Pain Under My Eyeshadow

I wear my pain well. You’d never notice…

But, I wear it well. 

I paint on a glittering eyeshadow, dab some concealer under my eyes, coat my lashes with a wand, and glide a liquid wing onto my lid. The perfect eyes.

I look in the mirror. No scars are visible. Flawless. 

I stretch my lips into an ear-splitting smile, making the eyes crinkle in the corners, highlighting my elongated lashes. There, the painting is complete. 

See, you’d never be able to tell that the eyes underneath are hollowed-out and haunted. That behind those beautifully done eyes lie stories filled with insuppressible pain. 

The word Mascara does come from mask, after all. 

I try to avoid the memories. Clenching my beautifully made-up-eyes shut, praying they go away. Maybe if my eyeshadow is pretty enough, there will be no cracks through which the painful memories can slip.

They come anyway. The screams. The fights. The tears. The different people who had all left footprints and scars on my heart. 

The one time he yelled in a restaurant, slamming his fist on the table hard enough for the silverware to clatter, and stormed out, leaving me alone and in tears, my carefully done mascara flowing down my cheeks. People get mad sometimes, right? No big deal?

The one time she left. Without a word, a text, or a goodbye. Still there in the same world but gone from my life, tossing me into the trash like a used and discarded eyeshadow palette. But why worry…friends aren’t forever, right? 

The one time the silent treatment extended for days, including my birthday. I had begged for a wish, but he just scoffed in my face and went about his day, not even noticing that I had applied his favorite color on my lids. It’s fine, birthdays come every year, right?

Or maybe, the one time the picture frame was hurled across the room in livid rage, shattering, glass flying everywhere as I cringed and cowered in the corner. No explanation. No backstory. Just pure fury. I remember looking at my hands as I picked up the glass shards later. Tear-stained and tinted, mixed with bits of my eyeliner. There may have even been an eyelash or two.  But…it was just an angry moment. Things happen, right?

I screw my eyes shut, trying to stop any more memories from invading my mind. 

No! No! No! Focus on the eyeshadow! The tinted red with a glimmer of sparkle. Seductive. The beautiful winged liner, dark as coal. Powerful. Strong enough to keep out the pain, right? 

I remember the Aunties I’d seen growing up. Their gorgeous saris and salwar-kameez, brilliantly dazzling in the light. Their jhumke and bindis highlighting their delicate features. And their kajal. The dark kohl outlining round, almond-shaped eyes. 

Beautiful, yes. But always looking down their nose at you. The way those kajal-eyes moved with every judgement, every backhanded compliment. Further down and down they traveled, scrutinizing my every step. 

I’d learned early on to never look directly into those kajal-eyes. 

Those kajal-eyes that can never, never see my pain. Because the pain reflected in those kajal eyes was never validated by anyone. 

My pain is valid because I say it is. 

And then, as suddenly as they came, the painful memories ebb away. They’re replaced by the other moments…the peaceful ones. 

He yelled, but he also loved. She screamed, but she also listened. He ignored you, but held your hand when you were scared. 

Maybe, peace and pain can exist together.