To suffer alone, or to open up.  Forever the question.

I tend to suffer almost entirely alone, allowing a few select people a glimpse into my life as it truly is.  I’m the queen of a poker face.  I’ve had to be for much of my life, to get through alive and in one piece. But when does it become worse to allow even those regular voyeurs their peek?  And when the truth spills out later, the resentment negates any sparing of pain.

There’s no winning, sometimes.  I forget that.

Sometimes, perfection can be perfect hell…

In painful need, I reach out a hand, desperate for contact.  In reaching out, my pain transfers and the grip I need slips away, stung by the sparks of my confession.  I burden others, but my burden does not grow lighter; the load is not shared, but multiplied.

In seeking help, I have created new chaos.  In trying to rescue myself, I have endangered myself further.

I swear I didn’t mean for it to be like this.

My body feels cold, every inch of my skin raw, as if sandpaper has been taken to its surface.  My fingertips press into the pale milky white and watch as it blossoms pink in response.  Bruises, only for a moment.  A moment where the agony beneath the surface is mirrored by the vessel within which it is contained.

Hours pass, and she still counts the minutes…

Day 145:  Bruised – Jack’s Mannequin