Coming Back

What’s really sad is that it’s easier to be peppy-happy, to be fake, than it is to be normal. To be me. To just be.

I tired of people seeing me when they have a crappy day, and getting mad, because their life is ‘so much harder’ than mine.

Quite honestly, I like being happy and peppy. It’s easy. Much easier than one would think. I like feeling happy. Okay, so it’s not true happy, just pretend happy, but still. I like feeling… light. Airy. That’s happy, right?

Maybe when you’re happy, you feel airy cause you’re not weighed down by the bad stuff. Or you force yourself to forget that the weight is there. Which is really easy to do sometimes. People or places or just having something to occupy yourself with can make you forget, even if it’s only for a moment. And sometimes, you can’t help but look forward to those chaste moments.

Do you hide like me? Behind this great big smile, that great big smile that somehow never reaches my eyes?

Do you look carefully for those happy moments? I know I do. But the thing is, they always come when you don’t expect them. When you’re not looking for them. Always.

Are you sick of feeling alone? Feeling… numb?

I have. For a while. Maybe I’m just chicken to admit it, but I am. I’m sick of being the one who is in a seemingly-never-ending good mood. Because, it’s not a good mood. That smile?

It’s just a mask.

I keep coming back to that. The mask.

Somehow, I’ll keep it off, for maybe a day, maybe two.

And somehow, I won’t even notice when it’s back.

But, I do have one outlet. For the me, the one that’s real, no matter if she’s smiling or screaming. I have this stack of poetry. I’m not kidding, it’s a freaking huge stack of poetry. I don’t write it very often, but when I do, it just keeps coming. (And coming… and coming… and coming…)

I suppose it’s a good thing that I have something like that, but if someone read it, they’d think I was suicidal. Or nuts. Or something along those lines.

But the thing is, I know I’m not alone like this. Okay, yeah, I’m pretty sure most of you don’t have loose-leaf papers stuffed under your mattress, or in your dresser drawers.

But I do know this:

I’m human. And so are you. And it doesn’t matter how often you feel human; feel alive. Because no matter what you feel, you still are.

So long as your heart is beating, you’re alive.

And so long as you’re alive, you’re not alone. Even if you’re in the dark.

Even if you’re confronting your own demons, be they inside you, or not. Of course, if you’re like me, it’s a little of each.

I’ve yet to confront all my demons. Sure, I’ve faced off a few, but hey! I won.

There might not have been this big huge battle, at least, not one to see, to watch, to spectate, but there was.

Nobody gets through a battle unscarred. Scars just come with the terriotory.

And ya know, sometimes, scars have fun stories behind them. Even if they’re scars on your heart, where no one can see unless you let them, or if they’re on your skin, where the world can see.


My Mask

Life sucks. Really, truly, freaking sucks.

And if it doesn’t for you, I seriously envy you and may want to kill you. (Just a little.) Or at least make it suck, just a little.

I have friends. I have enemies.

I have people who won’t talk to me, I have people who talk behind my back, and I have people who will just barely nod at me, or maybe give a rare, “Hey.”

I have a few good friends, and maybe, maybe one or two that I really talk to.

And that one or two, they don’t know a damn thing, cause I just don’t talk that much. Well, I do talk (a freaking LOT, according to some people), but it’s mostly just stupid stuff. Conversations are hardly ever really meaningful with me. Mostly because I feel like I give up too much information if it a conversation gets serious.

I seem like a really outgoing person. I get into stuff. I wear stuff that makes me stand out. I don’t pretend to be part of the background.

I’ve just really made this great big shell. Or wall. Or something. I know exactly how quickly people who you thought were friends can turn on you.

I know what heartbreak is. I know what true despair is. I even know how to keep a smile on my face when I’m screaming inside, or being shredded apart.

In short, I’m much more complex than I appear. And if you didn’t know me before the bright, printed shirts and smiles, you wouldn’t know.

Cause I’m just that good at acting. It takes years of practice, but I got it down pat. It’s actually easy to plaster on a bright smile now, when I get two hours of sleep a night, when I have horrible nightmares that come from no where. Smiles are easy. Sometimes it surprises me that no one sees through them, but sometimes it doesn’t.

I’ve distanced myself from people. From feeling. And I seriously know that I have. And I know it’s not good. In fact, I know it’s really bad.

I’m sick of pretending. My mask has cracked. And is falling to pieces.