It was a tedious process, but it had to be done. It took everything in me to do it, but every arduous step was meant to culminate in happiness. And when it didn’t, I stuck to the course, I chose to ride it out, but frankly, I’m starting to realize that maybe happiness wasn’t meant for me.
When you start from rock bottom, there really is no place to go but up. Building yourself up, bit by bit, putting yourself together after being broken down; the words itself suffice in tearing me up. I stand by the fact that everything happens for a reason, and that life is a journey of lessons; if someone could just tell me where I can find the person grading this test, that would be great.
I never thought that I was enough. I didn’t think that I ever would be. I did things to try and make myself feel whole, but all it did instead was remind me that there was an empty space in me that even those I loved most couldn’t fill. Sure, I realized soon enough that only I could fill my own void, and so commenced the self-healing journey.
I won’t delve into the nitty-gritties of how I stitched together a life that was torn apart, because I’m slowly starting to realize what an abysmal job I have done. One wrong move and the whole thing could come undone; an unravelling of my own making.
It breaks my heart all over again to think that my journey of learning to love myself has brought me to a place where I don’t even know what love is anymore. Does broken trust mean never trusting anyone again? Does self-loathing mean that I’m so hard on myself to toe the line that one slip up means I’m back to square one? Does being a recovering emotional wreck mean that feeling any sort of emotion is banned? Because if not, my brain evidently hasn’t gotten the memo.
I think of how far I’ve come from the person I used to be, and I smile to myself. This is my second chance. It has been a real task climbing out of the hole of self-destruction, and while I love and accept the person I am today, I hate to admit it, but the view from up here is pretty lonely.