People love the idea of me
more than the real me.
They praise the version
that makes them comfortable.
They care more about access
than connection.
They like having me around,
more than knowing who I am.
They notice my looks,
my job, my appearance, my social life,
but never my fears,
my thoughts, my strange humor,
or the silence inside me.
They admire what I survived,
but disappear when healing needs
patience, support,
and consistency.
I become the comfort person,
the one who listens,
the one who fixes loneliness,
until that role starts choking me.
People hold on to their own story of me,
instead of seeing me as a real person.
They want the appearance of closeness,
not closeness itself.
My independence threatens them.
The moment I change, speak up,
or choose myself,
they become cold and defensive.
They questioned everything,
my clothes, my career,
my body, my hobbies,my friends,
even the way I speak.
But no one stays when I am sick,
stressed, grieving, confused,
or mentally tired.
Maybe they only loved a snapshot of me,
not the living, changing person I truly am.
People love performers, not human beings.
They reward performance more than honesty.
So I stay admired, but never fully accepted.
By
Sanji-Paul Arvind
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