the court jester.

i’m fake deep.

i talk about the scars on my arms like they’re nothing, i talk about my abusive step-dad, i talk about my mummy issues like they’re nothing, but when it comes down to it, i’m fake deep. i portray this mask of vulnerability to others, mostly in a bid to make them feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable, but at the core of it, it’s all a facade. i’m scared to be seen. i’m scared that i’m not perfect, and that it’s evident. and that shows up in the worst ways.

when i go through things that have a serious effect on me, i shut down. i push people away. i crash out and make light of it, because i’m so deeply scared of being a burden to someone else, even my girlfriend. i try to tell my mother that i’m freaking the fuck out, but when i make 20 jokes within that one statement, who’s to blame if she doesn’t believe me? i cower at the thought of expressing the true severity of the current problems i face, i just can’t do it.

i pretend. i pretend that things don’t hurt me, that people don’t have a bigger effect on me than i do myself. i pretend that everything is okay when it isn’t, because pretending comes naturally to me. some people call it acting, but it’s a facade. it’s all fake. it’s not me. i’m so scared that people will see me and that it will be too much for them, especially those close to me. and as a result, i show nonchalance, i show a false sense of calmness, of being “demure” when in reality, sometimes it feels like the world around me is crumbling.

it’s so much easier to joke, to be the jester, to be the clown, than it is to be the butt of the joke. to be the consequence, to be the result. it’s so much easier to not feel things, because when i do, it’s so much easier for the things i feel to kill me.

so here’s to the court jester, Nicole, and to the painful realization that i’m far from where i’d like to be, ‘Cole.