The contradictory life of a sentimental mortal

A sudden and not very pleasant thought hits me hard, bringing me back to reality - I need to go grocery shopping and cook a soup for my daughter, as she is getting a little sick. But then I also have to go to the post office. And in general, I have those mundane responsibilities that are neither poetic nor romantic.

It made me think about how I live a double life, and I switch between personalities on demand:

I will be crying on my bed for hours, all red and puffy, completely unable to move my limbs, completely unable to function. This, however, is allowed in certain time frames. I look at the clock on my phone - in an hour I have an interview. I get up, dress, put on some makeup, put on a smile, and off I go. "Very nice dress!" the lady says as I am leaving the venue. "Thank you!" I say with a smile.

I'm crying again. I don't even wish to be living anymore, but the sheer responsibility I hold for another human being has anchored me so steadily in life that I need to put all my sentiments aside and continue this nonsense. I'm invited to a friend's home, which means people, which means talking, which means questions. I go. I'm walking there so that I can calm my nervous system down - an hour and forty minutes. I'm not sure if my eyes are still red from crying. I step in, "You are glowing", says her boyfriend, and all I think about is whether men are all completely ignorant or I'm a good performer. Probably both.

Another breakdown. I sit and listen to someone humiliating me, completely unable to move or say anything at all. I sit like that for an hour, long after he is gone. I'm completely zoned out. And just like that, I look at my phone to check when the next tram is coming, because if I don't get on it, I will be late picking my daughter up from school.

"How are you?"
"Bad."
Eyebrows are raised.

"I'm joking, I'm fine..."
Eyebrows are lowered, and the appropriate answer has brought back the peace of superficial communication. But I hate lying. I stopped responding altogether. I asked my friends to stop asking me that. How can I put into words how I was?

"You look stressed", says the same person months later. Finally, it shows! My mask has slipped; the three weeks of constant bleeding, the hormonal therapy, the heart rate irregularities due to the absolutely unbearable stress of the past months have finally created a crack on the surface.

"I am."

I'm tired of being unproblematic. He is very lucky that I spared him how he himself has contributed to that state of mine. Instead, I take his weeks-long silence as a confirmation that I let myself be vulnerable with the wrong person yet again, so I burst out in a message a month later. I sound angry, but all the time I write, I'm crying my eyes out - it never stops.

A person, from whom I am completely dependent for surviving at the moment, shouts at me on the street and threatens me. I stand my ground like an absolute psychopath. I speak as if I am in control; I speak as if I am the one who has the last word. He leaves hastily, and I start moving my body, but I am shaking from humiliation, fear and absolute despair. Ten minutes. I have ten minutes to gather myself up before I pick my daughter up from school. I am crying hysterically to my brother on the phone; I am out of myself. Ten to one. I'm in front of the school, all smiles and everything. We get back home and start making pancakes. With one fast movement, she manages to turn the bowl upside down, so now the batter is everywhere - on the wall, on the fridge, on the floor, dripping from the counter and the stove. I think my lack of reaction freaked her out more than if I had made a big fuss about it. We cleaned somehow, as I did a mental note that this will surely result in losing my deposit when we move out, because now a whole wall is covered in pancake batter spots. We made a new batter, we had pancakes for dinner, and I somehow managed. I go to bed peacefully and quietly, as if I have been drugged.

In life, it turns out, there is no time to be sentimental, depressed or exhausted. Emotional outbursts should be scheduled, like every other activity. Sadly, most of us cannot afford to be miserable and just roam about the house while someone else takes care of us. So when I almost choked to death while eating, because I had been hit with another sudden outburst of crying, all I could think about was how stupid it would be to die like that. And if anything, I would pretty much like to die for reasons different from being a stupid, whining and overly sensitive woman. So I get myself together and smile, and wear my florals, and joke, and listen, and support, and initiate. Therefore, people don't pity me. Therefore, people tell me things like "I cannot believe you're depressed, you look so confident and in control.".
They leave the minute I put my mask down.

...

It is chicken soup. Just that you don't wonder.

NIB & Ember