morning conversations: the aftermath.

The other day I cried.

Sometimes I backtrack to that Friday morning, trying to recall what happened and why. Trying to make sense of something that I really need not recollect. Why the tears, sudden like nothing else, yet weighty like everything else?

I think it pains me, realizing that despite my many years abroad – some things stay the same. Some things – no, too many – stay stubbornly unchanged, resilient against anything thrown its way, even time. Especially time. I think it pains me in a way I still can’t properly describe what more comprehend, this realization that no matter how many years have passed and though I have been softened by age and exposure, in my mind and heart — internally, I am bruised. Wounded.

That particular cut is an open wound, still oozing blood.

I think it pains me, realizing that it cuts deeper, much much much deeper than I’d thought and generally assumed. I think this genuinely surprised me. I had thought I’d moved on – far and ahead, but apparently nope, there’s still a lot more growing up that I need to do. I’m okay – I function just fine, if that’s what you’re wondering – but this fear of attachment and settling …normal, extremely normal things that girls usually pine and wish for …I find myself not completely unfeeling, but hardened. In all seriousness, frightened. This fear is real and I just don’t know how to go about with it.

I am trying to remember my tears, because for once in a long time – this one came from someplace really, really deep. I did not realize I carried it inside of me, burdened by its weight, until I realized my cheeks were wet and seconds later, I started choking on my words before bawling altogether. I do not understand what happened, which is why in this aftermath, I keep trying to recreate that morning, this conversation, unveiling a piece of who I am by way of understanding the extent of the damage made by the past.

And I can’t undo what I now know.

I think knowing what I now know makes me sad; I am in pain, because I realize and understand with a clarity that can’t be denied that when I speak of a broken internal part – it’s not just mere, figuratively speaking. It is… a real emotional trauma. I do not want to be a diagnosis neither do I want to be defined by what happened. ‘Normal‘ for me, was redefined a long time ago – I’ve no interest to rehash it.

But it… I… I am in pain, understanding the extent of the damage of the aftermath.

It pains me, realizing that I am in fact, after all – damaged.

Even as an adult, I still carry that part of the past inside, outside – everywhere, with me.

Sometimes I think,

I want so desperately to be proven wrong.

Because I do not want it to define my life, one that’s barely a quarter lived.

I am not made up of someone else’s past. I refuse this self-definition.


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