You are strong

You are strong!" so said the man who was knocking her to the ground. Maybe he saw her strong because every time he didn't fight back, he fell, took a deep breath, and got up as if nothing had happened, and he was still holding hands. "I've never seen a man stronger than you!" he told her. Maybe in his eyes, her forgiveness was strength.

He was so wrong. Her forgiveness was not strength, it was weakness. He disappeared, saying the same thing, "You're strong, you'll be fine!" She saw neither good nor power. He always wondered where that power was hiding. Was it in her tears? On sleepless nights? In the days when he collapsed and screamed for help? Or at times when he had to hide? To hide his too red and tired eyes, to hide his tears, to force himself to smile and look happy when the house was full of loved ones. To bite his lip just to be able to end a conversation, so that immediately after his eyes get wet, he retreats into a corner and his smile disappears. To slow down his heartbeat and be able to breathe again.

It took them a long time to understand that this is really the power. To die inside and yet to force himself to smile for the sake of the people he loves. To say "I'm fine" when my mother came to ask her what was wrong with her. To fight alone so as not to hurt those around her, those who needed her to be strong, not to see her weak because otherwise it would hurt.

Her strength was weakness the weakness of the people she loves. The ambition to be good and happy for their sake, and then for her.

I was looking for a good explanation for what I was doing, for the hypocrisy I was showing. I found her one day during a conversation with a friend. She told me that she never liked to "cry" on social media, so as not to give satisfaction to the people who had just hurt her.

I thought for a long time about her statement and realized that there are sick people among us. People who feed on our pain, our tears, feed on the fact that we are on the ground and we can't get up.

The blood attracts the sharks, so we prefer to bandage the wound well and tightly, rather than holding it for a picture. We hide the dark circles from so many sleepless nights and maybe she cries with a little blush, a red lipstick enough to give a little confidence and I fooled everyone. People don't care when you're okay, but when you're not, they care enough to point the finger at you.

I don't want to be a hypocrite, to lie to myself and those around me for the sake of people who eat sick things. I cry a lot and often. I was never ashamed to do it. I've done it thousands of times, in front of the mirror, in the corner of the room, in front of people who managed to hurt me. Tears are so pure. Why should you be ashamed of being human? And that you feel too much?

Why should you be ashamed of the days when you dry up crying, of sadness, of helplessness, of the days when you lose hope? Shame on you for one thing: that you don't know how to be human. Until then, stop blaming normalcy, stop carrying the burden of a smile you don't feel. It's normal to hurt, it's normal to cry, it's normal to feel pieces of your heart come apart. It's normal to be weak from time to time, to be you, with good and bad.