Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

Mask

I’m wearing it. Can you tell? If you are seeing me then you are seeing not me, but my mask. It covers up all that is me. I can laugh a fake laugh, smile a fake smile, and listen like I care. But I don’t. I am barely breathing, but you don’t know it. You don’t know that I spend my mornings crying—getting ready for work—crying—driving to work—crying. I pull into my parking space at work, adjust my heart, take a swig of coffee and a deep breath, and throw it on: the mask.

Somehow I make it through the workday without quitting my job, screaming at my coworkers, or falling on the ground and refusing to move. I make it through the day and as soon as I open the truck door, the mask melts away and I cry all the way home.

I wake up thinking of them: my mom and dad. We lost both of them three weeks apart. We buried my father on a Saturday, then three Saturdays later we buried my mom. They are my last thought before I finally get some sleep. Not restful sleep—I awaken during the night and the pain is still there. I miss them. I long to hear their voices, long to hear their laughter, long to feel their hugs. But that is not to be. Only in my mind’s eye; a faint remembrance is all I have to cling to, all I have left.

I am constantly remembering the last time I saw my dad alive. It was the Sunday evening before he passed away. He was already in bed and I leaned over and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him. That I would see him in a couple of weeks. Then I went and sat next to my mom’s bed and told her goodbye. My gut kept telling me to stay—mom was in such bad shape I was afraid she might not make it until I could get back to Waynesboro. The whole drive back to Athens, I kept feeling the need to turn around and go back to Waynesboro. But I had already missed so much work and my friends had been taking care of my animals. I told myself that my mind was just playing tricks on me—I just needed to get home. I could never have dreamt that I would never see my dad again.

You never know, do you? When you will see someone or something for the last time. We take it so for granted, saying “I’ll see you soon” or “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” Cherish every moment with the people (and animals) you love. I had already told my mom goodbye, assuring her that she did not need to keep struggling. But my dad—he was getting better, improving every time I saw him. Then, he was gone. I was not even able to make it home to say goodbye. He died on a Tuesday around 5 p.m. I wish I had been there to comfort him, to let him know that he was loved beyond measure. I am grateful that over the last few years I got to tell my parents how much I loved them, and to thank them for helping make me the person I am.

I have not written in a long time. I have avoided sharing my life with you for several reasons. I tend to let every single feeling and emotion flow forth through my writing. This scares some people and I understand why; I get lots of people telling me I need to trust, to have faith, to believe. I know all those things and yes, I’m sure I do need to be reminded. But all I really want is for someone to finally hear me. To truly hear me: to know what my heart is screaming; to know what my soul is searching for. Not just to listen to or read my words, but to truly know me. I wonder now if that will ever be possible. I have lost the two souls who brought me into and have bound me to this world for 54—almost 55—years.

Another reason I have not written is because of the pain and hurt that I feel. I often wonder, If I share all that is inside of me, will I be able to survive? Will I be able to live through the pain, the hurt, and the sadness, depression, and despair that my mask has been so good at hiding? Can I survive if I am no longer hiding from myself?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. I guess only time will tell. Most days, I think not. But the survivor in me keeps believing—keeps fighting—keeps holding on. It takes enormous courage just to keep getting up every day, to continue facing life on life’s terms. I miss my innocence, the sparkle in my eye, my great laugh, and my love of life. Life is hard and beautiful all at the same time.

One foot in front of the other—head up and just keep breathing. I am trying. I am trying.