Not to sound melodramatic, or like I should write 90’s goth songs, but, yeah, this pain is now a part of me. Like shoving an octagon into a small, square box. It bulges at the sides. It’s a silent pendant. It’s a presence lurking about shoulder-level. Some days, it’s more omnipresent than others.
The reality of this shadow hit me over the week while I was vacationing in Cuba with my mom (a sweet gift she gave me to get away from my dreary life). I didn’t tell a soul that that’s why I was on holiday. I didn’t do anything more than participate in inane chit chat with the strangers at the resort. I’m sure everyone had their reasons for needing a break.
The pain is never going to go away. I’m simply living with it – though there is nothing simple about it. Being away from home really let it sink it. It’s part of my personality. It’s part of my face when I smile and laugh. I am the sad clown. I’m in the background, front and centre. I don’t need to talk. I don’t need to participate. I also don’t need to announce my passenger or cease to experience and live life because of it. It’s just always there. I don’t need to wear it as a badge and centre a room around my pain. No. It’s just part of who I am. I don’t need to draw attention to it any more than I need to discuss my eye colour, or the clothes I wear. But if you look closely, the pain is my most prominent feature.