The Compartments We Carry: A Reflection on the Hidden Pain of Me

There are parts of me, compartments that I tucked away during poor relationships, shame, trauma, and survival. These compartments helped me function. But in healing, a new question arises: Can I look inside?

First, we notice the compartments exist. Then, slowly, we open them. We begin to explore their contents. We take out small pieces, one by one, examining them. What is this? What does this part of me say? How does it make me feel?

Next to these compartments, there's a fire.

Do I throw this piece into the fire?

Do I modify it with a new tool?

Do I place it back, not ready yet to let it go?

This is the slow, sacred work of healing. Especially for men.

When we look back at our trauma or the hard times we've caused or endured, we often see it through two lenses:

Suffering I Deserved.

Suffering I Caused.

And it becomes complicated.

Was the shame learned or earned?

Was the guilt justified or injected into me?

Or is it so entangled that I can't tell the difference?

Sometimes it's buried so deep I can't feel it at all. And in its place is a mask that is heavy, suffocating, invisible to the world but always present to me. A copper and mercury mask that hangs my head low, tenses my shoulders and neck, and leaks into my bloodstream like poison. The idea of removing it feels impossible. Because to take it off would mean facing everything as it really is. And I don't know if I'm ready.

So I hide.

Behind lines that only seem to constrain me.

Behind a voice that says, "I don't want to talk about it."

Behind a mask that keeps people out and keeps me from seeing myself.

Manipulated by guilt, distorted by shame, I lose track of who I am. I fall into dreams and fantasies that aren't even mine. Inside me is a scared, scolded child. But now I've become the one who does the scolding. Every day.

And I wonder:

Why does the world pass me by?

Why does no one take an interest in me?

But how would they? They can't see me.

Because I don't want to be seen.

Because I don't know how to be seen.

I fall on the thorns of the rosebush, again and again. Longing to get close enough to smell the beauty of life. But all I know is pain. The thorns are all I've known. This has been my way. And my way needs to change.

I think I'm safe inside, but it's not safety—it's a burnt-up torch, a hellish internal landscape. It takes me away from the present moment. It tells me I must perform. That I must prove something. That I must show them, so they never really know me.

Help me.

But the real question is - Will I ask? Will I let you see me?