soft

I suppose I can’t be angry at people for not knowing what I don’t tell them.

But can I be angry with them, if they encouraged me not to tell them anything?

It was made clear early on that things would be better if I kept quiet.  If I just accepted injustices, pain, humiliation.  That was the way of the world, and I could either learn to accept it or…there was no alternative. 

Feeling pain was not an option.   Pain should be ignored.  It is weak.  If I was feeling, I was being weak.

Emotions were never justified.  If I was angry, I was being irrational.  If I was sad, I should get over it.  Emotions were shameful.  So, so weak.

So I constructed a shell, hard and impenetrable, but I was so soft on the inside.  I am  so soft on the inside.  No matter how hard I’ve tried, I remain soft.  And weak.  I feel too much, too often, too strongly.  I cannot achieve the detached indifference that everyone so desired of me.

But I could not speak of these things. 

And now they know nothing of what I am, of who I am, of how soft and pathetic I am.  That’s not their fault; I have never introduced myself.

It’s exhausting pretending to be something I’m not.  The shell I wear around my core is heavy and brittle, breaking, slowly cracking for years.