Behind the facade of the happy girl

No one noticed.



Ever.



My best friends didn´t notice.



My family didn´t notice.



My classmates didn´t notice.



Actually this is not wholy true.

Three people did ask why my hands were covered in red marks.

I smiled at them, shrugged it off and told them they just appaeared, that is was no big deal.



They were content with my reply. Not questioning it once. Not realizing that the marks were not something that "just appeared".



I didn´t really believe that these people would notice since they were not close to me and wouldn´t pry.

I always expected someone to notice though.



Someone had to see them for what they were, right?

Someone had to care, right?



No one did.



Neither my friends nor my family did.



I´m quite positive that some people in my class saw what I did, but they never gave it a second thought.



Quiet, kind and always happy Elina wouldn´t hurt herself. Right?

Wrong.



I wasn´t tell girl they thought they knew.





I was quiet because I was painfully insecure.



I felt ugly, fat and boring with no talents at all.



I was kind because I never wanted other people to feel the way I did, never wanted them to yearn for a kind word or a smile on a bad day.



And I wasn´t happy. Not one bit.



People just assumed that when I always wore a big smile, when almost all my stuff was pink, when I drew rainbows and baby unicorns everywhere, when I laughed got excited with my friends about some series or whatever.



I wasn´t happy.

I was hiding from myself.

I was pretending I was happy so that someday I would actually begin feeling that way.



They never knew. No one ever knew.

Why?

Because people never look behind the facades of others.

Because people are so occupied with their own problems that they don´t care how others are feeling.

Because it takes some atcual attention and work to properly communicate.

Because it´s easier to not notice and it´s easier to let your fears consume you than to confront them.



I´m not that good at it either.

But I try.

If someone needs help I´m known to always help, even if I don´t really like that person.



People liked me. I am “safe”.

Not judging, not gossiping behind peoples back, not talking if someone needed a listener.

I was there for everyone but no one was there for me.

                                                                                                                                                                             



And like with so many other things I wanted contradictory things.



I didn´t want people to notice that something wasn´t ok. 

I didn´t want them asking question I couldn´t answer. 

I didn´t want a big fuss.



On the other hand I wanted people to notice.



I wanted them to see that I wasn´t ok.

I wanted and needed help even though some part of me vehemently disagreed.

I wanted my friends, who spent so much time with me, to notice it, to see behind my smile as I always saw behind theirs.

I wanted them to insist to tell them what was wrong.

I wanted people to care about me.



But they didn´t. No one asked twice. No one saw my pain.



I smiled, I laughed, I joked around and no one doubted for a second that I wasn´t carefree, dependable, sweet me.                                                                                                     



I felt so very alone.

Helpless.

Weak.

Scared.

But most of all I was terrified.



Terrified of what those darks thoughts that were rising again would do this time.

I managed to get over them once. Kind of.

It took me a long time and cost my parents, who didn´t know, a lot of money.

Since me dealing with my problems meant convincing my parents to let me go study abroad for a year.



Actually it was just me running away from my problems.

But it had worked.

At least for half a year after I returned home. I even changed school, thinking that it would be a fresh start and I wouldn´t return to my hell.

In some ways it was a lot better.



I got to start in a new school.

The teachers didn´t know me and didn´t judge me by grades I got in 5th grade with them.

The students didn´t know me and I didn´t judge me by things I did and my social life – or rather the lack of that.

But it was also worse.



I hated being new.

Hated the fear that chocked me with speaking with people I didn´t know.

Hated that they had a history together, shared memories, inside jokes.

Hated being the odd one out. Isn´t there a saying that it always gets worse before it gets better?



Well after a few weeks it did go better and I actually enjoyed being there.



Until it got from bad to good to worse.



Until my past caught up with me. Wait. That´s not really correct.

More like I caught up with myself.



And thus I got dragged back into my vicious circle – slowly but steadily.

It wasn´t the same as then but it was bad nonetheless.

And in some ways it was much worse.



I always hated pain and hurting myself.

I panicked when I knew I was going to get hurt like when I was due to get a shot or when my friend jokingly hit me. That´s why I never physically hurt myself back then.

I never understood the people who cut themselves. I still can´t imagine putting a knife to my skin.



But now I do understand that physical pain does help distract from psychical one.



If you dig your nails in your skin you just see a little dent which will gradually fade as the skin rises up again. But after that a bright red, crescent shaped mark appears.



When my throat closed, when I noticed that I held my breath without wanting to, when I felt so bad that I thought I would be sick, when my hands shook, when my heart pumped adrenalin so fast though my body that it felt like I was running a marathon – when all that happened I would dig my nail into any exposed skin.



My hands.

My arms.

My legs.

Sometimes I would put my head in my hands, making it look as if I was tired and resting it, and my nails would dig into my scalp where people wouldn´t see but the pain was stronger.



I always made sure I had hand cream with me and that my skin wasn´t dry but soft so I wouldn´t draw blood.



Although sometimes I forgot and then little cuts would cover my hands.

They were harder to hide and I didn´t like them since I hated seeing blood.



The first time I did it, I didn´t see much except the marks fading.

When I looked at my hand later in the day and saw all the red marks my nails had left…”shocked” is a nice word to describe it.



All the thoughts rose that I worked so hard to crush and hide in the corners of my mind.



I was devastated.



It didn´t stop me from continuing though.

It was a good way to deal with myself when I “zoned” as I call it.

Probably not the most healthy or best way, but a way nonetheless.



I actually hate being so weak but I don´t know what to do and it´s so hard trying to fight your own head.