Every morning when I get to the office, I go to the washroom first. I expect many others do the same, so I take comfort in the fact that this -- among other things I do and contrary to what I make myself out to be -- is normal. I stare at myself in the mirror, making sure I am ready to put on another face for the day, checking for cracks. I lean closer, and yes, I do find a broken off skin here, a dot of regret there, a patch of fear flaking somewhere on my left cheek, but nothing serious -- nothing a well-placed smile can't cover.
But I do not smile. I let the cracks show. I let the spots mar my skin like a wall of histories, like a statement. "THIS," my face says, "is what I have to deal with."
Isn't it ironic how people insist on being true to oneself, but run away when truth stares at them square on the face? The truth is, I am different shades of angry -- from the lower frequency staccato beats of sadness to the thinner, more delicate vibrations of madness. This is how I was and am shaped, no matter the eyes that look at me or what angle I am looked at.
So I gather my things, go to my workstation, and face another day fueled by a specific frequency of anger. The scowl keeps people away, which allows me to work in peace. Frankly, it's exhausting smiling all the time just to please people you don't even like.
And I wonder why I'm single.
