Memories flood my mind. Things I had sworn never to think about ever again. Things I'd made myself promise to forget. All those efforts for nothing, I thought, as the tears streamed down my face. As the tiny stream of music emitted by my dangling earbud invaded my mind, images begin to emerge. I blink hard, trying to bat away the tears and thoughts at the same time. This music... cheesy, sappy, but so very painfully nostalgic... Remnants of that time when it was all I could bear to listen to. Now it haunts my mind endlessly as insomnia and stabs of longing slowly drive me insane.
Longing. Do I really long for my past? The very same past that I had tried hard to forget, the very same past I avoided talking about at all costs, the very same past that had cost me so dearly? It cannot be. Yet somehow, I do... because pain is bittersweet. The story had such a tragic, idyllic allure. There was pain, of course, but amongst the painful moments there were happy ones. The ones I treasured so dearly, knowing that there would not be many more. Then there was the period of time I had almost managed to forget the hurt and be completely normal, happy almost. But... wounds like this never heal completely. Scars remain, and if something touches the spot, it will hurt. No matter how long it's been or how hard you try not to remember, how hard you attempt to barricade the memories...
As I lie alone in the dark, I realize how little I've really healed and recovered. If something as slight as a song randomly played on YouTube could cause so many tears, what would happen to me when I am forced to return and face my fears? There is always a confrontation with the self sooner or later, and if I am still this sensitive, how will I survive that moment?
I normally try not to let myself show weakness like this. Depressed, upset, angry- that I can do; but this... is different. This is sinking into suppressed emotions so deep that I am literally afraid of drowning in my own tears. This is a whole other level of truth. Truth I cannot bear to face.
1:30 a.m.
I begin to fall asleep with tears and mascara stains covering my face. In the morning I'll be alright, but for now, I am vulnerable. I am exposed- the masked act I put up for society is temporarily gone. I wipe away the tears and start to learn to accept... past, present and future, my own.
Longing. Do I really long for my past? The very same past that I had tried hard to forget, the very same past I avoided talking about at all costs, the very same past that had cost me so dearly? It cannot be. Yet somehow, I do... because pain is bittersweet. The story had such a tragic, idyllic allure. There was pain, of course, but amongst the painful moments there were happy ones. The ones I treasured so dearly, knowing that there would not be many more. Then there was the period of time I had almost managed to forget the hurt and be completely normal, happy almost. But... wounds like this never heal completely. Scars remain, and if something touches the spot, it will hurt. No matter how long it's been or how hard you try not to remember, how hard you attempt to barricade the memories...
As I lie alone in the dark, I realize how little I've really healed and recovered. If something as slight as a song randomly played on YouTube could cause so many tears, what would happen to me when I am forced to return and face my fears? There is always a confrontation with the self sooner or later, and if I am still this sensitive, how will I survive that moment?
I normally try not to let myself show weakness like this. Depressed, upset, angry- that I can do; but this... is different. This is sinking into suppressed emotions so deep that I am literally afraid of drowning in my own tears. This is a whole other level of truth. Truth I cannot bear to face.
1:30 a.m.
I begin to fall asleep with tears and mascara stains covering my face. In the morning I'll be alright, but for now, I am vulnerable. I am exposed- the masked act I put up for society is temporarily gone. I wipe away the tears and start to learn to accept... past, present and future, my own.
