I started writing this a few months ago. Some days it’s more true of how I feel than other days. But these feelings are always part of me, somewhere below the surface. I guess you could say this is a little but what my struggle with depression is like. There, I said it. I guess I just want everyone to know that if you know someone who struggles with depression, just because they have a smile on their face doesn’t mean their fight is over. Most of the time, the smile is for your benefit and theirs. For an idea of how that works in my life, read on…

 

I’m So Tired

I’m so tired. I’m tired of being fake, of putting on this mask so no one will see the pain underneath. Some days the mask cracks. But this mask is so well made that no one notices the cracks, unless they take a moment to look close. I fear letting anyone get that close. My mask is fragile. There are so many cracks. If someone but taps in the wrong place, it will crumble and fall to the floor in a cascade of broken pieces. Then to my horror, this Someone will see the real me. And, oh, the what if’s! So many times I have been hurt! What if what you see is repulsive? What if you find it annoying? What if you judge my pain and my struggles and decide that I’m just not good enough for you? You see these fears are not manufactured or far-fetched. Someone in my past, Someone with a face, using words I will never forget, communicated these messages to me. It hurt to the bone. Each time I added another layer to the mask, hard to protect against the pain others can cause. That’s the pretty face that smiles every time you think you see me. It’s the face that says, “I’m doing great!” Some days this reply is a lie. I’m sorry, but you don’t know how much it hurts sometimes to smile.  I wish you would look a little deeper. I wish I knew if you wanted to know the truth. Can you see the pain behind my eyes? How quickly the smile vanishes? The little furrow between my brows? The tears just below the surface, welling up? Maybe not. I’m sorry. This cracking mask is all I feel safe enough to show you. I don’t know if you can be trusted. I want to trust you. I want to remove this mask. Doing so would hurt. It’s been on so long it’s attached to my skin and my fears. So many times the pain of attempted removal has been amplified by the actions of others. So I give up. I strengthen the plaster. It’s getting heavy. The weight is exhausting to carry. So I’m tired.