Confessions of a Pretender (pt 2)

I
don’t want to forget this feeling. I don’t want to forget this moment
where all my nerve ending feel as if they are exposed. My body turned
inside out. Just a close brush to the skin might be too much. It
might make me pull back in reaction – too much tenderness.

To
be raw with exposure, to stand completely revealed. One hundred
percent authenticity.

Today
I sat in front, on the stage. and I didn’t hide. I laid my junk out
in front of the audience. I (mostly) didn’t hide behind niceties or
politeness. I sat just as I am and (mostly) didn’t apologize for it.
To not be the person who has it all together. In fact, to be quite
the opposite, the person under the spotlight who is very clearly
pouring out how they do not have it together.

All
else is darkness and I sit on the stage unpacking my suitcase. One
beam of light…as my tattered jeans, my sweaty tanks, and my stinky
undergarments pour into the single beam.

To
my surprise – no one gasps. No one walks out. There is no booing.
No one hisses – instead all goes silent.

I
wait.

It
is as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room.

I
wait.

There
is a sniffle – someone is crying. Their tears are not because of
themselves, not because of their story, but because of mine.
Suddenly, I realize – they get it. My pain. They see it and do not
dismiss it. They do not try to tell me their story that is similar or
“this one time when their brother’s friend’s cousin went through
the same.” They just simply sit and watch, listening.

They
know I might run off the stage. I may flip the light switch,
everything going dark in a moment, yet they wait.

I
pick up a broken mirror and I tell them what happened. I screwed up.
I fell short. I simply did not fit the box. Knowing this would be it.
This would be when the tomatoes start flying as they become bored
with my silly story. I know they’ll want something more entertaining.

Still…nothing
but silence.

I
throw the already cracked mirror and watch as the pieces shatter and
splinter across the stage. Maybe that will do it. I know they want
out. I know they are on the edge of their seats ready to run out. If
they’re angry, they will certainly go.

But
they do not stir.

I
show them the scar. A scar that, though meaningless to them, still
holds so much pain for me.

Boredom.
That will end this show.

Yet
not a sound is heard.

I
stand, the wreckage of my life falling out of my lap, landing all
around me.

I
scream, “I know it’s silly! I know it means nothing to you! Why are
you still here? What do you want from me? I have nothing else to give
to you?”

Still
nothing. The silence is deafening. Maybe they did all leave after
all.

I
fall back to my knees, the pieces of hurt and tragedy of my life
cushioning the fall. I am alone. My fear that no one cares proven
true. Guilt and shame and anger overwhelm me as I chastise myself for
being so honest. I was too real, too genuine, too broken for them. I
knew no one was interested. No one wants to hear my story.

My
face finds my hands. Tears wet my palms. I should have known better.
As the side of my face finds the cold, hard floor I hear a faint
sound.

Not
booing or hissing, but the stir of footsteps. Someone is here. I am
indeed not all alone. I am too embarrassed to look up. I cannot
believe I am lying here sobbing in the pile of my crap and someone is
still here watching me.

I
wait as the steps grow closer, trying to wipe away the tears, fix my
make up. I hide behind a curtain of hair. This is it – the moment I
am told everyone left when I started being genuine. The steps stop
right in front of me. The person puts down a suitcase next to the one
I have just been unloading. They do not unpack it or even open it.
The contents are not important. They sit down, right in the middle of
all of my crap. There is no brushing it to the side or folding it up
and putting it back nicely in its hidden place – the suitcase. No,
it just stays there. They scoot closer and lift up my upper body.
They pull me close and lay my head in their lap. I know it’s too late
to hide, to try to give excuses of why I thought I was allowed, in
that moment, to let go – to not hold it all together in my little
suitcase, so I do not even bother trying.

But
as they begin to brush my hair away from my face, I realized – this
isn’t pity or anger. They are not afraid or bored or embarrassed of
the pieces I have shown. They feel my pain. They hear my story in a
way that no one had tried to before. They are not coming to tell me
to put my happy mask back on. No, they are loving me just as I am –
fully exposed and raw. They see me and stay. They see me fully and
completely…and yet, embrace me.

The
tears begin to pour at the realization – unconditional acceptance
of myself. They see me and are not only unafraid, but they get it.
They get me. As they stroke my hair back and our eyes meet, I know I
am finally free to just be me.

The
unpacked junk did not go anywhere. The stage did not disappear. But
all of a sudden, the masks could be tossed. The clown clothes could
go back to the circus.

I
was finally free to simply be.

For Confessions pt. 1 go here.