Maybe, someone needs to know

It’s warm outside. And humid. The backyard is a bit of a mess after the storm we had yesterday - the joys of living in the tropics - but I still enjoy the view from inside my office, where a fan blows gently on my face and I’m relatively protected from the heat. 

(This photo is totally not of me. For a start, I don't even think I could get myself into a sitting position like this on a chair, let along stay there long enough to have the timer go off on my camera to take the photo. She looks cute though, hey, sitting there all authory-like in her chair? All the best to you, random photo girl from http://www.freeimages.com/).

I’m safe in here, in my house, where I’m a bit of a nobody. In here, I sit at my laptop with my hair thrown up onto the top of my head and no makeup on. I could still be in my PJs and no one would know, unless I told you. No one is aware that I do weird things, like drink green tea and put ginger in my juice and brew kombucha tea in the pantry just behind me. No one knows the thoughts in my head; the way I write paragraphs about people as I talk to them, or how story ideas run through my head as they tell me something weird that happened to them, or how being at the hairdressers reminds me of Effie Trinket from the Hunger Games, and I can’t help but think about how Suzanne Collins was probably sitting in the hairdressers one day when she came up with that beautiful supporting character and told us her story at her computer one day. But sorry, that’s why I didn’t quite catch what you said to me. 

No one knows, unless I tell them.

No one knows why I’m sad, if I am sad. No one knows why I am angry, if I am angry. No one knows why I am frightened, unless I let them in, into my world, and tell them.

Fear and sadness and anger are caused by different stuff that happens. Maybe my friend ignored me. Or said something unkind. Maybe my mum didn’t trust me, or caught me out in a lie, or yelled at me for using up all the data on my phone too quickly. Maybe my parents keep fighting, or my dad hurts my mum, or the uncle Mum thought we could trust, we couldn’t.

(photo from http://www.istockphoto.com/au)

No one will know if I keep it inside. No one will know why I cry when I cry or yell when I yell or run when I run. And maybe, that isn’t a good thing.

Maybe, someone needs to know. 

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