I say it gets easier. I say there's light at the end of this exceptionally dark tunnel. I say it was worth it. That I'd get married again. That I'm fine. That work is a good distraction. That I have hobbies and friends, as though any of those things compensate for family. I say that I'll call you back, that this time I will email, that I'll come visit, come stay, that I'll be at your wedding, definitely. That I'm thrilled your wife is pregnant, that your nephew won a race, that you'll be in town in July and we will be having drinks, that I can't wait to see you. I say I'll book a holiday, relax, enjoy being alone for once. That I'll get in touch with my last living relative and finally let him know what happened. That I'll text you back, sure. That I'll come out, watch you drink and dance. That I approve of your new girlfriend, that I'll meet you in Soho. That I'm fascinated by the details of your new business. That I enjoyed the book you lent me and returned to you, spine unbroken. That I have somewhere to go this summer. That I have plans for Christmas, already. That I have plans for life, that I'm going somewhere, that I have ambitions. That I've started drawing again, don't worry. That I'm not spending too much time alone. That I'm sleeping better, without pills. That I'm taking my medication and going to the doctor. That I'm eating right and talking about things. That I feel better. Really.
What I don't ask is why people are letting me get away with these huge lies? Enormous, blatant lies. Easily disproved lies that I tell straight to their face, looking them right in the eye. Perhaps the truth is too uncomfortable, it certainly is for me. I prefer the lie, the dream, the fantasy, the few elusive seconds before I'm truly awake when I believe they're here with me. Why tell the truth? Why let people see that behind closed doors I'm a wreck and perhaps the string tying me together is made up of threads of memories and dreams and ghosts. The only person I trusted to see me like this is gone, the person who saw what I meant rather than what I said, the one person I allowed to care. It hasn't been long, but already I'm not even sure how she managed it. Where the cracks in my stonewalling are, the tiny spaces she infiltrated now closed in self defence. No more, not again, certainly not yet. Too easy, once people are inside, to be hurt again. Too easy to be seen. Really seen and known and the full extent of this pain exposed to strangers. No. I prefer the lie, the stonewalling, the safety. I prefer to return the book, spine unbroken.
What I don't ask is why people are letting me get away with these huge lies? Enormous, blatant lies. Easily disproved lies that I tell straight to their face, looking them right in the eye. Perhaps the truth is too uncomfortable, it certainly is for me. I prefer the lie, the dream, the fantasy, the few elusive seconds before I'm truly awake when I believe they're here with me. Why tell the truth? Why let people see that behind closed doors I'm a wreck and perhaps the string tying me together is made up of threads of memories and dreams and ghosts. The only person I trusted to see me like this is gone, the person who saw what I meant rather than what I said, the one person I allowed to care. It hasn't been long, but already I'm not even sure how she managed it. Where the cracks in my stonewalling are, the tiny spaces she infiltrated now closed in self defence. No more, not again, certainly not yet. Too easy, once people are inside, to be hurt again. Too easy to be seen. Really seen and known and the full extent of this pain exposed to strangers. No. I prefer the lie, the stonewalling, the safety. I prefer to return the book, spine unbroken.
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