Today I woke up with a pit in my stomach. The leftover worries and pain from the night before. I never really experienced the truth to hurt until it really does. It’s the truth that stabs you in the heart and is left to scab over. The issue about a scab is that if you pick at it, it’ll re open and you feel the diluted pain all over again. I ask myself why the hell I keep picking at my scabs. It causes more damage than good, and it hurts so bad to relive moments that once felt so suffocating. It seems like my battle with mental health is far from over. Some days are good, and some days are so bad that it erases the weeks and hours of effort I once put in to “feel better,” to forget, to forgive, to let go, to move on.
In high school whenever I had feelings for someone and it didn’t work out, I wrote them a letter. I wrote them a letter putting everything on the table, all my fears, feelings, confusions, the hurt, everything. Although the letter is addressed to all the “hims” I have encountered, I never actually send it. It’s for me, for my collection of thoughts and my personal peace of mind.
I almost had to write a letter last night. Although this would have topped the rest of them all. This one is to my first love, my first love who I pray every day will be my last. There is so much work I know I need to do, but I need help, I can’t do it alone. I wonder though if that’s okay. Is it wrong to need someone else? Should I suffer through it alone?
I don’t know.
I love you so much
Sincerely,
Kay