I have a secret. But who doesn't? My secret isn't anything special, except for the fact that it ruined my life and forces me to lie to everyone I love-and those who betrayed me. So yeah, perhaps it is a big secret.
I'm strong. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally, I'm strong. I was forced to endure pain that no one should feel, and I was a child. But I smile. I laugh. I share jokes with friends. I'm not strong enough, though.
I cry. Sometimes for people, sometimes because of people, but I cry. The only time I truly cry is when I'm alone. When I feel my walls caving in and the oxygen running out. So I cry. Always alone and always quietly. It's a vital part of my dirty little secret.
I'm broken.
My entire life revolves around the pain of a single moment. Though I guess it wasn't just a moment. Three years is a long time, especially for a child. Looking back, however, it didn't feel that long. Is that a good thing? Am I blessed to not remember every detail? But if I don't know the extent of the damage, how can I bandage the wound? What if everything was my imagination? But what if it wasn't? What if my memories are a dream, and reality the nightmare to make me dread the dark? What then? What do I do? I can't tell anyone. I can't even say who the perpetrator is without ruining people's happiness.
Am I to blame? Was it my fault? Perhaps. I've been told it wasn't-what child can defend against a grown up? But he wasn't always an adult. Does that make it better? Does that make it my fault? If so, then is it wrong of me to cry for myself? I don't know.
I don't know.
I'm broken and I don't know how to heal.
Or perhaps I do?
I'm confused.
I'm lonely.
I'm struggling under a burden that's too heavy for me to carry.
I'm in pain. And yet no one notices. They only see their pain making me want to comfort them.
But I want to be comforted too.
Why me?
Why not me?
Why...
