Sometimes, I do remember the times when I’ve always thought of myself as invincible—incapable of being hurt or touched by anything. And I do always joke about not having a heart. Because having no heart means not having to cry at all. Or so I thought.
Until I realized that every time I think those things, I was at my most vulnerable. In those times, I’m really crying the most. But no one—not even myself—sees those tears. Tears that most people shed when they are sad, or hurt, or angry. Tears that I refuse to shed even if I have to swear it to my last dying breath. The tears of a confused, hurt, rejected, and afraid child inside the mind and body of a young adult.
I never talk to anyone. Well, not about what I truly feel anyway. It hurts me deeply when I talk about myself. It feels like I’m reaping something from myself and pulverizing that part into pieces. There were times, of course, when I really wanted to talk myself out to someone, and yet when those times comes, all I can do is either joke about it, or I would talk in a very slow and runabout manner that the person I’m talking to would be bored to death already by the time I’m really ready to talk. I guess I must be really selfish in a silent way.
I value everything dear to me too much. Too much, that I often choose not to talk about them anymore because doing so makes me feel so naked. Of course, there have been those people who almost succeeded in unlocking the secrets inside my heart…but then, those people ended up losing their interest in what I have to say, or just plain lose interest in me at all. I’ve always—always—pretended that their inattention didn’t cost me a thing since that’s what I’ve wanted to do from the start. Leave me alone.
But in reality, being rejected that way, again and again and again, really really broke my heart. But they’ve never seen that in my face. I was always Ms. Cool. The Ice Queen. The Woman With No Heart. I guess I’ve never yet seen someone who could really see through my looking glass.
There have been people. People, who would sometimes astound me because they can somehow guess what I really feel about a certain moment, like my mom and siblings sometimes do. And I do feel they mean to want to hear me out, but then, of course, because of my selfishness, I fail again and again to comply. Until such time that they can only guess, but never understand why.
I always talk to God about this. Sometimes, I think that maybe God is also getting bored of my crying again and again and yet I do nothing to stop this suppression of my true self. But He always understands. And most of the time, I also cry about His understanding of me because I’m ashamed and I want to chastise myself for having such petty self-pity when I only have to look around me and see people with greater afflictions than my self-imposed imprisonment. How can I pity myself when I’m so much blessed than these people who have virtually nothing and God is giving me all?!
Until now, I still can’t understand why. And often, I tend to ask the Father in Heaven if He could please send me a person who can really understand me? Someone who can understand that when I talk, I feel alone. When I smile, I feel like breaking down inside. When I don’t want to talk about myself, I really want them to listen to me even for just a short while. Listen like I listen when they talk about their fears and sadness and happiness and loves and anger. Someone who can understand my weird sentence patterns and not look at me like I’m nuts. Someone who can listen and understand what I don’t say and realize the reasons I have for doing or not doing some things. A person who can understand that I want to be like other people who are vocal and communicative. A person who can love me with all my flaws and insecurities—a person whom I can really hate and love at the same time.
But I guess my heart is not yet ready, still. For even with all of my iniquities and doubts, I am still, but a little girl, old beyond her age, yet still a girl masquerading in a knight’s armor. A mind beyond her years, yet still the selfish baby always wanting all the attention she can get.
I may be a silent, pretending fool—but if a fool I must be to be humble enough to earn my King’s favor, I will be. Let my pity to myself come to cease. Maybe then, then, I will truly live.
rozie sto. domingo
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