Truth

"You don't know what I'm going through, when silence is all I give to you. So hear me, if you're out there. Take these words and try to understand." -Jack Savoretti

I don't let people in. I build up walls creating an impenetrable force around me: a protective barrier or a self-constructed prison. I try to break down my defenses and approach you as an unarmed soldier, but once you get too close I push you away. I keep everyone at arm's length. I yearn to bring people closer, embrace them, celebrate the intimacy of vulnerability and invite them into my life. Maybe then I would feel less alone, but they never scratch the surface of this hardened shell.

My words are sterile and withdrawn. I choose silence. I choose to be vague. It's more draining to formulate lies or sugarcoat reality than to admit the truth. "The truth." The phrase sounds so formal and the word truth alone feels so heavy. Merely typing it caused me to feel weight and pressure in my chest. Truth. I can't speak mine. I admit that saying I can't isn't entirely true. Saying I'm unwilling is far more accurate. However, there are many times when I physically can't get the words out. They get nestled somewhere in the back of my throat where they get stuck and I choke on them, forcing them to be swallowed back down where they can stay buried inside, eating away at me. Sometimes they get to the tip of my tongue and freeze, but instead of a chill running through my body it's a hot blaze intertwined with panic.

Whether I can't or whether I'm unwilling doesn't change the reason behind my silence. I don't speak because it hurts too much: the vulnerability and picking and digging at wounds that are already raw and painful. My silence makes everything appear okay when in reality I'm coming undone. Fire crackles when it destroys, the wind howls as its gusts blows things over, and water rushes in with great fury as it damages with floods. All of that destruction has sound. My self destruction is silent. The only way to give it sound is to give it a voice: my voice. To verbalize the chaos. To reveal these intricate painful webs.

I want to tell you all of this. I just don't know how. I don't know how to explain this pain. I don't know how to fix it. I don't want you to try to fix it. I just want you to be there. To listen. To sit with me. But once you know, once I put it into words or let you see my weakness, I only want to pull you closer. Instead I push you away. You know too much. I feel like I'm standing naked and vulnerable in front of you and your words have the power to wound or heal. I want you to hold me close so I feel less alone; but instead, I can't look at you without panicking. You remind me of what I avoid all day and seeing you hurts. You were my comfort and my safety, my soft place to fall now a bed of nails.