Driving down the road, I see her. A block or so ahead, she’s standing at a bus stop and I notice her immediately because her face is white. Not white as in Caucasian, just white. Really white.
“What is up with her face?!”
The thought crosses my mind before I’m able to catch it, but it’s immediately pushed down by a newer, more understanding voice. The one that reminds me that I have no idea what might be happening for someone else. That she might be sick. That she might be expressing an inner struggle through her outer appearance. That she might just do her makeup that way.
Or maybe it was the way the light reflected off of her. I’ll never know, because I actually didn’t see her face up close as I drove by. I was watching traffic. I was participating in the dialogue in my head and acknowledging its rightness.
Or maybe I wasn’t meant to actually see her and identify the cause. Because it doesn’t matter, does it? We are who we are and, for the most part, it’s not for others to judge.
That ain’t the picture, it’s just a part, sang Amanda Marshall. Everybody’s got a story that could break your heart.
I understand that better now and I know it’s true.
I’ve got my own stories and I’ve been privy to so many others.
For a long time I resented what my experience with depression took from me, but now I appreciate the gifts it’s giving back. Compassion. Understanding. Tolerance. Love. And the honour and endless gratitude that comes with being entrusted with another’s story. Even if – perhaps especially if – it breaks my heart.
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