The Hero’s Guise

People have always thought I was strong, brave, and smart. They see my accomplishments, my good deeds and think it all comes with such ease.


In the classroom I am confident. I tell stories of the world and cant hold back my smile when I see my students eyes light up. They cant see how dead i am behind mine.


At home I am cool and collected. I hear my childs worries and fears. I guide them with grace, hoping they never make my same mistakes. They tell me im the best mom in the world.


At a protest I am loud. I shout from my lungs, i confront those who do the world wrong. I speak my mind and for those who cant. No one knows I’m also one of those who can’t.


When I am with my friends and family I listen. I take care of their worries. I order them food to their homes and try to silence their fears. I protect them; who protects me?


But in his arms…


I feel like I might be safe. I feel like it might be okay. I question to myself, is he who will keep me safe? I’m not so sure he would if he knew.


He knows, I think to myself - that I am a fraud. He knows that the life I live is a story I wrote myself and I retell everyday hoping it’ll one day become me, but it’s just another book I pull from my shelf when I need inspiration.


No one has ever met the real me. Some days I look in the mirror and wonder if I even have.


He knows that i’m not actually this person. He catches me in moments, moments when I’m off my gaurd. I’ve become too comfortable and with that comes my truth.


How does he know I need to be held a little tighter tonight? Does he know i’ve been crying? No one knows I cry.


They don’t know I can’t carry it all, they don’t know everything I know and don’t know, they don’t know that my kindness and will to do good comes from a place of fear.. a place of knowing and that I feel guilty that it’s not fully from a place of love.


I’m better than those that hurt me. I take care of people. I’m better than those that made me cry. I make people laugh. I’m better than those who abused me. I treat everyone with softness.


This is selfishness, this is I’m better, not I’m good. But it’s not all like that. I do truly love all those in my life. No one ever saved me, what if I don’t save them?


If I don’t have the answers, if I can’t save the day; what if no one else will? I can’t let another person not be okay. I can’t let them feel the way I have since my mind finally woke up to this world at the age of 11 and how it has been every day since.


My war isn’t just with the monsters and bad guys, it’s with myself, and everyday is another battle lost.


I think I need to tell him though, because if I don’t, then I will lose control over the narrative of my own life once again. Can I trust him? I fear he will leave the more he sees my weaknesses, but perhaps if I come clean about all that I am, my honesty will lead to sympathy. Maybe he won’t go. Maybe he won’t leave like the rest.


He’s laying on his stomach next to me, doodling another little creature. God I love all that he creates. I start to rub his back.


“Babe, I have to tell you something.. something I’ve never told anyone..”


He glances back at me almost confused


“What is it? Are you okay? Anyone?”


I’m getting nervous by his questioning although it’s valid and exactly how anyone would respond.


“I’m not who you think”


He tilts his head and gives me a confused me.


“What do you mean baby? How is that so? We talk for hours, I’ve touched every inch of you from head to toe, you say I’m you’re best friend”


He’s right. I talk to him more than I’ve talked to anyone. Sometimes it scares me, my words become vomit and pour from my mouth like a sickness at times. What if I get carried away? What if I say too much? But this is why I think he knows. I’ve let my guard down. Maybe it’s too late already.


“It’s just I haven’t been honest, about who I really am and if I don’t tell you now, you’re going to find out. When you find out you won’t look at me with that tilt and smile. You’ll look at me the same way my mother did when she said I was my father.”


He knows bits and parts of my life story, so he’s still confused. You see, I tell people “everything”.


When you make yourself appear open. When you tell people things others don’t normally share, people ask less questions. That’s what I mean by creating a narrative. My life is a book on my shelf.


“I’ve told you before boo, you’re not like your father and I’m not your mother or your ex or the girl in 7th grade who called you a troll. I see you and I love you”


How do I tell him this in a way he will understand? How do I say I’m not just sad and it’s not that I even want to die, it’s that I’m not sure I’m even alive.


I breathe in deep and close my eyes for a moment. I can’t do this I tell myself. I can tell him about the darkness in my mind and soul.


“I’m not a hero” I tell him


He goes to interrupt and correct me but I cut him off.


“I’m not a hero,” I insist, my voice tinged with a solemn truth. He falls silent, sensing the depth behind my words.


“What I mean is, the strength you see in me, the resilience everyone admires, it’s not as real as it seems. Behind my smile, my achievements, there’s a darkness that consumes me. A struggle I’ve kept hidden from everyone, including you.”


He sits up now, his eyes deep with concern. He’s always had this way of making me feel seen, yet now I fear he may see too much.


“I’ve been battling with something much deeper, an internal war that’s been tearing me apart. You see the composed professor, the nurturing mother, the passionate activist, but you don’t see the person who’s barely holding it all together.”


His brow furrows in confusion, “But you’re always so strong, so positive…”


“That’s just it,” I interrupt, my voice trembling. “It’s an act. A mask I wear so that no one sees the real me. The me that’s fighting against depression, against thoughts that terrify me, against a darkness that never really leaves.”


I pause, struggling to continue. “There are days when getting out of bed feels like a battle. Days when I feel like I’m drowning in my own mind. And there are scars…”


His expression shifts from confusion to shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is a whisper, laced with pain.


“Because I didn’t want you to see me as weak. I’ve always been the one people turn to, the one who solves problems, not the one who has them. But I can’t carry this mask anymore. I need you to know the real me, even if it’s broken.”


He reaches out, his hand trembling as it finds mine. “I wish you had told me sooner. You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to be a hero, not for me, not for anyone. Just be yourself, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”


Tears blur my vision. In revealing my true self, I feared rejection. But instead, I found understanding, a shared vulnerability. I wasn’t just a perceived hero burdened with unspoken pain; I was a human, flawed and real, and now, finally, not alone.

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