The Masquerade [Entry Seven, November 2013]Health Services is quiet today, or maybe that’s just my hearing. Either way, the waiting room feels cold and empty, almost like an office in of itself.The Masquerade [Entry Seven, November 2013] by Synesthi
Offices are bad places, I think spitefully. Offices are bad.
They choose that moment to call me back, and I have to quickly arrange my facial features into a mask of polite happiness. Nice doctor, I think to myself the way a child approaches a slightly scary dog. Good doctor. Nice, friendly doctor.
I feel strange, lonely and a little ill as I settle myself onto the table and fix my eyes upon the face in front of me. I hope this is quick, I don’t feel well and I’d like to go home
“So, Meghan,” she says as she turns to the computer. The rest of her sentence is incomprehensible as I lose my visual lock on her face.
“Excuse me, I need to read your lips.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I can’t hear terribly well.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised as she clicks through
The Masquerade [Entry Six, February 2012]They’re talking about me again. They’re always talking about me, it seems. Ever since I became the resident tragedy, the neighborhood pitiful, broken doll, it seems that they’re always talking about me.The Masquerade [Entry Six, February 2012] by Synesthi
I suppose that’s part of their job. High school administrators probably are usually talking about us, and probably often have to talk about people who start being broken.
They never talk to me about me, they talk to other people. They talk to Mr. Ruff, because apparently he can tell them more about what it means to be me than I can. They talk to my mother, who doesn’t understand because neither do I. They talk to the doctors that don’t even believe me. They talk to each other, five feet away from me and yet sure they’re not being heard.
It’s funny, almost, these smart adults, in charge of a thousand students, on top of everything, and they can’t remember one tiny thing:
I can read lips.
They’re doing it again. It’
The Masquerade [Entry Five, September 2014]It’s the first day of Chemistry and my teacher has a heavy accent. I should have known, I had been warned, but yet I was still hopeful. He stands in front of the class, opens his mouth, and lets out a stream of incomprehensible syllables.The Masquerade [Entry Five, September 2014] by Synesthi
My neck hurts already as I tighten the muscles and strain to hear. By the end of class, I’ve managed to get down all the notes and approximate enough of the lecture to not make a fool of myself. It’s going to be a bad semester.
Year, I remind myself. This is what you have for next semester, too.
I squint, try to focus, and jam my thumbs into my eye sockets to stave of the incoming headache.
I know I have options. I could go up to him. I could explain myself and face the judgment, the wincing, the pity, the awkward conversations, the ever-present can-you-handle-this. And without knowing it, he’d stop calling on me. He’d lower his expectations the way they all do. I could stand there and watch his eye
The Masquerade [Entry Four, August 2013]I’m sitting at a table in the college Dining Commons. We call it Saga, and I don’t know why and don’t care. I don’t care about a lot of things. I don’t care about orientation and the meet-and-greets and the meetings and the paperwork. I want it over. I want it done.The Masquerade [Entry Four, August 2013] by Synesthi
I’m sitting at a table eating cereal. I’m tired, jetlagged still, and I’m alone, which suits me. My neck still hurts from a long fight with a completely inaccessible welcoming speech. I might be good at it, but no one can lip-read past a microphone.
I can hear voices behind me, muffled, but I don’t understand them.
A person passes by me, their mouth temporarily in my line of sight. They sit down, facing me from another table. I can’t help but read their lips. “God, she’s so rude!
I eat another bite of cereal. Chew and swallow.
“Fine, don’t move!” Chew and swallow. “Rude!” They’re staring at me. I stop and stare
|I've been thinking about my wings lately...|
canopy and cagethe sand paints a cleft into my backcanopy and cage by Aquarius-Claire
and the sky can tell i am not listening.
i could be anywhere else.
i could be underwater.
the amber horizon loosens itself,
the daylight is approaching,
i am no nearer to where i needed to be
than i was when the night came,
i am no nearer to where i needed to be
but there is something stirring in the cavity
of my chest, a cancer perhaps
or maybe just a call to arms.
the madness is coming.
small cells bewilder at its approach.
the blood beats itself into my fingers.
the body hums and runs.
i am not new to it.
the madness, not the body.
i am very new to the body.
i have swallowed the chaos before but i will
not swallow it now. there is too much
to be learned from the shifting faces
beneath my eyelids,
and i cling to notebooks and
old plunderings hoping
to draw breath where there is no breath
left to be drawn. the past is grotesque
and it is absolute,
it is not absolute nor is it grotesque,
i hate the things that i have seen
and do not ha
Depression (in Eight Parts)I.Depression (in Eight Parts) by SpiritFingers
I took a walk once, and
Depression walked alongside me.
