Private Truth: I'm That Crying Clown

I learned to apply the makeup from a young age, whether I liked it or not. If I had just come out from a beating, I was expected to wash away the tears and snot from my face and get on with it.

For the sake of survival, I would practice my acts in front of the mirror. Sometimes I did well, but most of the time I did badly. I was alive, but there was something dead inside me, something that I didn't want to show the world.

Photo by Den Trushtin on Unsplash

Often, there was this overwhelming discomfort inside me, like something I had to release or I would spiral into a meltdown. These meltdowns were quite destructive at times.

I would use a sharp blade and draw it across my skin until I saw beads of blood.

It was as if these were the demons I had to let out before they completely overtook my mind and body, and also like there was a relief from the immense pressure built up inside.

It felt like the only way to manage my unbearable internal state.

There are those who especially love to poke the sleeping bear, and they bore witness to my meltdowns. They decided that I was the crazy, mad woman. Both the self-harm and the meltdown were almost always triggered.

The time before my major breakdown in 2017, these episodes were so frequent that I ran out of long sleeves on my working days to cover them up.

Come to think of it, it was a gore sight: my wrist was a canvas of a mad artist, covered in angry red, swollen slashes, some fresh with scabs, others older, all on top of the piling scars.

It wasn't easy to hide all of this while pretending to be all sunny on the outside, dealing with livelihood. Depressed or not, we are not dead, and we still need to earn a living.

So, I became this clown, putting on a show with my fake persona and buffoonery to please everyone. I learned how to smile and laugh while suppressing my tears.

Away from all that, when I'm alone, I'll be accompanied by the frown of a clown in the mirror. Trails of tears ran down from her eyes to her chin, opaque from the pasty makeup.

We must not let anyone see this, or I would lose my credibility as a job holder.

I drew a bigger smile, extending the line from the corners of my lips until it reached my cheeks. That way, I would always be the smiling clown that everyone loves.

I became a clown in order to survive in this nonsensical society. While not many want to be one, they would very much love for others to do all the clowning for their amusement; they derive pleasure from the sight of people making a jester out of themselves.

I'm expected to keep my smile on even when my flesh is being branded by the red-hot iron they hold, or else they'll be offended and complain about it.

Service with a smile?

Such absurdity.

©Britt H.

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More about the person behind the writing in My Introductory Post