I thought I was healed, not until the wounds felt sore again. I had been talking about forgiveness and peace, and been vocal about mental health awareness, but I did not notice the silent monster living inside me that had been swallowing me bit by bit.
I thought those trust issues, dissociation, social withdrawal, and strange mood swings were normal systematic build-up of a woman and were subparts of the demands of maturity and responsibility. But I was wrong. My senses were finally pinched, and I realized that my indifference is a manifestation of that deep hatred settling in my heart for a long time, a remorse planted during my childhood that is still lingering inside me, threatening to cause more chaos if remained unhealed.
In my childhood years, I had been vexed by the pain of yearning attention from my mother. Looking at her smiling and having great time with other people made me bitter because it felt like those kind moments were deprived from me. I had been carrying that sting as I grew.
However, more than a decade ago, I decided to talk about my abhorrence. I went through series of counselling with my leaders and mentors until I had the courage to talk with my mother, who happened to be unaware of the pain she caused when I was a child. There were explanations and outburst of emotions, followed by release of forgiveness. And I made myself believe that we’re both mended.
Not until a certain circumstance came recently that awakened the pain that vexed my childhood. I fathomed that the wounds were not totally healed. I just made myself believe that I am totally fine after the confrontation. I just abruptly sealed that concern without really allowing myself to go through the process of recovering. However, the effect of unresolved trauma is still evident in my behavior.
I built walls between me and other people to prevent myself from getting deeply connected. For me, this means saving myself from experiencing the same pain when attention and love are not reciprocated. I succumbed to the idea of building authority and setting intimidating impression as my shield against vulnerability. I prevented myself from being too much emotional.
My only asylum is writing where I can communicate my feelings and emotions artistically, that even pain and remorse can sound beautiful as I play with words. In fact, my tears are streaming as I am typing these letters, like I am confiding to someone who understands even those thoughts that I cannot express. I still consider myself lucky to have been planted the seed of faith and the value of life, or else no one knows how far these confusions would have brought me.
And I am writing this piece to encourage anyone going through similar situation to allow himself/herself to feel and show their brokenness. Healing starts when you admit your pain. The time I confessed to my own self that I still have resentment, it felt like I finally had peace with myself. Now I can proceed lightly with the process of healing without implying pressure because all wounds heal, if mended well.
May 15, 2024
