I’m not the pillar of strength you all think I am. I am not the picture of hope and courage you might believe me to be.  Yet, I put on a good show. I’ve taken the fine art of pretending to great new heights, to protect those I love. I pretend that pain doesn’t exist or at least that it’s tolerable.

Little do they know that every minute of every hour in each and every day, I am in the clutches of hurt. Seldom is there relief and after years of waking to the same sun, the drought continues. Like the crackling earth of a dry riverbed, I crumple under the pressure. Exhausted and humiliated, dragged from life against my will, the future yet unknown. I am the product of misfortune. My family and cheer section lead their own reality, as they should, considering. A completely correctable cohesion of brain cells misfire with dire consequences.