I'm tired of fake.
I didn't realize where it came from, that I hated it, that it was even there.
But when she asks the hard questions, I resist. "Do we HAVE to talk about it, Meghan? I don't see any reason to discuss it. How does talking about it change anything?"
It doesn't. But not knowing what's behind a walled-in heart keeps me from changing what I CAN.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, she fights all the stored-up pretty lies as she speaks truth, so rarely uttered. "I know I sound like a brat...such a brat. But I just don't like it...you know?" She's timid, afraid to say that maybe, just maybe, her annoyances are founded.
And seeing honesty...it's beautiful:
She stands in front of the group, framed by the backlight of the small stage, recounting the worst summer of her life. She looks tired, no doubt running on little sleep and frayed nerves, but gestures wildly as she recounts, "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. It was literally like there was this wall of black and I couldn't see...There were nights where it'd be 4 am and I didn't think I would make it."
But she's here.
She is a testimony, a living representation of a woman who has lived through murdered hopes, dreams, and even close friends. She is a woman who refused to let tragedy steal her voice, who refused to shrink away from exposing what everyone else tries to hide.
The light reflects in his eyes as he queries her unintented grimace. She squirms uncomfortably, and I with her, nagging him "Stop...why do you ask so many questions?"
He levels his gaze at me as she turns away from us and scurries back to her desk.
"She shouldn't make assumptions. She doesn't know the truth".
He's not sorry. And I pause and realize that he shouldn't be sorry.
What happened to real, honest, transparent?
I thought I owned it, I coined the phrase. I mean, I don't lie. Never.
But here I am, faking a smile, a laugh. Answering "Good. How are you?" when I'm the farthest from it. Avoiding questions that I don't want to answer, or making up half-truths that satisfy the questions.
Why?
It's only then I realize I have a layer of cellophane over me. Where the edges bleed from past wounds--the plastic is thicker there. And the rest has just a thick enough coating so that it's shinier than it should be.
Where did this even COME from? I struggle to lift it up, but realize it's all stuck together, and I'm tangled. Tangled in the lies and the smiles and the make-up and the unasked questions.
That's when I remember the times that I WAS transparent...when the layers was thinner...non-existent in some places. Those were the times when I told the truth and was ignored. Or worse, mocked. Mistreated. Abandoned.
And the realization hits me, where the plastic came from. I put it there. Because it covered up the broken pieces of me.The pieces that I thought were ugly, that no one wanted to see.The pieces of me that were unrealistic, or jaded. The pieces of me that cried when I was hurt. The pieces of me that loved with such fiery intensity. The pieces of me that showed a dreamer, a hopeless romantic. The pieces that were real. The pieces that were ME.
Nobody wanted those anymore.
Right?
But I realized I did. I DID.
Because whether or not he hated me for it, whether or not she mocked me for it, whether or not he broke the deepest spots of my heart ignoring me for it, I wanted those pieces back. I wanted that dreamer, that ridiculous romantic. That sentimentalist cornball. I wanted that girl who would do a happy dance in public when she felt like it, because she saw a pretty tree (yes, a tree). I wanted the girl who wasn't afraid to tell the truth...who wouldn't lie just to save her own skin. The girl who would go up on stage and admit the fact that although she was called to be a counselor, sometimes she felt as if she NEEDED one (I said that. In front of dozens of people. Me). The girl who wrote the most diary-like letters to her BEST FRIEND because she wasn't afraid that he'd give up on her (he then did). The girl who would stick her head out of the Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera to feel the wind in her hair, even though the people in the next lane probably thought she was nuts.The girl who let the tears fall at the desk in the back row of Algebra II.
The girl who was TRULY honest. TRULY real. Who TRULY DIDN'T CARE what people thought.
That girl was me.
And I want her back.
