Everyone has secrets.

We keep secrets for other people and from other people, but the worst secrets are the ones you keep from yourself.

Something happens and you can’t really grasp it. You don’t know how or why it’s happening. You don’t know if it’s suppose to happen. You don’t know if you’re doing something wrong. You don’t know if you’ll get in trouble for it. You don’t know how anyone would react if they knew. All of these unknowns lead you to keep your secret to yourself.

You didn’t tell anyone and it never became real. No one knows. No one told you why it happened. No one told you it wasn’t supposed to happen. No one forced you to talk about it. No one suffered the consequences for their actions. No one knows.You can’t face the reality of the situation. You never delt with the emotions it brought to the surface, and you continue to ignore them.

Since no one is there to validate your experience or your feelings, you start to question if it was real or not. Eventually, you shove it to the back of your mind, preferring not to deal with it. The memories become blurry. You can’t remember specifics. You can’t remember when or why or how it happened. You can remember where, but the room looks different now. In your mind everything is dark. Sometimes, you see it happen from outside your body. The third person view makes everything take on the quality of a nightmare. You know it was a nightmare, but was it something your dark mind made up or was it something real, something beyond your imagination?

The more you think about it, the more you convince yourself it wasn’t real. Your life wouldn’t be this normal if something like that has happened to you. If that was real, shouldn’t you be a lot more fucked up than you are? You know people who are way more fucked up than you who never went through something like that. Or did it not effect you because you kept it a secret? You’ve had some severe anxiety attacks and mild episode of depression, but they were so long ago that you can’t remember what caused them. Shouldn’t you have more severe consequences than those?

You can’t really say it doesn’t effect you. Sometimes you’ll be happily spaced out, thinking about nothing and everything at once, when suddenly a dark, blurry image surfaces from the depths of your memories. A shiver runs down your back and ice grips your chest. It takes a moment to shake the visions from your mind. Then a hot panic sets in, like someone read your mind and knows your secret, but when you look around the world is exactly as it was when you left. You may have missed part of a conversation, but you brush it off with an apology for spacing out. You try to focus on the present as you steady your heart.

Surely a nightmare, even a recurring one, wouldn’t continue to terrorize you like this?

Sorting the real from the imagined has become the hardest task in the world. You wish you were Peeta, and you had Katniss to answer real or not real. It would make life a whole lot easier if there was someone that new for sure either way. Then you could stop being living in this limbo, wondering if you’re a participant, a victim, or a victim of your own imagination. But there’s only one other person who knows for sure, and there is no fucking way in hell you’re asking them.

You continue on, carrying your secret, hoping that one day the blurry memory will fade from your mind and set you free.


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