I've Got A Secret
Feb. 16th, 2003 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dielloHere's the truth about secrets: Keeping them makes you a liar by definition. And lying is really not as easy as you may think. You've got to come up with a plausible story that doesn't contradict any previously revealed details. It's hard work. But when you're attached to the habit, the hardest part is stopping.
I feel like a big faker. I've been putting my life back together and nobody knows. I think I need to unload some secrets right now because I am falling apart again.
I know my closest already know I'm trying to bring my pieces back together, but I don't remember what they know about before.
I mean when I was young. When I was just discovering the puzzel pieces. All at once, and it was too much. I was a wallflower. I saw things. Heard things. I had to keep quiet about them. And I had to bare the weight. I took the weight of the world onto my shoulders and felt it was my duty to keep it there. To not let anyone know. Because I was afraid that if I did, the world would come to a grinding halt.
So I stayed inside my head and it all just got heavier and heavier and soon I shut off. I wanted to be dead. I wished I could die. It hurt me to even smile. I could no longer fit any pieces together so I tried to make them fit. Looking back, I couldn't tell you why I thought it would help to cut myself, but I did, and no one knew. I was my secret.
And then I saw Death.
It was the first funeral I'd been to, and the others that were there... I could see it in their eyes. They'd gone through some of the same things I'd gone through. They know me on the inside better than I do, I'm sure. They noticed me and reached out to me and I discovered how rediculous my fantasies of death were. I wanted to be happy.
But the weight made that an impossible dream. I was born to be a wallflower. It was like I'd agreed to have that personality just to make things easier for everyone. So I was stuck. I use to think that if I weren't so good at pretending to be happy, I might be better at actually being happy. It was kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and say your name. And it comes to the point where none of this makes any fucking sense. None of it seems real.
I don't want to finish this rant. I want to laugh. Or get mad. Or shrug at how strange everyone is, especially me.
I don't want to be fake anymore. I'm beginning to love my life again.
I feel like a big faker. I've been putting my life back together and nobody knows. I think I need to unload some secrets right now because I am falling apart again.
I know my closest already know I'm trying to bring my pieces back together, but I don't remember what they know about before.
I mean when I was young. When I was just discovering the puzzel pieces. All at once, and it was too much. I was a wallflower. I saw things. Heard things. I had to keep quiet about them. And I had to bare the weight. I took the weight of the world onto my shoulders and felt it was my duty to keep it there. To not let anyone know. Because I was afraid that if I did, the world would come to a grinding halt.
So I stayed inside my head and it all just got heavier and heavier and soon I shut off. I wanted to be dead. I wished I could die. It hurt me to even smile. I could no longer fit any pieces together so I tried to make them fit. Looking back, I couldn't tell you why I thought it would help to cut myself, but I did, and no one knew. I was my secret.
And then I saw Death.
It was the first funeral I'd been to, and the others that were there... I could see it in their eyes. They'd gone through some of the same things I'd gone through. They know me on the inside better than I do, I'm sure. They noticed me and reached out to me and I discovered how rediculous my fantasies of death were. I wanted to be happy.
But the weight made that an impossible dream. I was born to be a wallflower. It was like I'd agreed to have that personality just to make things easier for everyone. So I was stuck. I use to think that if I weren't so good at pretending to be happy, I might be better at actually being happy. It was kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and say your name. And it comes to the point where none of this makes any fucking sense. None of it seems real.
I don't want to finish this rant. I want to laugh. Or get mad. Or shrug at how strange everyone is, especially me.
I don't want to be fake anymore. I'm beginning to love my life again.
