I am and I am not

I miss who I am
having become a shadow of who I once was.
It is with some sadness that I find
that hiding myself from others,
living in fear of my vulnerability,
is safer than seeking comfort and friendship.
Trust is a fragile and uncertain thing
and I have never held it in its true form.
I have always been judged harshly by others
who did not want to keep up.
 
I am not ashamed of being me. I am afraid of being me.
Not because who, or what I am is not good,
but because I am good, and I expect it of others,
not as a judgement, but as a norm.
I live in fear of judgment by others
not trusting they have my best interests in mind,
only their own.
For some that I am good is overwhelming.
By making me hide, they shine in the absence of my light,
and bring the bar down
so they need not rise to it.
 
I would rather they chose to turn the heat up in themselves
and shine brighter themselves
than dim me down, and darken me.
 
I am not alone down here.
Many have been snuffed out by the threatened vengeful.
Life is full of those better at dimming the shine of others,
as those who shine are vulnerable
for often the soul of that shine
is an open giving
seen as a probe into the fears and weaknesses
of the shallow and self possessed.
 
The irony lives in the lies we tell.
"We are all special."
But some of us are not.
"You are not special."
But some of us are.
And we may or may not know it.
But we feel it, and do not want others to know us
for what we fear we are.
Our history is replete with tales
of bullies in every place,
weak and frail humans
who prey on others to keep their own failings undiscovered,
those who feel they are not special
eat the souls of those who might be.
Like pigs after truffles, they root and root
until they pull the truffle from the ground
and devour it.
 
And in reading this the thought is
"how arrogant..."
for to even offer that I am, indeed, special,
is seen as arrogant and self possessed.
We are not allowed to be special,
only to be told by others that we are or are not.
And therein lies the oxymoron
that illuminates our deceit.
We acknowledge that others are special
so that we too may be seen as special
whether or not we or they are,
and cannot truly allow it in others
for the possibility that it makes it clear
we are not, and for no other reason.
 
And so, I sit here
dimmed by others,
hiding for myself
that I might not have my soul eaten
anymore than it already has been.
Not wanting to join the fight
for having had the specialness I had
beaten from me.
It is telling
that I will never share this tale
because I am not as special
as I think I am
and they will make sure I know it.