"I want to be alone," I told him.
"I know," he replied,
"Why do you think I'm here?"
"I have a plan,"
Depression said to me.
"Not today," I said.
He frowned and asked,
"How did you know my plan?"
I gave the weekend over to Depression
but he took three days
instead of two.
"Think of it as an investment," he said.
"And maybe I'll let you have a Friday night
Fallen to the floor
I look up and see
he's smiling at me.
"You know what they say
about old dogs."
He's doing this on purpose,
I know he is-
and it's working.
"They can't learn new tricks?"
I asked, playing my part.
"No," he replied,
I walked away,
my Trials and Tribulations
defeated behind me.
but even he took a moment
and whistled low.
"I don't think much of you, but
those were some big guys."
I answered honestly:
"What were they,
compared to you?"
I looked Depression in the eye
staring without pardon or
Ninety-Nine Questions of Meme on the Wall ...Dude, why do these things go so viral all at once?Ninety-Nine Questions of Meme on the Wall ... by hopeburnsblue
Tagged by WinteroftheSoul.
Rules (and comments from the peanut gallery):
You have to say who tagged you!
You must be truthful. No cheating!
What're you gonna do, sit me in front of a lie-detector?
You must answer *all* questions!
You just lost The Game.
I wasn't aware we were playing one
If you don't tag anyone at the end, I will EAT you!
The Basics ...
1. Full name: Melissa Raye Finefrock ... I mean, why the heck not? You've seen bits of it at a time, so there it is all at once.
2. Age: Twenty-three years
3. Birth Date: 8-25-1990
4. Birth Place: Anaheim, CA
5. Gender: Female
6. Occupation: Freelance lit fic editor, poetess, singer/songwriter, volunteer in varying capacities
7. Primary School: Dooley Elementary, Plano, TX ... also, why on Earth didn't the
120 Seconds - Results!!Winners120 Seconds - Results!! by BurdenedHearts
and the results are finally in! Thanks to everyone who entered this competition was hard work to run and judge but totally worth it to hear people talking passionately about things they care about! The winners are...
In the GLOBAL category...
In the PERSONAL category...
The Masquerade: Introduction
I used to hear like everyone else. Maybe even better than most everyone else.
Mandatory hearing test in elementary school? I aced that thing. Whispers on the other side of the room? I heard that. Subtle differences in tonal shifts? Not so subtle to me!
If you looked at me today, you’d still think I heard like everyone else. But something changed. A ruse, a mask, a lie, an act. A masquerade.
I’ve been masquerading as a hearing person for three and a half years. That’s three and a half years of ear-straining, seventy-eight months of half-guessed conversations, 182 weeks of nodding and smiling and playing a part that isn’t me anymore.
Some days I wake up and I say I’m going to stop. I’m going to let it happen. I’m going to stop trying. And while I make progress, while I stop fighting so hard and I’ve accepted the change, on some level I can’t stop pretending. I’ve forgotten how to stop pretending. I’ve been masquerading long enough that I’ve forgotten where the mask ends and I begin.
But I’m not hearing. And I never will be.
The first entry is up here:
The Masquerade [Entry One, December 2014]December 2014
The man behind the counter smiles at me and raises his hands so I can see them. You ready to go?
Despite the fluidity of the movements, I raise my eyebrows briefly at the dialect difference before replying. Yes.
Have a good flight, travel safe. He leads me to the gate and as I board the plane I turn back to smile and wave at him.
I find my seat easily and sit down. The chair and the walls vibrate slightly and I can feel a firm shaking of the ground below me. The other passengers are getting on.
A grandmother, a mother and a baby sit down in my row. They’re all travel-anxiety mixed with saccharine smiles, and we get along well so long as I keep my mouth shut. I do a crossword and drop my mechanical pencil over the side of my tray.
“Excuse me, can you grab that?” I say as politely, as carefully as I can.
It’s no use. Her face falls, twists in disgust and in what I can only hope is an unconscious mov
|I am a Synesthete (the term for someone who has synesthesia) and enjoy writing (prose and poetry), long-distance running, and playing music. My username is another (less formal) term for someone with synesthesia.|