In Plain Sight

Sometimes I feel I need to put a disclaimer on my posts: WARNING! Active therapy session ahead. Proceed with caution! You will either be enlightened or find yourself needing a therapist of your own! 

I continue to write regardless. I honestly don't even know who reads this. For me, I feel as if every time I write, share a bit more of myself, I descend further down the high rise that is me. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing: the knowing.

The Penthouse had quite a view, pretty, polished, not a single stain on those while walls. So perfectly fake, no one would ever guess how many times those walls have been repainted to keep the spots from seeping through . . . .

Floor 34 was a bit more disheveled. The types of messes typical to a place that is lived in casually. Books carelessly strewn about; the bed not always made; dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed. The bills tossed on the counter to be looked at another day. It was more of a storage room, though, than a home. The place where things were put to be handled later. If later every came . . . .

The 30th floor was a masterpiece. Running shoes by the door; gym clothes in a bag at the end of the hall; nearly completed homework on the counter. Music plays in the background: an upbeat tune that causes a person to move without realizing it. Books lie opened on the couch next to a basket of yarn and needles and an almost finish project. A glass of wine on the vanity, next to the crimson lipstick and darkest black eyeliner. A dress and heels in the closet waiting for the night. It's warm here, almost inviting. Almost, but not quite . . . .

Floors 19 to 29 are loud and messy. Toys litter the floors, bottles line the counter and a baby cries while toddlers beg for attention. Cartoons play in the background, but no one is really watching. Yesterday's laundry is waiting to be folded; it sits next to the laundry that is waiting to be done. Dinner cooks on the stove. A pen lays across freshly signed divorce papers . . . .

It's a peek inside of a life. Bits and pieces, sewn together into a haphazard story. Hiding . . . in plain sight. My motto has always been "Tell them enough to keep them interested; never tell them enough to let them in" Those missing pieces lie hidden in the basement, a lock keeping it all in place. Barely. The storage bin is overflowing and seeping out onto other spaces; onto Other's spaces. Spring cleaning seems a likelihood. It will most likely take until Fall. Possibly winter . . .

I hide in plain sight. Hoping to be seen, but never wanting to be noticed. I put on a show; my own One Act play. Starring me. Which character will I be today? The Achiever; The Party Girl; The Seductress; The Humanitarian; The Friend. Small bits revealed slowly. My mom always said I was the most genuine, real person she had ever known. Her words molded me into her greatest masterpiece and my own worst enemy . . .

I'd love to put this to rest with a happy ending. But that'd be another lie and I think I've told enough  lies to last a lifetime . . . .

And honestly, the scariest part now is delving into the points in time that hurt so much and dissect the words that I've been told . . . .

 . . . and learning to believe in myself even if no one else does.