Red Tape

There are days when it’s easier to pretend than to fall apart. Hello, disassociation station…ticket for one please! We’re told sharing life experiences, even tough ones, is how we get to know each other better. It’s how people understand us. But what about when those experiences are too painful? It’s a juxtaposition I can’t quite maneuver. On one hand, I feel like I’m keeping secrets, like I’m not being forthcoming. On the other, how do you look your people, the ones who love you deeply, in the eyes and tell them things that keep you up at night?

I don’t want them up, either.

This barrier, this unspoken thing, leaves me feeling misunderstood because its effects manifest in my everyday life. It’s why I can be hypervigilant and jumpy, and why I pay too much attention to everything. Sometimes, I can’t leave the house.

How do you explain the “why” without shattering the room? More importantly, without shattering them?

How do I explain that I don’t like to be held by my wrists, at all, on any occasion without unloading a shit ton of trauma? Or why, at times, I go quiet out of nowhere? You can’t just lay that out on someone at a casual dinner. You cannot drop that bomb halfway into an episode of Temptation Island.

Instead, I twist my wrist away, gently of course, to fix my hair, scratch my arm, or rummage through my purse. Anything to get out of what, to me, feels like a trap. I make funny excuses for my quiet moments and quickly change the subject.

And it’s not a matter of trust, but one of protection. Shielding them from my past almost feels like the right thing to do, but the lingering feeling that I am locking them out rests not-so-quietly in the front of my brain. I second-guess myself all the time.

Do they feel shut out? Maybe I will feel better if I get it out? Oh God, how do I even begin? Will this truly help them understand me? I don’t think I have to say anything. Should I write down?! Who finna write that mess down?! I could burn it afterwards! Mane please, that’s too dramatic. It’s unnecessary. They should understand. At least, I hope they do.

I want to be a source of light, but it’s absurd to think our loved ones will simply forget about finding us in our darkest place. They want to protect us, too. The forced “I’m OKs” we utter when they ask about our well-being are fooling no one—not even us. 

Still, I don’t want to be a tragedy. I don’t want to be a survivor. I don’t want to be told I’m strong. I just want to…be. These things, these shadows, are only a small piece of my story. Surprisingly, I wouldn’t call them motivators, either; they’re reasons. They’re the reasons why I chose not to settle for mediocrity. They’re the reasons why I am so protective over my nieces. The reasons why I trust my discernment and myself more than anyone else. Trauma did not motivate me to strive for excellence; it gave me every reason to be excellent.

At my core, I’m the girl who loves to ride around at night and listen to music. Concerts are where I feel the most freedom; if I’m not hoarse the next day, I didn’t have enough fun. Learning new things, inside jokes, and spending time with those I trust most are fuel to me. That’s the version of myself I want to wrap them in; I don’t want to always cut them with my brokenness.

So, it begs the question: how much is too much, even for the ones who will walk through fire for us?