As beautiful as she was talented. Soul darker than her hair. Past filthier than a puddle. She was always a mystery. No matter how much she smiled, nothing could shake the pain. No matter how much she played, she could still hear their screams. No matter how far she walked, her feet still bathed in blood. No matter how long and hard she wept for, the dirt could not wash away.
Everyone says it is deceitful to put on a façade, a mask. It is offensive to display a false appearance, one built on ugliness and lies. But for some, it is the only way that they are held together. By pretending to be okay, to be someone else, they never have to face the utter horror of what lay behind them. For many, that was lying, pretending. For some who did it—it was merely coping.
Coping with everything they did or did not do. For every lie they said, for every truth they didn't say. Only so much can be swept under the rug before there is an unexplainable lump.
Coping was something of an art. There is an obvious technique to it. A certain perfection that can be equipped in order for no one to identify it. There is no one way of doing it. Those who want—need—the coping mechanism will figure it out whichever way they deem fit. No one can teach you how to deal with absolute fucking horror and excruciating pain. Sure therapists can tell you to breathe, count to ten and go to a happy place. Sure friends and family can lend a shoulder to cry on.
But at the end of the day, no therapist or family member can make you deal with it.
Those who believe that keeping things cooped up is the same as coping. It's not. Could not be more wrong. Keeping it all locked away, buried six feet under, swept under the rug is the worst possible thing you can do. The lock will eventually rust, the rug will seep out dust, your problems will emerge from the grave a hundred times worse than when you buried them.
Coping does not mean being quiet and telling everyone that you're fine. Coping is growing the fuck up and realising that what happened, fucking happened. No amount of silence, wishing, pleading or praying will ever, ever change that fact.
Coping in its true sense is anything but silence. It is ugly in its real form. If you smash the wall in and make your knuckles bleed, you are coping. If you run away and never come back, you are coping. If you are doing something, you are fucking coping. Never stop the emotions, never keep everything boiling in your stomach.
The worst thing you can do is bottle everything up. Because then it leads to giving up. You completely combust and you feel as though you're insides are burning you from the inside out.
My brother did not cope. He wanted to. Badly. But my parents got confused. When he smacked them because they called me by my old name, they called it abuse. When he screamed because they held his arm for a moment too long, or let the colour orange into the house, they called it overreacting. In truth, my brother was just trying to cope. He was just trying to say "I cannot keep the urge to hit you locked away. Because one day I might hit harder than before and really hurt you". And that was what happened. He exploded. When two objects collide, there is always damage on a collateral level.
I am Bagheera. I am burning. I am fire and I am ash. I will rise from the ashes. Hear me roar.
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