For most of my adult life thus far, I have pictured myself as someone strong, independent and devoid of fear. I never wanted, and still don’t want anyone to do me any favours, to treat me like I am someone in need of help and I certainly never wanted anybody to do so something for me. In short, I never wanted to owe anybody.

I imagine the construction that I have been hiding the truth behind to look like a rollercoaster structure. Elaborate, winding and twisting, thick metal. Those tracks of lies, the illusions I have been building and building into an elaborate structure that obstructs the view to the deeply hidden truth, they are slowly starting to show wear and tear. In reality, I am not the strongest person. I am not weak, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have made it this far without being strong. But I have been lying to myself.

Ever since, I can remember, my sister and my mother have called me sensitive. Sometimes, it was a mean spirited accusation, thrown at me in a vulnerable moment. But most of the time, they where simple observations.
I used to not take those words lightly. I internalised all of the things the people around me used to say about my mental strength and I would carry them in my heart, believe them, and eventually contort them in a way that made them out to be an abomination, a shameful weakness to be rectified. I let my twisted perception of what the word 'sensitive' symbolises lead me into believing that it was a flaw that needed to be hidden like an ugly wound, covered by layers and layers of lies.

Strength, however is not so easily gained. It takes time, openness, honesty and at the end of the day, acceptance, to be truly strong and independent. I might think myself to have mastered all of these things, and truth be told, I am very good at pretending like I have, but I know deep down that I haven’t. I just tell myself that I have.  

Instead, I decided to ignore the dark pictures behind my elaborate construction. It isn’t incredibly difficult or exhausting to ignore, to feign innocence. In fact, it’s way too easy.
I won’t lie to you,  I have lied a little there, it is exhausting to pretend. Especially, when you get disappointed so badly that the sadness swallows you whole. The sadness is drowning, because I know that I can’t show it, I can’t seem affected. I would be calling my own bluff that way, which is a humiliation I would rather not bear.

So what is the problem?
Loneliness. Every day, on my way out of the house I walk by my old neighbour. He sits in that living room, day in and day out. Staring either at his wall or out the window. In the 8 months that I have lived there, I have not seen anybody visiting him. Nobody checks up on him. None of the neighbours stop by to chat. And he is bitter for it. He may not realise it himself, having delusioned himself into thinking that everybody around him is the problem, but he is filled with the deepest sadness that I could imagine anybody to be filled with. Grief is nothing compared to it. Grief shows us that we can love so deeply that we will never forget that love. It is a beautiful thing. But loneliness is the single most darkest feeling that I can think of.

I see myself in that old, wrinkled man who always seems to be scowling. I see my present, but even more horrifyingly, I see my future. What if I will never learn to tear down my web of iron? What if I will never find a way to confront the dark images that hide behind it? There are times where I don't want to do that anyways. After all, I seem to be a functioning human being, capable of living in society.
Other times, times that occur rarer and rarer, I ask myself for how long I will keep up with this. I ask myself if I have reached a breaking point where I want the images to take over my speech and reveal themselves to the world.
I guess, what I am saying is that I am waiting. I am waiting for the moment where I will either have to speak up, or stay silent forever.