f we live our lives on purpose, we cannot hide ourselves. We may believe that we can, but in truth we can only hide facts.
People who know me know me as well as they want. I was saddened recently when a friend of thirty years crashed my boundaries repeatedly, despite my request after the first time. In all those years, she had never asked how my rare disease affects me. I don’t offer this freely, as in a loving relationship it is observed.
I am incapable of having an image. What should it look like? How do I maintain it?
Strangers, of course, will have various views of me. If there is a loud piecing noise, a stranger will see me cringing and stressed, whilst on a peaceful sunny day, they see a smiling, warm, generous woman.
In my professional life I am known as hard working, but also expectant of high standards. I don’t like a colleague not grasping my knowledge until they look it up on the internet. I expect that my knowledge will be embraced.
Who I am is very diverse. I am a consummate gardener, a lover of travel and new experiences. I love lipstick, I like to wear clothes that suit me, albeit they are all second hand.
What is hidden about me is the fact that I experienced severe trauma and experimental surgery. This accounts for my stress with loud noises: the last remnant of PTSD. If the smoke alarm goes off, I end up in a heap on the floor. This occurred three times when my daughter was a teenager.
My close friends know that I am caring, generous, kind, laughing, but also capable of tears. Tears of compassion for others, and tears of despair about my health.
People who think they can be someone different at different occasions lie to themselves. Even reading here on Medium, I can tell a lot about people. It runs through their writing
Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself