Maybe I'm just too serene to know the difference. Serenity comes easily to me, you see. But only on the surface. Did you know I was boiling on the inside? You don't know me at all. You've never seen me angry, or sad, or heart-broken. Nor distress, as well as anxiety. Did you know how much effort it took not to
fall to my knees and just confess everything to you? To someone? Watching you makes me want to weep, weep for loss, as well as pity. For myself, of course. What I wouldn't give just to be able to trust somebody like that. Traumas are cruel like this. They infect you with fear, begging for companionship. Then it strips that away, again and again, until you learn to bottle everything inside, afraid of baring yourself to people. You're afraid to love, to take comfort, to feel. It rips you into shreds, but it expects you to mask that. It tears you into pieces with its sharp, cruel teeth, and threatens more pain if you show it. So you take that expectation, fulfills it, and cower beneath its threat. Now serenity comes easily to me. Only years of practice can perfect. So I turn away from tears, from sorrow, from emotions all together. All except one. All except one little speck of hope. For somebody to uncover me, yet accept me as who I am underneath.