We become what we think about. –Earl Nightingale

Proverbs 23:7 says it this way: "For as he thinks in his heart, so is he."

It's a difficult thing to take your mind and emotions, our very being and who we think we are, and turn it about in such a short about of time. We can portray a very pretty picture out "there", where people see us, can't we?  We plaster on that mask we call makeup until we barely recognize our own faces, then do our hair in intricate ways, put on beautiful dresses and go out into the world.  But what is underneath all that?

For me, I'm covering up years of being ignored and abused by my mother when she was probably fed up with her own life, sexually abused by an older brother, an uncle, family friends, my brother's friends (it was fun at parties to pass me around, you see), living in the chaos of an alcoholic home, having a grandma who doted on two of the children (who never did anything wrong), but barely glancing my way.  I'm masking feeling ugly, fat, never good enough, the memories of having an abusive, monstrous first marriage and the horrors he caused my children, having children who have many resentments toward me now,

Yes, I wear a huge mask.  I'm constantly waiting for my turn, while at the same time knowing it will never come.  I'm looking out the window on a rainy, March day waiting for Mom and Dad to come pick me up because it's my birthday and I'm sure they have supper waiting for me.  They never came, even though I waited by that window until well past midnight.

But cover we must, for who wants to see the real person?  If someone does dare to share what's really on their heart, most run in the opposite direction.  It hits too close to home and no one wants to deal with it.  

I'm sad and angry.  I want to spend my days curled up in my bed and not even get dressed.  I find my self fighting tears...I think of my children and what they're dealing with and I can't help them.  Even if I could, they don't want my help.  That ship sailed a long time ago, thanks to my ex-husband and his child-molesting, family-killing ways.  He told them I was no good, that I wasn't a good mother, and they believed him.  They still do.  I don't blame them.  They were children and he was scary.  My heart aches and I grasp onto any glimmer of hope that they might be reconciliation one day.