I’m still not letting you in and I wonder if you notice or not. Are the words I have been using, satisfying the questions you ask? Are my actions just as reassuring? I want to know if this mask convinces you. Maybe, if it does, if you can accept it, if it is enough for you, maybe it will be enough for everyone else, for the people who know me, but don’t really. For the people who claim to have an investment in me, but only when it is convenient. I know I am not convenient. I want to know so that I can stop putting on the layers, forming my stories and setting my face. So that I can stop trying to keep up with all of it. I want to know that my mask is enough, secretly wishing you could see right through it and tell me what’s underneath is okay. It’s okay to go backwards. It’s okay that I may have to start again, it’s okay to still need help. If you could see, if I only just told you, I’m sure you would say it. I still cannot tell you that it is hard again. You may know some but you do not know all, it is more than I can verbalise. I still cannot tell you.
Caught in a catch-22: I want you to tell me that you can see me; I want my mask to work.