The Ugliness of Healing
Healing is Both Peaceful Sunlight and Painful Stitches.
Sunlight dappled through the leaves, then to the window, casting dancing shadows on the wooden desk. A gentle breeze carried the sound of trickling water, a melody soon to be drowned out by the unwelcome buzz of my phone, a reminder of the dark and ugly side of healing.
Two weeks ago, for the first time in a long time, I felt confident that I could do anything I wanted to do, be anything I wanted to be.
But that confidence shattered the moment I saw my sister’s message. Her weekend plans is already made and it left no room for me. It was perfectly reasonable, after all, she has her own life, doesn’t she? And yet, a cold unreasonable dread coiled in my stomach — and I couldn’t stop it.
It was Sunday night when I could finally let go the emotions, the fear, I had shoved down for the past days – or perhaps, for far longer than that. Exhausted, my legs felt so weak that they just gave up. I crumpled to the ground, my forehead pressed against the cool ceramic floor. All at once, the fear, vast and overwhelming, crashed over me like a sudden, powerful rainstorm.
I wrapped my arms around myself, but the fear felt like a relentless tide, threatening to pull me under. Tears streamed down my face before I could stop it.
It’s not safe. I’m not safe.
I’m so scared.
Please, please, don’t leave me alone here.
I wished for someone, anyone, to be there, to catch me as I fall, to hold me as I cry, to convince me that everything is okay, and there’s nothing to be scared of, because I’m enough as I am and they’re not going to leave me —
Under the dim light of my room and my blurry sight, a memory flashed: standing in my home after school, my textbook slammed on the dining table, the sharp words of how I was such a disappointment, and the whispered conversations between adults that felt like a storm cloud overhead, an impending doom.
My breath hitched in my throat, my heart hammered against my ribs —
Please, don’t leave me. I promise I’ll be good. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t.
Don’t leave me alone.
For the first time, I saw the roots of my anxiety, tangled with the fear of never being good enough. A fear, so raw and primal, of being left behind, discarded, deemed worthless. The fear of being abandoned, cold and sharp, lodged itself in my chest.
I’m so, so, scared.
Maybe, maybe, if I wasn’t alone, it wouldn’t be as scary anymore. I was tempted, more than once, to find anyone to hold on to, but I know this is something I need to face by myself. I need to be my own fortress, to be my own safe space, to be the soothing voice for the scared child within — for myself.
No one could heal my wound but myself.
So I sat there, crumbling, a mess of tears and snot, letting myself feel the pain and inspect the wound, to know the bruises and the bleeding and the broken bones, to know which parts need stitches, to find the rotten flesh that needs to be cut out — so I could heal properly.
This is the ugliness of healing.
The pain.
The brutality.
The loneliness.
But I’ve learned that healing is a privilege, not everyone has the space or support to confront their wounds. So for those who can, I hope you can embrace the opportunity — simply because you deserve it.
You deserve to live a life less burdened by the past, to not feel threatened in an absolutely safe environment, to not feel worthless and powerless and hopeless. You deserve to feel safe and sound, and most of all you deserve you.
Healing your wound, and taking care of yourself means that you are on your side, that even on the times when you have no one — you still have you. And I hope someday that’s enough.
So please, give yourself the time, let yourself feel the pain, mend your wound and take care of yourself.
I hope you heal from all the things you don’t talk about.
