Trains

Everyone wears a mask; the only foreseeable question is what are you hiding behind yours?

My makeup routine consists of (maybe) combing my naturally wavy, dirty blonde hair, applying some coverup and occasionally swiping on mascara (dependent on my ever changing motivation level). My hair is down because I “can’t look like a slob” according to my mom, but secretly, halfway through the day, I continue to put my semi-tamed hair into a disheveled bun I refer to as a masterpiece. I’ve perfected this trying-yet-effortless look throughout my years at high school and learned to mold the mask flawlessly to my face so as to hide any ounce of uncertainty clouding my mind. To hide the internal trains racing as each tick on the clock begins to simply think of moving. The trains seemingly go everywhere and nowhere all at once. In reality, trains are on a strict, time-conscious schedule providing people with a destination; they harbor the concept of reason. My trains require no schedule, rudely interrupting frequently and come and go as they please. The sporadic nature of the trains coupled with the pressure of 400,000 pound steel man made machines create an invisible wreck on my mind, evident to no one but myself.

A sentence, a phrase, a word, or nothing at all can flip the switch that triggers the all too familiar racing of the 200 ton figments on my imagination.

My chest tightens, straining to the maximum and internally collapsing my fragile lungs. Solely for the reason of restricting my breathing, testing if it’s possible to suffocate me from the inside. I silently gasp for air because the feeling is overwhelming, paralyzing. Every self deteriorating thought and uncontrollable fear pounds over and over, relentlessly bruising. Unspoken words claw at my mind begging to be let out, but no words are ever heard. I want to start screaming my frustrations yet I can’t even speak a whisper. A single hammer nails the word to my tongue, so as to never leave me yet tease on the edge pleading to be let go. It cripples my body and seizes my thoughts, tormenting me day in and day out. I want to be a castle of stone but it seems I’m merely a glass house, two rocks from breaking.

Judging from a distance, twenty minutes have passed and I am still slouched in the uncomfortable, hair ripping metal and plastic chairs looking disinterested in the topic while actively avoiding eye contact. My dirty blonde hair remains in its carelessly presentable bun, my strategic waterproof mascara does not cause the infamous raccoon eyes, and the powdery makeup is still cemented to my freckled face. This foolproof disguise of absolute confidence and expert inattention for detail is how I hide the hurried, destructive trains speeding around my mind and relatively learned to live in this world.

There's a way society has figuratively defined hurting, by creating the too basic notion of “need to see it to believe it.” Consequently, this actively feeds into a too generalized, too insensitive definition which specifically eliminates the validity of mental health. Because having a blue colored cast signed by your friends or a set of crutches with the cozy pillows on the arms evokes more compassion from peers than a student courageously sharing they suffer from depression. In response, I have learned to perfect this trying-yet-effortless look to bury the reality of my anxiety disorder and suppress the truth of my disruptive and aimless internal trains. Maybe one day I won't try so hard to cover it up.