Tag: healing

I now know what love is.

michelleLeave a comment

On my 24th birthday, my friends told me that they loved me. 

We have said the word love to each other before. I knew that I loved them, that they loved me.

But this time, I knew without a doubt how much my friends cared about me.

they didn’t even say the words, though.

This year has been tough. I often find myself just sitting and reflecting, still trying to process everything that happened over the past few months. I couldn’t believe it had only been 4 months. Deeply grieving, time was flying, and I was being dragged along with it.

Existing was hard, finding joy was harder.

But I was trying. That’s all I had in me, just try.

I’m not sure if I communicated this, I wondered if that was even possible.

My pain was unspeakable. I became it. 

I used to be scared that it showed. That the stench of my miserable life would remain even after I left a room. And the undertone of my discouraged world view was all that people would hear when I spoke. 

So, I decided to keep to myself. 

The fewer people who could smell me, the less there was proof that the pain was real. 

However, my fears then revealed themselves to be revelations to me. When people love you, I have now come to realize,

They notice.

I mean, I have, and they did. They may not say anything at first. All they might try to do is distract you from the sinking ship, attempting to offer you a break from the chaos; a gift of momentary ignorance, maybe in the form of a really bad joke. That momentary ignorance that allows you to catch your breath before you inevitably go back to the chaos. 

They may ask you about it, offer a lending hand, or a shoulder to cry on. 

The point is, they notice. 

My friends noticed. Maybe me telling them about some parts made them notice more, but they noticed and then, showed me that they loved me.

My 24th birthday honestly meant nothing to me. My childhood friend had passed away in January this year, so the concept of growing up without her did not interest me. 

I let my feelings be known. “Do not expect anything big, if at all.” 

The intention was to forget. To survive the weekend. Ignore the imposed survivor’s guilt.

I tried to ignore the tiniest part of me, the deviant that wondered maybe we should celebrate? It questioned why we would cross the finish line with our heads down. 

I entertained the thought. 

However, my fatigue was my strongest opponent, and boooyyy I was exhausted. I thought that there was only a tiny piece of me competing against it.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone. 

They offered me a weekend of stillness. When the ongoing war was reaching its climax. When my fatigue had gained an ally, when I felt so out of control and alone. They anchored my sinking ship, they granted me the understanding and privacy of my vulnerability, and supported me through it. They simply just showed up. Not passively, with intention, they fought hard to celebrate me.

This was the greatest act of love I have ever received and the most precious gift. It is a moment that pains me but also grounds me. They reminded me that I was loved, that their love for me was not dependent on how I showed up. They carried me into this new year of life. I wonder if they knew that I was kicking and screaming. They were with me from when the clock struck midnight to when it ended. 

They showed me that they loved me. I felt loved, but more importantly, I felt considered.

Lonely,

michelleLeave a comment

There is no one to choose despite this or that,

So it becomes easier to judge others for enduring.

There is no one to fight for, 

So giving up is easy.

There are a few you go out of your way for,

But most times, you really don’t have anything to do.

And while your music taste is quite exquisite, you wish someone could show you something new.

Lonely.

phone rings often, plans get made,

But you long to not always have to make plans.

You wonder what it’s like to just roll out of bed and face the day with someone.

Lonely.

You pack your things quickly, leaving is easy.

break-up texts get written in under a minute. 

There is no second-guessing, 

Not when there wasn’t anything to guess in the first place.

You embody casualness like you made the word.

Only strangers know you intimately. 

Those closest pretend to have an idea of what you are like. 

Small talk becomes the only type of talk; you forget that not all arguments are bad.

You never fight, so you call yourself peaceful.

It is quiet; it has always been quiet.

You tell yourself you never liked noise anyway.

Lonely.

I do not regret it.

michelle1 Comment

I do not regret it 

I do not feel bad for you. I do not care to.

I saw clearly after I let go of regret,

It was never my regret anyway.

I think about the fear you must have 

Scared that if they look too close, they will begin to understand 

They will understand, and then they will begin to ask questions,

very quickly, they will realize that it, in fact, does not make any sense 

And it never did.

And then they will ask if you ever knew,

And your face will betray your lie

And your betrayal will go straight to the core 

And they never look at you the same.

I do not regret it. 

I do not regret any time I took a step back 

Any time I responded with silence.

Anytime I decided to retreat.

I do not regret it because every time I left, I saw you clearly, I saw myself, and then I chose myself.

As time goes, I understand more, 

My questions have answers.

I understand it now.

The weight of your betrayal hangs over me.

And I am tired every day.

I watch the ones that have yet to understand; I find solace in the ones that do.

And we hold each other. And we help each other. 

And we never regret it 

Because it was never our regret anyway.

What I realized after I met Clarity.

michelleLeave a comment

Suddenly, I started to see the patterns. When I fell into spells of overthinking, my heart would literally start beating faster. I would start to feel like I was running, like I was out of breath, even as I lay in bed. 

It is a crazy thing to realize that the thing that has been beating you down, the reason why even colors seem to appear faded is because of fear. Because of the vulnerability that you have and the honest desire for reassurance and acceptance. 

It is crazy because in that moment I want to hug myself. I want to hold myself so tightly because I am enough. I am more than enough.

I want to tell myself that it is okay to not always know. It is okay to make a mistake and be corrected. It is okay to use your voice, ask for attention, or need it. It is a crazy thing to realize how much of a burden that realization is. I empathize with myself, the weight I carried, and the hurdles I overcame to be here at this moment. I take in the paths that I forged for myself, with the people that helped me at each step of the way. I revisit the moments that hurt me, and I give myself what I needed in that moment. I create space for sadness, anger, and jealousy to be felt. To be acknowledged and addressed. I become my own person.

My own advocate. 

