The Mouse

The Mouse

For most of my life, I've lived hidden. I was the inconspicuous girl in your class, the one who never dared raise her hand. I was the one whose face would turn beet red at the mere mention of facing a stranger, the many anxieties running through my riddled mind. I see them as black substances, seeping aggressively through the roots of my mind, the toxins killing all of the greenery that once inhabited the hopeful girl's space. All I know is that my mind has always been OVERactive. It still is. Sometimes I think that my mind has been used as a weapon against me. The mind, the key to my survival and wellness, has also imposed many issues in my life. One of them is the natural inclination to stay hidden in the shadows, to be the one that lurks behind others as they speak freely, their words met with approval and gleeful laughter. It is the pit in the stomach that consumes one's pain the most, the realization as the figures smile brightly, whereas you simply stand there.

But when I garnered the courage to speak, time itself seemed to stand still. My words were met by stern judges, sitting in their sleek metal offices, meticulously picking apart every sound that dared escape my mouth. Their faces blanched from the many years spent in their buildings of glory; their eyebrows scowled in an expression of displeasure as they briefly acknowledged my words. My words would be punctured by the silence for many seconds, and that is what killed me the most. Those moments of silence when only my words resonated throughout the minds of others. That deafening quiet allowed an avenue of criticism and analysis. The grim men grabbed the red file, sucking all of my words into the folder. My words desperately spiraled into the air, almost seeming to beg to stay longer. But who would listen to such pleas? The binder was placed in the cabinet of the "quiet one."

"Onto the next." The many men would utter into the cold air.

I have always been fearful of criticism. I wish I could claim otherwise, that I am a strong warrior with a hardened mind of steel, that nothing could withstand my brute force. My shield would be woven by the finest irons, such beauty being a testament to my suffering. How through such pain, I have risen from the ashes. However, the reality is that I am fickle. A couple of insults, a couple of gestures, and I shatter.

Partly, it's my fault. I isolated myself, head held high in my towering fortress, fabricated by the fear of my Ego. Each brick was set with the intention of avoiding rejection and eliminating my fear of others. However, behind those walls, I stood with my face pressed against the barred window, my eyes scanning the horizons desperately, yearning for an ounce of approval in this vast world. It is hilarious how by building such a guarded place, I am all the more vulnerable. You see, whoever dares to cross these vicious barricades hold all of the power to easily weasel their way into the fragile sanctuary of my heart, capable of crushing it if they desire. 

Nevertheless, this is my first step. I fear to be seen, but I know that I must venture beyond the confines of the timid mouse that cowers in the corner, surrounded by ravenous cats hungry for a taste of such delicate fur. I cannot keep living in fear. True living cannot thrive in the shadow of fear. 

I end this blog with one final reflection that resides in the rigid abode of my mind:

"It's ironic how, more often than not, the quietest people are the ones who hold the most words in the end."

If you wish to remember one aspect concerning me, simply remember the word: “Quiet.” It is what others have done all of my life. 

• The pessimistic dreamer