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Demons. A past. Everyone has those. Those things that maybe only you know, or the world defines you by them, or the things that haunt you, that remind you on the way you are not good enough. Those are the things i’m talking about. Those were my sole purpose of beginning this blog. I have over a thousand times considered changing this blogs name to something different so that no one associates it with me. But I am who I am. Not who the world says I am or who you think I am.
For the longest time ever, I have lived this life a fraud. What you know about me is most probably the mask that Mercy wears. I have perfected it so well that not even I could see the difference between me and my mask for a while there. Not to brag, but I have never met or seen or read of anyone with the capabilities of masking their true selves from the world as I. I am a master at that. It has reached a point where I think I need clarity on whether I have two personalities. There are so many things I have not told my best friend, but of late I have been dropping bombshells, one by one. And I am afraid that if this continues, she will see me for the fraud I am. Because the Mercy she knows is entirely different than the Mercy who is.
A lot of people have always described me as a smiling machine. Including my own brother. Now, I’m not easy to impress. On the other hand, I find silly jokes funny. Smiling was a coping mechanism I employed in class 7, when I got my first stint with depression. I didn’t know what was happening to me. My year started with my mum calling me a dog for losing a padlock on the first day of that year. My father had kept us waiting for three hours. I can’t remember where he was taking us. But I remember not knowing where the house’s padlock was, not that it was in my care in the first place. Of all insults at the heat of the moment, I don’t know why my mother chose a dog. I remembering crying as we went to wherever we were going. During the whole year, I sank into worthlessness, anxiety and hopelessness. I yearned for a saviour so badly. It was when I learnt the art of listening to someone without really listening to them while appearing to do so. Weirdly enough and to my detriment, the worst position I became was 2 in class. That was a drop from 1 but it didn’t make anyone realize I had a problem. I didn’t even know I had one. Thus begun my journey of burying myself inside myself. No one would know. And at 12 yrs of age, that is how the smile got plastered on my face, i realised people don’t bother with smiling people. They tell them stuff instead of asking if they are okay since clearly they seem happy.
I have so many layers to unearth this fraud that you know. So many scars to tell you about. From family drama to personal battles. Its taken me really long to get here. Where finally this shit is getting real. I come from a messed up family. I was raised by messed up house helps. I sought refuge in messed up men. Still do. Obviously I’m messed up too. Messed up to the point I can never describe to people what is wrong with me. Since every aspect of my life has undergone major tribulations resulting into me who has no idea of where to even start healing from. But writing is my emotional outlet. I thought I hated feelings until I realized i’ve just been running away from them. But I thank God that I have of late been running into safe havens. Places and people that tell me it’s okay to be messed up, that depression is real, that being a sinner is actually Jesus’ job description, that I am whole as I am. And above that I don’t have to hide anymore. As I am writing this I have hit rock bottom of my pretense. I am just fed up of carrying burdens around. I’ll share them around generously. And trust you me when I say it will get messy.
By the end of all this, I hope you will be encouraged that in whatever you are going through, someone out there like me has undergone worse. I hope a sinner will look at himself/herself and say, if Mercy found God, so can I. I hope I find people who resonate with me on one thing or another. But above all I hope that at each step of this journey will see me with a lighter burden on my back. If you fear getting your hands dirty , then this might be the time to leave this house. This might take days, years, or even decades. I know I’ll cringe after posting some things. But I don’t see the value anymore of doing things in a sugar coated manner. For those who thought I had it together, you couldn’t be further from the truth.
My scars came with alot of blood involved. Bear with me as I bleed it out. This is the beginning of the end..

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