Last month a friend texted me telling
me he was positive with Covid after seeing me. Well, I ignored it because I’m
dead inside anyway. It turns out everyone else including my family, my
co-workers and even my aunt who came and visit was perfectly healthy. Every
night for that particular week, I minimize contact with everyone, and for the
rest of the month, I hibernated at home, rejecting every social activity.
I just couldn’t take in the fact that I was sick, I acted like I was fine, but
the truth was, I couldn’t eat, talk, and even sleep.
For some ridiculous reason, vulnerable
never defines me. I know I’m dead inside, therefore it’s not cool to
admit that I’m being defeated, and I never like all the small talk about how
are you, are you feeling all better? It’s just not me when I have to admit
that I am in pain because even when I’m in pain, I swallow it inside of me and
learn to live with it. I am so afraid of letting someone see the cracks and
bruises. I am afraid to let someone see the brokenness that I’ve hid so well
inside of me.
I tell myself each time I have learn
to heal, let go and move on. But when the darkest night hit, I am still
that raging storm destroying everything I touch. I am the raging storm
screaming in pain but never allowing anyone close to calm my soul. I am that
broken pieces that’s not willing to be picked up.