Only The Lonely Can Play
Hiding. That is probably my real superpower. Hiding behind a facade of make-believe. Let’s pretend I’m fine, happy, and other pleasing lies which people prefer. It’s the game I play which never seems to come to an end. Just when I think that I can come out of hiding, something happens which makes me realise that I will probably die still playing hide and… keep hiding.
As a child it was the only defense I had. I was an only child. I was a lonely child. I was alone in the world against the world from before my very first breath.
My parents were monsters, but they were very attractive ones. Everyone thought they were beautiful. On top of that my parents told everyone that I was the monster. A spoiled brat. I accepted that role. I wasn’t good at it, but I did my best to maintain the family secret. I kept quiet. I hid the truth. I had no choice. No one believed me when I spoke out. So what was the point. No one believes me now either. I still don’t have a choice. I momentarily thought that I did. But it was an illusion.
I read somewhere that most people forget the utter powerlessness they had as a child when they grow up. I guess that means that I have never grown up, because I have never forgotten how I felt as a child. I still feel that way. The feeling is very raw. In many ways it is the only thing which is real about me. I tried to forget. But life didn’t want me to do so. Every time I think I’m free at last… I get reminded that I will never be free. You can see why death is so appealing to me. But I am cynical enough to be wary of death and the promises it holds of forgetfulness, freedom, and peace. So I keep going. I keep hoping. Hope’s a bitch. One day… no. But maybe. No. Perhaps.
I sometimes indulge in imaginary scenarios where justice is done, the truth comes out, and everyone realises that not only was I telling the truth, but I was underplaying the enormity of things instead of exaggerating them. But that is just a coping mechanism. Imagination, illusion, fantasy, those are my weapons of survival. I use them to make life bearable. But there are moments when they fail. Moments when I force myself to see things as they are. Because… well, I’m afraid of getting lost in fantasy. I’ve done it before and the awakening is harsh.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. I am sad. It’s different. I wasn’t allowed to feel sorry for myself, everyone else’s problems were always more important than mine. They still are. I was led to understand very early on that I didn’t count, my problems were nothing, I was lucky, so I should just shut up and put up with it. So I did. And I still do. I did briefly enjoy a period of self pity, but it was short-lived. Probably all for the best. Self pity doesn’t really solve anything. Nothing seems to solve anything. Maybe things are not meant to be solved, just experienced.
I’m tired. I’m tired of saying thank you. Tired of saying sorry. Tired of hiding. Pretending. Tired of playing this never ending game. But there is no beginning and no end to it. Just a middle. An interminable middle.
“If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before”
– Leonard Cohen, If It Be Your Will.