Deep Down

My life is split in two, divided by the people that surround me. A line is drawn down the middle, segregated by my actions.

I frequently cross over it, attempting to live in both worlds so I don’t have to decide which field is greener. But my legs can’t jump across forever, a choice has to be made eventually.

On the right side, I have to keep my thoughts burried deep. I have to stay calm and collected, put on a brave face, never showing my emotions, only showing confidence. I have to smile, nod and show empathy, not allowing the cracks inside to be seen.

I’ve spent most of my life here, I was born here, but I don’t feel welcome. For years, I’ve sat idly, like a ticking bomb, eduring the troubles of others while hiding my own. Though everyone says this is the side I will always have, this is the side I’m with forever, I don’t believe them. I’m supposed to feel comforted here, but all I see in their eyes is dissaproval. I don’t feel like myself, and I don’t think I ever can be.

On the left side however, I don’t have to watch my every step, or hold back every comment. I can be free, I can laugh and talk without guilt, and I can voice my opinion without the fear of being a dissapoinment. I don’t have to hide who I am, or pretend I’m someone I’m not just for approval.

I can be myself.

But as good as this side is, I can’t talk about the other side. When I cross over with emotions crowded in my head, I can’t voice them. I can’t explain what’s going on in the other half of my life. I just have to pretend to be normal, and pretend everyone behind the line fits into a cookie cutter. Because that’s how it’s supposed to be.

My head is caught between both worlds, but my body is only allowed to live them separately. Two vastly different lives cannot collide, cannot intermix, or connect in any way. It’s against the unspoken law.

Which side should I choose to be my pasture?

As the old saying goes, “the grass is never greener on the other side.”

I guess both fields are brown. Both are filled with weeds and brambles. So what difference does it make which side I choose?

Neither one can see the true me, the me that’s stradling the line, one foot on each side. Neither one can help me when the ground shakes, when the line cracks, or when the two fields split and swallow me in the void between them.

My choice was to not choose, and all I had to sacrifice was my vulnerability.