I’ve
been trying to heal. To heal from the childhood pain, the childhood nonsense,
the emotional unavailability of parents. To heal from the anger that was never processed,
the fear that only needed love, the hug that I longed for but never received.
But the more I try to heal from this place, the more disheartened I feel. Instead
of closure, it feels like the wounds multiply. Everyday, another cut, another
reminder that healing is not as simple or linear as I once believed.
I’ve
given so much, yet it was never understood. I was never felt. I was never truly
heard. So when I heard there was even a glimpse of a chance to get far away
from this home, my heart leapt. I wanted to grab that opportunity and disappear
forever, to just get lost, to finally escape. And yet, deep down, I know
this isn’t healing. Running away will not make the pain vanish. But
staying here feels like pouring salt on my wounds, over and over again. My
heart has been cold. Not because it was born that way, but because it was
left out in the storm for too long, waiting for the warmth that never came.
Still,
even in the cold, I want to believe there’s a flame left in me. Maybe healing
is not about erasing the pain, but about finding that tiny spark and protecting
it. Until one day, it grows strong enough to thaw everything I once thought was
frozen.