It’s almost midnight
I should be asleep
Today was a great day
I had a lot of fun with my family
Then I went to my in laws
I’m still wearing a mask
I’m still avoiding going places I don’t have to go to
My heart is heavy though
Because no matter how honest and transparent I am
There are things I can’t tell anyone
Secrets I can’t acknoledge between me, myself and I
I got so much used to the separation between my real identity and the identity I show the world that I started believing I was the latter…
Who am I really?
I push away and hide and alter pieces of my identity so that it all fits perfectly, but in reality it doesn’t.
In reality, my identity is messy.
I’m scarred and traumatized, and not to play victim, but I’ve been through things I don’t think I can tell my therapist, if I had a therapist.
But now I know why I’m so comfortable with my family. They know the real me. They know the truth. They’ve been through it too. They don’t talk about it much. Certain topics are avoided or spoken of indirectly and others are spoken of in normality, as if we had a normal childhood.
Who am I really? Can I assume the identity of the mother now? I don’t wish to be the scared timid child or the rebellious teenager or the socially awkward adult.
For now, I’ll assume the identity of a Muslim mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and writer.
Let’s keep the other Russian dolls inside for now, shall we?