I'm Hiding

Dear World,

I’m hiding.

I’m behind the makeup; over-done, ostentatious, not-really-me makeup. But it makes me feel better. Do you understand? I don’t think you do. See, I have all these horrible problems with myself. They’re internal problems; problems with how I look, problems with how I act, problems with me.

If I cover myself up, maybe I can pretend the world will see me better; they might see who I want them to see. But more importantly, maybe I’ll see who I wish I could be. I can fool myself sometimes, when I’m lucky; and that’s all that matters to me. It’s borderline-obsessive, but I don’t really worry about that anymore. It’s too late to solve that problem. Isn’t it?

I like who I pretend to be, either way. She’s so much nicer; so much prettier.

Do you understand yet?

I’m hiding behind the lies.

The lie I tell the most is my smile. It’s fake; horribly, disgustingly fake, but the world seems to believe it. I pretend to be alright. When they ask how I am, I’m just great, nothing could be better. How are you?

It’s robotic. But patterns are lovely; as is normality. I think you’d agree. I’m pretending to be happy because the world expects it. They expect to see it and so they do. No one bothers to look deeper. Why should I bother telling them I’m not alright when they won’t even care?

Other lies are always there, hiding behind me, waiting for someone to discover them. But people don’t see me. They couldn’t possibly see all of my ugly lies.

I pretend to like these dreams they’re force-feeding me. Isn’t that a lie? I’m not fighting it. I’m saying no, that’s not what I want, I want this instead. So I think it’s a lie all the same. I want something else, but they tell me this is what’s best for me. I don’t agree, but I’m not strong enough to fight it.

I’m not strong, either. Oh, but it’s fun pretending to be. I appear so put-together; nothing is ever wrong. People believe me. I think they’re foolish for doing so, but I don’t have the guts to tell them it’s a lie. That I’m a lie. They probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

You still don’t understand?

I’m not this. This is who everyone made me believe I should be, and eventually, it became who I thought I should be. Their words got inside my head even though I promised myself they wouldn’t. I’m a terrible promise-breaker and liar, I know. I’d try changing, but I’m afraid I’m stuck like this.

I wish I was different; anything but this. But I’m afraid that if I change, I’ll become so much worse. I’m afraid no one will accept for who I am if I ever show them me. That’s how this all started, I think. Because I’m afraid. So terribly afraid.

Tell me world, is this what you wanted to turn out to be? A manipulative thing that turns people into things they’re not and crushes their dreams?

If you’re anything like me, you’ll say no.

I’m still praying someone will find me, though. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll regret making me this way. Maybe you’ll give me someone who can find me even though I can’t anymore.

I’ll be waiting.

Love Always,
(I forgot who I am, sorry)