A Fake Face

I’ve never been one for make up in the day to day, mostly because I’m lazy and would rather sleep the extra few minutes and the students don’t care what I look like! My face was as real as it gets. Except for lately. These days, my face couldn’t be more fake. Or at least, that’s how it feels. The smile, the silly expressions with the kids, the need to be patient, when all I want to do is be in my own world, my grief-filled bubble. It’s exhausting. It’s hard. And it’s fake.

Yes, there are moments when the smile or the laugh is genuine, especially in the moments when my little firsties seem to know just what to say. I love them for that. But if I’m being completely honest, those moments can feel few and far between. So many times, I catch my self staring off, thinking about Joe, our life, what is and what will never be, only to be snapped back by the call of my name or a knock on the door. And immediately, my smile goes on (underneath my mask of course) and my eyes brighten.

It’s fake. Sometimes, the fakest of them all. On many days, a smile is a last resort because the raging tears, whole body sobs, string of curses and soft manic laughter that starts because you can’t possibly be this crazy, are not exactly socially appropriate. Or maybe, it’s less about being appropriate and more about being accepted but that’s another story.

And this, in turn, makes me angry. Angry to have to pretend to put on this fake face. Angry to have to go on each day as though my life were normal. Angry to have to put on an act, when all I want to do is talk about Joe. Angry when someone tells me they’re “surviving” and I’m over here truly trying to do just that most days.

Let’s talk about that last statement. It sounds a little jaded, bitter. It is, I suppose. Hear me out. I’ve always believed everyone’s problems are hugely important to them. You’re allowed to have a bad day, week, month and you are absolutely allowed to vent and complain about it. While it is true, in the grand scheme of things, if we made a worldwide scale, some problems would be a 10 and others a 2, everyone’s entitled to their own feelings and frustrations, no matter what. However, the reality is there are moments when your issues will be closer to the 2 and someone else’s are making their way to the 10. In those moments, we need to be aware, conscious and considerate. Everyone has a battle, some we know of and some we don’t. As a wise woman told me, you need to know your audience. But I digress.

Back to the fake face. Maybe those who know our stories can look at our smiles and see the pain underneath, know that the smile is there because it feels like the only choice we have. But to be honest, it’s hard to feel like that. I’m in no way saying that those close to someone who is grieving isn’t fully aware of the pain behind the smile. I’m saying, as I go throughout each day, on the surface, appearing as though nothing has changed, it’s hard to feel that way. In so many ways, during parts of my days, I feel like fraud. It is true, some may call it living, breathing, simply having to function, but for me, it feels fake.

I hate the fake face. I hate the second guessing. I hate the self consciousness, the self-doubt. I hate navigating the land mines of grief. But we’re here and we’re doing it with, many times a fake, but also occasionally and thankfully genuine, smiling face.