He said, “I never have to wonder what you really mean when you say something. It’s written all over you.”
I took it as a compliment even though I know he didn’t mean it as such. And even though many would say I wear my emotions plainly, they have no idea I internalize so very much. Sure, if asked I’ll easily tell a room full of strangers what I think, but I’ll rarely share with my closest friends how I feel.
Damned if I’ll let them see me cry, or know that I have cried, ever.
So stupid. And where did I learn that from?
They don’t know that I hurt. Sometimes not for me at all.
Sometimes I’m just overwhelmed because I know people I care about are hurting for this reason or that, and I am powerless to make it better. Perhaps that is what this is really all about. Its the ineffectual, powerless feeling I avoid by cowering behind a demeanor of feigned indifference or unaware casualness.
I hate it.
Its days like this that I want to sever all ties, deactivate all my social media accounts, and lock myself up in a cabin – far, far away from everyone. Not because I hate people. I don’t. My heart breaks for them and I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to make it better. You see, I’m the awkward person giving the stiff armed hug, robotically patting the sobbing mess on the back and telling them its going to be okay.
But I don’t really know that. I can’t make it okay. So who am I to say so if I don’t know so? Hmmm?
I suppose this is how men feel. Uncomfortable with the role of rapt listener with a supportive shoulder, and much more eager to analyze and fix the problem. Yes, give me a problem I can analyze and fix, otherwise I cannot cope.
But please note – my frigid exterior and unaffected poise should not suggest I do not care, do not hurt, or do not love you.