Mask

I’m looking in the mirror and there she is. She’s my dark trespasser and she helps me when I’m sad or angry. She’s not an extra personality, meaning she doesn’t take over my body and mind. She doesn’t give me a little vacation every now and again while she wreaks havoc among my peers.  She’s just someone I created figuratively to help me stay strong.

She’s kind of like an imaginary friend. You know, the devil on your shoulder. The badass who speaks through you, for you. She does this for me. I’m well aware that she is me, and I am her.  She is the darkness I kept hidden inside from everyone around me, it’s so deep and so painful I don’t believe anyone could deal with just how much is there. I get the “fuck it, why not” attitude when I feel this darkness take hold inside me and sometimes I act on it.

Tonight, I’m drinking whiskey and smoking, I shouldn’t be doing the whiskey since I’ve been diagnosed with Leukemia but fuck it, why not? I’ve been through two rounds of chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant already and found recently that I’m not in remission so the recommendation is another round or a stem cell transplant.  I’m going to be fine but I’m pissed off.  It’s all just another tear in my Universe.

They say “God never gives you more than you can handle.” Really? Is that so? Tell that to the millions who’ve taken their own lives because they couldn’t handle it. Let’s speak for a minute about this so called God who loves and protects His “flock of followers”. Does He care? Does He really care what happens to the meek who shall inherit the Earth? I don’t think so. I remember being five years old and screaming for my God, screaming so loud and so long that my voice gave out completely but He never came. He never protected me. He never stopped what was happening that day. But He did give me a shit ton to handle for the rest of my life, and He’s still giving to me, if in fact He exists.

So back to my dark trespasser, she’s simmering near the surface always. I feel her always.  She’s churning and bubbling right there, right there on top, I can take my finger and skim over her like water.  I’ve learned through the years to control it, to manipulate it, to use it. I don’t have to use it for anger. It can come out to play by being sexy, funny, intelligent, or sweet even. It’s all in who I want to be today.

People talk about the masks they wear. If they only knew. If you could see mine. I describe my mask like fine woven silk string, layer after layer so many it’s like a gold chain that knots, you know you’re never going to fix it without snapping it. This mask has taken years to perfect. It’s fitted with perfect jewels and paint, you’ll never find me. You’ll never fucking snap this mask.

I know you want to try.  You want to be the one who makes me take it off.  You want to make me feel safe and warm and comforted.  You tell me it’s all going to be okay and that you’ll love me no matter who I am deep down and you want to see me without my mask, you want to view the rage and the glory.  But I see you, I see who you are.  I see the looks, the gestures.  I hear the words and the snorts.  It’s all a menace.  You will never snap this mask.  The suffering it shields would burn your soul’s reflection into a shadowy wastrel walking in the moonlight.

What does your mask look like?

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Published by: allinduetime1

Beginning to write again after several years of being in the corporate world. A few of my posts are old stories I wrote in high school or earlier. Most are new. I like to write emotionally. I like to write things that are close to me or hit hard for me at different moments. I write everything, anything, whatever comes to mind. Some stories are true, some are fantasy. Mostly, I write for me, so that I'm relevant to me, so that I remember. Feel free to let me know what you think. I love feedback.

Categories hiding, masksTags, 1 Comment

One thought on “Mask”

  1. My mask is, as though, what I see when looking through a glass, what I see on the other side, it’s not clear what I see, looking through a glass. Small things of my past, things I have all but forgotten. The past is certain, but what I see vaguely before me is a door opening slowly, but unsure of it’s holdings, I can only see What I see while I look through a glass, squinting, glaring, trying to make sense of what I see looking through a glass, I thought was crystal clear. Looking Through a Glass.

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