I reopened some curves last-place darknes. I signify , not literally. Though I guess that wouldn’t be atypical. I d have a tendency to pick at scabs. I’ve scratched acts off until they ooze. I’ve propagandized the tweezers a little too far. I’ve never been good at knowing when to stop.
Last night, I excavate up repressed storages. I took a shovel to all my seams of defence mechanism and didn’t stop until I thump bone. I stopped representing puns. I looked at the hurt and tell myself sit in it.
And it was fucking. I disliked every second of it.
Healing is not just sizzling tea and tub missiles from LUSH. It’s not a slice (… or four) of pizza and the familiar convenience of oldepisodesIt’s not yoga class or an impulse obtain of three pairs of yoga gasps that appear EXACTLY THE SAME after the class is over because you’re TOTALLY going to become a super Yogi now and requirement a wardrobe to match.
All those things can exist in mending. They can all be minutes, be facets, be minuscule aims at patching up loopholes we’ve been living with for longer than we care to admit.
But healing is, soothing, is usually ugly.
It’s not something you’re racing to Instagram. It’s fitted with dirtiness and secrets and stuffs you’ve let go on too long. Healing looks like my puffy front. Seems like the nighttimes expended screaming because I can’t keep running from the skeletons in my closet. Seems like an empty-bellied plateful because I was still nauseated at dinner from whatever bullshit I did the darknes before. Looks like trying to patch occasions back together when I don’t know where to start.
I don’t think we ever get over trauma. Not in accordance with the rules we’ve come to learn the definition of. We conform, perhaps. We fiddle with the rearview reflect. We discover new specific areas of ourselves. Because, damn, if there’s one thing I can acclaim human for its our resiliency.
I look at blemishes on my body and think about how they soothed in such an understandable process. Like, I could it healing. I pictured the bleed stop. I pictured the scab organize. I received the scab fall off into something else. I visualized the lighten. I met the entire thing.
But feelings healing doesn’t work that course. It doesn’t get lighter every month. You can work so hard, you can come so far, and still fall back down without any tell. It doesn’t nullify what you’ve done. It doesn’t obliterate your progress. It’s just a reminder that healing doesn’t work in any linear way.
Some daylights, the hurt is so far away from me, it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like it happened to a different daughter. Someone I can nearly touch, but she’s so remote, I can’t claim her as mine.
Some dates, the hurt is bawling in my throat.
And on those daytimes, I try to tell myself this is mending more. I try to tell myself there is validity in those passions. In that hurt.
We are mending every day. It simply doesn’t ever look like it.