And so suddenly, I walk with my head higher. I ask more questions. I allow my curiosity to be perceived, and I share my vulnerability in not knowing or understanding. 

I give others the same option. The option to join me or redirect me. 

People have become more peaceful to me. My mind becomes quieter to me.

In some moments, there are doubts and glimmers of uncertainty. In these moments, I also take a deep breath and let myself remember that feeling. It visits for some time. When it’s time, it goes, or when I am ready, I leave. We both are empowered that way. 

I tell myself that the times that I want to go back to, I feel this way because of the wisdom I have now. This encourages me to keep moving forward. It pushes me to smile at others, open my heart, and accept new moments in the now with people who are right in front of me. 

Clarity taught me that to be your champion is to remain grounded. It asks you to accept your surroundings and yourself. It requires you to face the faults and address the fear, anxieties, hurt and anger. It asks you to accept that as part of you and your truth. It champions you to be present. 

Somewhere, over the rainbow

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I exist in a place before and after the rainbow.

A place where colours do not exist

Darkness is not personified. 

It’s a state of being: 

I am darkness, I exist without light.

I long to be where the colours exist. 

I know that there are people that stay there,

I even know a few that are there, I visit them often. 

But no one seems to know how to be there

They tell me colour is not personified. 

They exist with colour. They have light.

They talk about light and brightness. 

They say that it sometimes exists in excess, I’m not sure if I believe them.

I can’t comprehend how anything good could ever be in excess.

My starvation is blatant,

There is no colour in my eyes, It is clear where I reside.

I walk with my head down, a final attempt not to make it obvious that I am trying to fit into a place I don’t belong.

I hope no one notices 

Eventually, they willingly turn off their lights 

And find comfort in temporary, peaceful solitude 

I remain indifferent. In darkness, my only truth, my state of being. 

I wish I cried on the train.

michelleLeave a comment

I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

On remembering and Not remembering

michelleLeave a comment

I am still recovering. 

I am still working on it. I am still feeling it. 

Still dealing with it.

There are moments when I am fine. Moments when I don’t remember. I don’t remember the hurt, the embarrassment, the feeling of instant regret. There are days when I forget that I ever experienced any of that. 

Then, there are days when I remember. 

The days when I stay inside. The days when I get consumed in the hating, and the pulling myself apart, the days when the self-doubt takes over.  On those days, hoping feels a little sillier and a little hopeless. 

So, I try my best not to remember,

I put them away, distract myself, and instead, I imagine: I set the scene, and you are placed right in the middle. The best seat in the house.

In my theatre

Here you cannot miss this show. You cannot miss a second, a turn, a smile. I stand before you. This time, I am prepared. This time, I know your game.

This time, it is a fair game

I see through your facade. I recognize the bullshit bluffing as your so-called confidence. The blurry image I once thought was mysterious has cleared up to be insecurity. 

This time, you can’t hurt me.

You can’t hurt me because while you can see me. And while you can hear me and feel my energy, my presence, my impact.

You cannot touch me. You cannot approach me. You are only a viewer in my show and you can only watch me because you cannot watch anything else

I am the show. And you are my audience. 

At this moment, I have control. I am in control, and you cannot hurt me. 

When I remember I go there, to this place. The place where I tell you who you are. The place where I confront you with your shame

The place where I hold the mirror, and instead of hurting me, you see yourself. Clearly. 

On the days when I don’t remember. 

I hope, I long, and I wish. I am once again just a girl who has feelings. The girl who may not have worn her heart on her sleeve but the girl who imagined the good. The girl who would daydream about the boy who handed her their sharpener, about the other boy who held the door open for her, and about the other boy whose laugh was a cure for any bad feelings in her mind.

The girl who didn’t even for a second, second guess intention, the girl who never doubted her worth of deserving love.

When I remember, I go to the place where I can tell you what you have done to me. 

The place where my scars are visible. Where my pain is universally understood. Accepted and not justified. 

When I remember, I speak clearly. 

I share my shame with you because it should belong to you.

I leave the stage and you, with the baggage you gave me. I leave the stage and realize what I have always known, what I needed you to know. I leave the stage, and finally, you know

You realize your loss. You realize your misfortune. I leave, and you curse the air and feel the feeling. The sensation, and it engulfs you 

I leave, and all you are left with is regret. 

That’s the part that’s left. The reason why the memory of you still lingers. The reason why I remember and don’t remember. My curiosity keeps me, making me revisit you and the memory and the time. It makes me think about you, unable to forget you. I wonder to myself, I wonder if you feel it.

Do you have any remorse? Regret? 

I wonder if there is a split second or moment in your day where you pause and wonder. Long for a moment. A time when you could be on the stage. A moment when I sit across in the best seat in the house. Right in the middle because I cannot miss a thing. Because you need me to hear from you

To see you.

A moment when you say how you felt, how the shame was too much.How the shame, the embarrassment, the instant regret was the spillage from the overflowing pool of emotions you carry on your chest. You tell me that the isolation was a gift, a moment of compassion and protection from the mess that encompasses your self-hatred and anger and that your unresolved troubled childhood trauma was the sole reason. That I was just an unlucky casualty in your war against yourself.

That way, I would see your pain—all of it.

I would see the shame. 

You would get to tell me who you really are. 

You would tell me about the days when you remember. Days when you can’t choose not to remember. You would tell how on the days when you remember how you go to this place. You would go to this stage, and you would say to me how you remember.

You would then do the most unexpected thing. 

You would ask me how I felt.

And you would tell me how seeing my shock and confusion after that question would pain you. 

You would tell me how you never realized that that was the first time you had asked me this, the first time you paused and considered me, my story, and my feelings.

And then I would tell you what I do on the days that I don’t remember and on the days that I do.