You Handled It So Well.
They always tell me, “You handled it so well.” A simple phrase, a compliment even, but they don’t see the truth. They don’t see the nights where I crumbled, alone in the dark, my chest heavy with a pain that wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t just a small thing; it tore through me, piece by piece, leaving behind fragments of who I used to be.
By day, I wore a mask. A smile here, a laugh there. I played the part so well that no one questioned it. They saw me going through the motions, as if nothing had changed. But when the night came, and the world went quiet, the mask fell away. I lay on the floor, broken, asking myself why it hurt so much. Why something so small on the outside felt so huge on the inside. The weight of it pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to even exist.
They say I’ve changed. They say I became stronger. But they don’t know that the strength came from the battle scars. Every tear, every moment of doubt, every sleepless night. It was all part of the change. They saw the outside, the calm exterior. They didn’t see the storm that raged within. They didn’t hear the silent screams or see the invisible wounds.
“You handled it so well.” I heard it and nod. But inside, I know the truth. Handling it well didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It meant I learned to hide the pain. It meant I learned to survive the nights when it felt like the world was collapsing around me. It meant I learned to put on a brave face while inside I was falling apart.
Every day was a battle. I fought to get out of bed, to face the world, to pretend that everything was okay. I fought the urge to give in to the despair that threatened to swallow me whole. I fought to keep going, even when every part of me wanted to give up. And no one saw that fight. No one saw the strength it took just to keep going.
They saw me at my best, never at my worst.
They saw the version of me that I wanted them to see, the version that seemed to have it all together. But behind closed doors, I was a mess. I was a shell of the person I used to be, struggling to hold on to the remnants of my sanity.
The nights were the hardest. Alone with my thoughts, the pain was magnified. I would lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. I would cry until there were no tears left, until I was too exhausted to feel anything. And then, I would get up, put on my mask, and face another day.
So yes, I handled it. But it cost me. It cost me the nights of peace, the days of innocence. It cost me a part of myself I can never get back. And that’s something no one will ever truly understand. They see the surface, but they don’t see the depths. They don’t see the parts of me that have been forever changed.
They say I handled it so well. Maybe I did. But in the quiet moments, when I’m alone with my thoughts, I know the truth. Handling it didn’t mean it didn’t break me. It just meant I learned to live with the pieces.
