Silence

Silence

 

I can hear the sound of a clock, though my eyes can’t place it. The steady rhythm of the ticking is the only thing that breaks the silence. Now, the mismatched clicks of the keys on my laptop challenge the clock’s ticks. The two dueling clicks and clacks are generally drowned out by steel drums emanating from a cell phone or the gossip exchanged between friends. We layer so many things over the silence, never taking time to hear the things that are always happening in the background.

I fill my ears with anything to mask the silence. Perhaps because when the two of us are alone, there are more distractions than when I’m hearing beats and laughter. I have never felt so lonely, yet so surrounded by conversation as I do when I’m alone with the silence. I guess I’m never alone with it; my thoughts wail over the steady cadence of hands passing time. When I sit down with my pen, my mind is as blank as the pages before me. There is so much pressure. It needs to be something good, something with substance and meaning.

“It needs to be something good, something with substance and meaning.” What used to be a bare canvas is now vandalized with thoughts of the unknown. Does my life have substance or meaning? Do I care if it does? Not really, because I am more concerned with what people think of my life. They have such big plans for me. I’m the one living out their dreams of change that have been avoided because of fear… I dread disappointing those people so I push myself out of depression and into situations that drain me; I’m on the outside trying to look into what others see in me. Even the thought of stopping the clock is hindered by knowing the pain loved ones would feel without my existence.

So, I feed on that agony and let it feed on me to keep it from everyone else. It feasts on my happiness but I can take it. I am strong. I can endure. That’s what I reflect back into the world anyway. I don’t want the misery to latch on, to consume my family and friends; they deserve to be happy. Why don’t I? Because I am constantly worried about the time everyone else is having. I trick myself into thinking that giving them joy makes me contented. Alas, every emotion I feel is tainted with doubt so it never takes long to realize that, I too, have fallen for my façade so carefully curated for the public

I started with a smile. I remember being told that I always looked angry so I adjusted and made smiling my default. I smile, of course, at strangers whose eyes meet mine as our paths cross. I smile to lift fallen spirits around me while I spout out whatever the bright side of the situation is. I smile when I’m uncomfortable: when my feelings are hurt, when a man makes an inappropriate remark… I laugh off unwelcome hands on my body. I make jokes and let things roll off my back in the moment knowing I can lie in bed later and find them shackled to my ankles, pulling me deep into distress. I remember small details that most people aren’t used to someone noticing so that they feel special. Maybe I took the golden rule too seriously. I treat others with what I hope could satiate the bleakness I feel because if they treat me the way I’ve treated them… Maybe there’s hope for bliss, right? Except that people reel in the delight of feeling special and noticed. They take the little pieces of me I’d only meant to lend them and I’m left with nothing for my depression to devour making me feel somehow empty but dejected at the same time.

Sometimes I get so sucked into the void that I can’t concentrate on things meant to distract me from it. I zone out, I’m lost, and people notice. They ask what’s wrong as social etiquette has taught us to when they see someone not acting “normally.” I just wave them away with some sarcastic joke about being tired. It’s as close to the truth as anyone ever sees of me. I am exhausted from keeping up this bubbly persona, but I also can’t sleep. No matter how long I stay in bed, my mind races long after my body has reached the finish line. I think about how I could have been better. What could have potentially made me happy if I had just said ‘this’ or ‘that’.

When your entire existence is someone that doesn’t actually exist, it’s impossible to develop emotional connections. I know that if I let someone get too close they’ll see that I’m just a two-way mirror: a reflection of what they want to see, but what’s on the other side is a mystery. So when I feel myself wanting to tap on the glass to let them know someone is trapped beneath the surface, I remember that two-way mirrors are meant to be seen from one side… not both. I fog up the glass, find ways to distort the image they think they have of me, push them away. I’m only human though and sometimes I do tap the glass just a little because I think maybe I am ready to be seen. The problem with that is to get through a two-way mirror it must be broken. Some that I’ve let in smash through leaving shards of me scattered about for people to pick up and try to put back together. A nice pat on the back for them, they’ve seen me at a rare low point. I can see the smiles on their faces when their reflection is back after piecing me up, so proud of themselves. However, some people don’t burst through the glass. Some make a small crack and slowly chip away. I don’t even realize what’s happening until I’ve developed feelings and they begin to see the real me in the tiny gap they’ve made in the mirror. They may have had a more subtle approach, but they leave me broken nonetheless, and no one wants a broken mirror.

That leaves me with two options: listen to the crunch of glass beneath the heels of someone walking all over me or befriend the silence. And I mean the silence, not the distorted criticisms my mind generates to deafen the hush; the silence that is only broken by the fingers tapping on a keyboard and the hands pushing time forward. I listen for the click, clacks and the tick, tocks because I hope that maybe by sharing my story, someday I can be on the other side of that mirror… Reflecting the person I want to see.