“I miss who I thought you were.”
The words have echoed in my head for weeks now, replaying over and over again.
They miss a version of me, but not me.
They miss what I threw out into the world as my reality, but not who I really was.
They miss the role I played, the path I trudged, the screen I put up.
They miss the version of me that was part of the good, safe, right narrative of how things should be, not the messy reality of life.
They never saw who I really was – they never saw through the complicated lies I told myself to be able to make it through some days. They never asked if I was happy; they just assumed I was because that is what they wanted to believe. They never questioned my silence, my bad days, the way I would smile and change the subject when something hit too close to home. Shrugged shoulders conveyed all was well instead of how much talking about the things I really wanted to say hurt.
Here’s the dirty little secret, though, I miss who I thought so many people were, too.
As much as I don’t feel like I was known, I am realizing I knew people just the same. I built up images of people that have come up short. They stopped reaching out, if they ever tried at all. They haven’t been there during these long, dark, lonely, isolating, heartbreaking days. They aren’t there to talk to when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and sob. They aren’t there when all I want is to share my really good day.
Maybe we never really knew each other.
And maybe taht’s the saddest part of it all.