buried picture

I see a pattern with my emotions.  'Hello my name is Susan and I bury my feelings.  Deep.'
It's easier to pretend they are not there.  A major triumph for me is to make believe that everything is okay.  My life is on the up and up.  Tears in the bathroom, in the dark can be more satisfying then tears in public.  Or so I tell myself.  Delusions of grandeur.
What if I told everyone and everything my problems?  I am convinced it won't make me feel better, it will just make people know I am a little crazy.  It's so much easier to crack a joke then to crack the wall I build around myself.
This weekend I had a garage sale.  Garage sales have a way of opening yourself for judgement.  Things you bought and used.  Will people like this random inanimate object I am selling? Will they like me?  What does that shirt/book/picture/random household item say about me?  And when people see it what do they think of me?  Paranoia at it's finest.
I sold a picture that we never used.  It sat in a closet for years and years buried deep.  It never hung on a wall. Or saw the light of day.
 And someone bought it.  I never thought of that picture until I pulled it out of the closet and put a price tag on it and someone handed me $5 in exchange for it. And all I could think was 'Lucky picture.'  She will be on someone's wall.  Hanging for all to see. She doesn't have to hide anymore.
Maybe one day I will be so lucky.