I’m That Crying Clown

In the privacy of her own bathroom, she’s accompanied by the frown on a clown in the mirror.

This is the clown who spent the whole day outside with her buffoonery act for the sake of livelihood. Now, the pasty makeup, a trail from her eyes down to her chin, is being washed away by opaque tears.

There’s not much time for this respite. It’s only a matter of time until she’ll have to wipe those tears and snot from her face. She will then draw her smile bigger, extending from both corners of her mouth to her cheeks.

And just like that, the clown smiles again.

I learned to apply the makeup from a young age, whether I liked it or not. If I had just come out from a beating, I was expected to wash away the tears and snot from my face and get on with it.

For the sake of survival, I would practice my acts in front of the mirror. Sometimes I did well, but most of the time I did badly. I was alive, but there was something dead inside me, something that I didn’t want to show the world.

Photo by Den Trushtin on Unsplash

Often, there was this overwhelming discomfort inside me, like something I had to release or I would spiral into a meltdown. These meltdowns were quite destructive at times.

I would use a sharp blade and draw it across my skin until I saw beads of blood.

It was as if these were the demons I had to let out before they completely overtook my mind and body, and also like there was a relief from the immense pressure built up inside.

It felt like the only way to manage my unbearable internal state.

There are those who especially love to poke the sleeping bear, and they bore witness to my meltdowns. They decided that I was the crazy, mad woman. Both the self-harm and the meltdown were almost always triggered.

The time before my major breakdown in 2017, these episodes were so frequent that I ran out of long sleeves on my working days to cover them up.

Come to think of it, it was a gore sight: my wrist was a canvas of a mad artist, covered in angry red, swollen slashes, some fresh with scabs, others older, all on top of the piling scars.

It wasn’t easy to hide all of this while pretending to be all sunny on the outside, dealing with livelihood. Depressed or not, we are not dead, and we still need to earn a living.

So, I became this clown, putting on a show with my fake persona and buffoonery to please everyone. I learned how to smile and laugh while suppressing my tears.

Away from all that, when I’m alone, I’ll be accompanied by the frown of a clown in the mirror. Trails of tears ran down from her eyes to her chin, opaque from the pasty makeup.

We must not let anyone see this, or I would lose my credibility as a job holder.

I drew a bigger smile, extending the line from the corners of my lips until it reached my cheeks. That way, I would always be the smiling clown that everyone loves.

I became a clown in order to survive in this nonsensical society. While not many want to be one, they would very much love for others to do all the clowning for their amusement; they derive pleasure from the sight of people making a jester out of themselves.

I’m expected to keep my smile on even when my flesh is being branded by the red-hot iron they hold, or else they’ll be offended and complain about it.

Service with a smile?

Such absurdity.

©Emika Oka

Thank you for reading this.

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Hello, I’m Emika, the person behind the writings you’ll find here.

For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.

As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat — a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.

Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.

You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).

I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.

Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.

Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.

Previously published on Steemit