Sunday, March 22, 2009

Please Hear What I'm Not Saying

So I have been struggling with what to post about next because so much has happened, I just don't know how to put it into words. But I found this poem by Charles C. Finn that I like. It is rather long but bear with me.

Please Hear What I'm Not Saying

Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear.
For I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off, and non of them is me.
Pretending is an art that's second nature with me, but don't be fooled
For God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure, that all is sunny and unruffled with me,
within as well as without, that confidence is my name and coolness is my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command, and that I need no one.
But don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is a mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion and fear and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.

I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear of being exposed.
That's why i frantically create a mask to hide behind, a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend , to shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation. My only hope and i know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance, if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate my from myself,
that I am really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare. I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance, will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing, that I'm just no good,
and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without and trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks, and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's really nothing, and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine, do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.

I don't like to hide.
I don't like to place superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me, but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind and gentle and encouraging, each time you try to understand because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings,
very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings!
With your power to touch my into feeling you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--a honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic and uncertainty,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to. Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.

A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man, often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing that I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong alls, and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down these walls with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and i am every woman you meet.

My life has been full of a series of abusive relationships, and I am trying to throw myself into recovery. I am not sure what that word recovery means but I am tried of being a door mate.

I still worry about posting extremely personal stuff here for fear of judgment or lack of interest. But I think that is something I need to get over. I should not care if people read what I have to say or not, as long as I say it out loud where others might hear it.

1 comment:

  1. No you shouldn't care about what other people have to's your blog, it's your struggle. I find writing definitely helps heal me, and knowing there are other people out there who go through the same struggles I do makes it all worth it.