatments. I tell them “I’m going to get through this. I’m not feeling any of the effects. I feel so lucky”. And they say “Brooklyn, you are so brave and positive.” And then they follow up with grave news. But I don’t dare cry, not yet. I smile and say “Oh it’s okay. Thank you so much for everything that you have been doing for me” They try to pry and ask questions. They wonder why I show up every week alone. I always have an excuse. But the truth is there’s no-one to go with me. No support system. No backbone. I am my own backbone. But I don’t dare tell them these things. They hug me and talk to me. I see the look in their eyes. It’s hopelessness. They actually pity me. I fucking hate it. But I smile and hug them back, they send me on my way.
It’s at night, when I’m alone, that things come crushing down. I’ve been pregnant, and he disappeared for the most part. I’m lonely. I’m dying, slowly. I’m empty. I’m sad. And the same thing I repeat to myself, over and over and over, even now, is simply this: I don’t want to be alone. Yet somehow, I know that is exactly what I deserve. To be alone.
In the end, while most people dig to unearth the truth. I strive to bury it.